I'm An Ambassador To What?

Ninety-seven years ago today this lady was born:

Gorgeous, huh? That's my grandma in 1935 when she was twenty years old, living with her parents in Idaho in the middle of the Great Depression.

In 1937 she married this guy:

Who she described like this, "He had a Hitler mustache and wore shiny boots and riding britches. And when he would drive up in the big Chrysler Coupe, I thought he was really something."
"He had the biggest ego I had ever known anyone to have, and his mustache always smelled a little bad when I kissed him, but I decided I would marry him."

Clearly she was madly in love with him. But maybe not so much his mustache. Kinda reminds me of how I felt about my husband's sideburns before we got married. (You can take a gander at them here).

Today I took this picture of two of their seven kids with their spouses and some of their kids and grand kids:

Twenty-one of my grandma's eighty-six descendants are pictured here (my three aren't because there was just no reason to add three more kids to this mix at Disneyland. Talk about herding cats). And that number doesn't include all the in-laws -- most of whom have stuck around. Each one of us who had the privilege of knowing Grandma thinks she loved him or her best of all. It's what she told each of us. It's what her parents told each of their twelve children.

I got to thinking a lot about my grandma this week when I signed up to be a blog ambassador for the 1940 US Census. Why would I do that, you ask? Because one, I like history--especially the family kind. And two, sometimes I'm a little impulsive and sign up for things before I know what in the heck I'm doing. And three, I can tell people I'm an ambassador now. Which makes me sound important.

A census is pretty cool because it can tell you a lot about someone if you look at the right things. For example the 1940 US Census could tell you my grandparents lived in Helena, Montana where Grandpa was doing construction and mining for gold. It could tell you Grandpa was thirty-eight at the time, while Grandma was only twenty-five. It would also tell you they didn't have any kids.

What it wouldn't tell you is that they were living in a little trailer house, which wasn't very nice, but a vast improvement over the box tent they'd been living in on the Snake River while my grandpa built a dam. It also wouldn't tell you that my grandma wasn't one of those cookie making grandmas. She grew up so poor that her mom never had anything besides milk and flour to cook with, so my grandma never learned. Although she did become a pretty proficient shopper once she did have some money. I guess shopping held more interest for her than cooking.

The Census also won't tell you that Grandma was kind and generous. She worried a lot about appearances, but she never valued things over people. In fact, she saw the worth of everyone she met, whether that person recognized her own value or not. My grandma taught me how to shop, but she also taught me what charity really is.

A census can tell you about a person, but it can't tell you who a person is.

So why does it matter?

Because it can lead you to people who can tell you who a person is. Or was. People like my grandma's brother Dick who published a book all about my grandma's family that includes memories from my grandma herself. Memories she told me, but that I don't have written down anywhere. Memories she can't tell me anymore.

Grandma has been gone for six years now. Ten really, if you count the dementia years. But I still think about her all the time. I had forgotten, though, that today was her birthday until I started thinking about what I was going to say about her when I wrote this post. But now I know.

Happy Birthday Grandma! I love you best of all!

A Conversation-less Tuesday

No Tuesday breakfast for me friends. Instead I had a morning of being a responsible parent after deciding not to send Girl 3 to school with a cough. And a fever. Because you know if it had only been a cough there's no way I would have missed breakfast. But I made the sacrifice this morning.

Which really wasn't so terrible. Girl 3 was pretty cheerful for being sick and I got some things done. Still, I was looking forward to hearing about Andi's trip to Hawaii. I need someone to live vicariously through at the moment so as not to be tempted into watching The Kardashians again.

Sadly, no breakfast for me means no fascinating and/or hilarious insights to share with you. So, instead, I'll give you a little update on Candy and how she's adjusting to American life.

Turns out, quite well. She's decided to embrace that most homegrown of American religions: Mormonism. Of course those of us in the breakfast group, who happen to also be practitioners of that same religion, were relieved to hear she had studied the missionary materials in Mandarin. So at least she's got some inkling of what she's gotten herself into.

The thing not included in her materials though was what kind of underwear to wear on her baptism day. And no I don't mean the "magic" kind you've maybe heard about. I mean the basic white kind.

Because, you see, we baptize by immersion. This represents, not only a washing away of our sins, but also a rebirth. And we wear white when we are baptized to represent purity. But mostly, If you're wearing something white that's going to get wet, you need to have something white on underneath it. Because a hot pink bra? It's gonna show.

Not that Candy's bra was hot pink, but it wasn't white. And luckily Paula's mom figured this out before the baptism and gave Paula the assignment of finding Candy some white underwear. Which Candy didn't totally understand because she showed Paula the white bra she did have. With the green flowers on it. And she said, "This okay. This cute." and Paula didn't disagree, but still went to Walgreens in hopes of finding plain white underwear. Which isn't too hard when it come to panties. But bras are a different story. Especially when you only have an hour.

But she did it. She found some white granny panties and an ugly bra just in the nick of time. Paula presented them to Candy, apologizing that they weren't very cute* and Candy,who still seemed a little confused, graciously accepted and wore them. Thus an awkward after-baptism moment was successfully averted.

There is some concern, however, that Candy will be presenting future baptismal candidates with gifts of underwear. And while Paula successfully fulfilled her assignment, her mom didn't fare as well. She had the job of keeping Paula's twelve year old daughter away from any make-up other than mascara and clear lip gloss. So imagine Paula's surprise when they were all ready to walk out the door to the baptism and she happened to glance at her daughter. Who was wearing bright red lip gloss. And blue eye shadow. A lot of it.

Which begs the question, can't a mom catch a break?

No, no she can't.

But at least she didn't have to be embarrassed for her sister-in-law that day.

* Wait'll she gets a load of the "magic" kind some day (which, by the way, aren't magic at all. But it would be cool if they were. Maybe something like Harry Potter's invisibility cloak).

Because It's Your Birthday...

See this smiling baby:

She's not even a month old in this picture, but already Girl 2 could crack a pretty wide grin. And maybe we shouldn't have named her after a tragic Thomas Hardy heroine, but how were we to know she'd  be so smiley? She started when she was six days old and has been grinning on a fairly regular basis for nine years now.

When you try for a long time, like we did, to have a first baby (or even if you don't), everything revolves around that kid and you can't believe how much you love her. At least that's how it worked for me. So when I got pregnant with number two, I couldn't imagine loving anyone as much as I did number one.

Boy was I wrong. I loved her the minute I saw her little bald head and her great big, perfect for smiling, mouth. If Girl 1 brought a new kind of love into our home, Girl 2 brought peace. She didn't have to be walked up and down the stairs to soothe her to sleep. She didn't scream when she had to ride in the car. In fact, she'd quiet right down and, nine times out of ten, fell asleep. I still love going places with just her in the car because it's so quiet. So quiet I sometimes forget she's in there.

Girl 2's a middle child though, so she's kind of used to being "forgotten." Thank goodness. Because, man, can she roll with it. She looks like me and she's got my independence. That girl can take care of herself and her big sister. (She could take care of her younger sister too, but there's some serious rivalry going on there).

Like the time they were at their grandma's this past summer and they had to pack themselves for a stay at their aunt's house in Idaho. Girl 2 packed herself and then proceeded to tell Girl 1 what she needed to pack. But not just generalizations like shorts and pajamas. No, she told her specifically which shorts would go with which tops and what shoes she should wear. Basically, she took over for me. (Girl 1 still didn't make it there with p.j.'s or a swimsuit, but Girl 2 can't be faulted for that. You can lead a horse to water, but if that horse chooses to put its nose in a book instead of take a drink, what can you do?)

She plays piano and gymnastics. One day she had so many friends call her to come play, that I finally invited them all to our house. The girl's got a busier social life than me. But her best friend--even if neither one of them knows it--is her big sister (poor Girl 3. I should have had a best friend for her too).

She'll ride any roller coaster, but refuses to learn to ride a bike. She'll surf at 6 a.m. on a cloudy June day, but claims it's too cold to boogie board when it's ninety degrees and sunny. When her big sister said, "I wish I had a big sister," Girl 2 answered, very seriously, "no you don't," even though I know she adores her's.  She's going to be a great baby sitter because she's so loving with younger kids; unless that younger kid happens to be her little sister.

And if you can imagine this woman (who happens to be my mother)about fifty years before this picture of her and #2 was taken:

 she probably looked a lot like this:

Except in a poodle skirt instead of leopard print. Do you see the resemblence? I have an uncle who likes to call her Little June, she reminds him so much of his sister.

And one more thing I love about my Girl 2: she knows how to shop. Pretty sure she got that from me too.

But here's one of many things she's brave enough to learn on her own because she's got no fear:

 Happy Birthday T Monster!!!

Warning: Adjustment in Progress

Remember ten or fifteen years ago when things were new? You'd just gotten married or maybe graduated from college. Or, if you're a youngster, just graduated from  high school (if you're even younger than that, please keep it to yourself). Maybe you were starting your career or, if you're like me, giving one up because you had a brand new baby.  

Things were pretty good, weren't they? The world--as they say--was your oyster (can someone please explain to me what the heck that means. Why would I want to live in an oyster?).

So how'd that turn out for you? Has life met all your expectations? Are you right where you thought you'd be, lo those many years ago?

Yeah, me neither.

But, you know what? That's okay. Because I've learned a few things along the way. And I'm pretty sure I've got a few more to learn. One thing I know for sure, though, is that prayers are answered. We just have to recognize the answer and accept it. That's the part I'm still learning. 

I came across a quote this week from Leonard Arrington about Joseph Smith that's had me thinking a lot about my expectations of life. It comes from a lecture he gave at BYU where he described Joseph as a spiritual man, but not a sanctimonious one. He was as comfortable preaching the doctrines of Christ as he was wrestling with his children and one was not more important to him than the other.

This principle of relaxed enjoyment and acceptance of life, rather than tense struggle to achieve perfection, fits in with the design of the Lord’s purpose, “Man is that he might have joy.” This, it seems to me, is one of the things the Prophet was trying to get across. And this principle is particularly important to those of us who are a little older, for it is at this time that we are likely to discover the gap between our earlier aspirations and our abilities. We all have some exaggerated expectations of life, and sooner or later we discover that we are less clever than we had thought or that we have to be satisfied with less income, less popularity, even a less ideal marriage than we had hoped for. In an unhealthy situation this leads to resentment, projection of blame, distress, and maladjustment. The Latter-day Saint has an ideal background for coping with this situation as he adjusts his ambitions to the place in life that the Lord has in store for him.

My ambitions are currently undergoing some adjustments. It's a little bit scary, but I'm sort of curious about what the Lord's got in store for me. Whatever it is, it will require some prayer.

And nacho cheese. Lots of chips and nacho cheese.

Hi. My Name Is Brittany and I'm a Hypocrite.

Okay, I'll admit it. I'm a hypocrite.

I yell at my kids to stop yelling; I've tripped over my own shoes while telling them to put theirs away. I don't allow them to say the word "butt", even though I do my fair share of actual cursing (and by my fair share, I'm talking in Mormon terms. Meaning I do it once or twice a day and never the f-bomb. I'm no Jay-Z or Kanye West, yo).

I retrieve recyclables out of the garbage in order to properly dispose of them, but I drive a gas guzzling SUV. I'm all for government funded social programs, until I see how much of my husband's paycheck my he doesn't bring home. I'll probably vote for Obama, but I wish the government would stay the hell* out of my business.

If my hypocrisy ended there I could probably live relatively guilt free. But when it comes to food, I've taken things to a whole new level. So, as a kind of self imposed penance, I'm going to confess my top five here.  I don't know if it will help my conscience or not, but I'm hoping some of you will 'fess up to being hypocrites too.

Drum roll please...

5. I will not eat mint. Especially in gum form. The smell of it makes me gag, literally.
But you cover mint in chocolate and that's a different story. I will eat that stuff up. (But not chocolate covered mint gum. Gross).

4. I find American cheese (aka plastic cheese) disgusting. Something that processed does not qualify as a food.
But put a jar of nacho cheese (Tostitos Queso con Salsa in particular) in front of me and I will down that puppy any time of the day or night, hot or cold. Yum.

3. Ham is disgusting. I don't buy it , I don't cook it, I don't touch it.
But bacon? Bring it on. Pork chops, pork roast, or pork loin? You betcha'. Pigs' feet or pork belly? Probably not, but I'll eat a hot dog so that pretty much covers every part of the pig, including hooves and stomachs.

2. My kitchen closes at 4 p.m. No one is allowed to eat anything out of it from that time until 6:30 p.m. (or whenever I happen to have dinner ready by). That's the rule. Period.
For everyone but me. If I'm hungry, you better believe I'm going to get myself a snack.

1.  My kids get soda on birthdays and special occasions. That's it. And never caffeinated soda. When we go out to eat, they can have water or milk. Juice, if they're lucky.
But my garage fridge is stocked with Diet Coke. I have cases of it in my food storage. It's rotting my insides and I know it. I don't care. I love me some DC over crushed ice with just a splash of fresh lime.

So come on...

I know I'm not the only one. Tell me you're a hypocrite too.

Please....

* Curse #1 of the day, one more to go. Although, I'm allowing myself a few extras today since we're headed to Disneyland.

Conversations at Breakfast: Facebook Is A Liar

So I did intended to post this on Tuesday. I even tried to write it on my phone while sitting through Tuesday night's two hours--yes two-- of piano lessons (not my own. My kids'. Because I'm forcing them to do all the things I quit. Why else does one have children except to make them better versions of who you could have been had your own parents been more on the ball?).

Anyway, I took a short writing break to play Words with Friends and Scramble.  And to talk to Paula. Who usually doesn't bring her daughter on Tuesdays, so it was kind of a special event that required some chatting and recapping of the baby shower she went to on Saturday where there were lots of pictures taken of the guests rubbing and kissing--yes kissing!--the mom to be's belly. So, of course, I had to see these pictures. Because you know what grosses me out almost as much as band-aids?

People touching my pregnant belly. Not now, of course. Mainly because I don't have one at the moment (thank goodness). But, let me tell you, when I did, no way did I let people rub me like a giant Buddha, let alone kiss the monstrosity that my stomach had become. It gives me the heebie jeebies just thinking about it.

But, I digress. This is Conversations at Breakfast, not Conversations at Piano When You Should Be Writing Your Blog, Or, At The Very Least, Making Sure Your Kid Is Pianoing Correctly. So, without further ado, on to Breakfast...

After much talk of the importance of healthful foods while eating plates of hash browns, bacon and poached eggs covered in hollandaise, today's breakfast conversation turned to the topic of Facebook. And this is the conclusion we came to:

Facebook lies.

Maybe that's a little harsh. But at the very least it's guilty of only partial disclosure. I mean, all it ever says is things like, "my kids are so cute, blah blah blah" or "my husband brought me flowers again" or "look at us, we're in (insert place you'd rather be instead of cleaning your toilet)."

Facebook never says things like, "If I have to eat one more meal listening to these people I gave birth to chew and fight, I will jab knitting needles into my ears" or "my husband farted in bed again" or "look at us, we're in a court enforced parenting class."

And the pictures. Don't even get me started on those. They're all beaches and cruises, fantastic haircuts and skinny bodies. Or, even worse, pregnant bellies that look so cute you just want to reach out and touch them. Ewww.

And it's not just your Facebook that does it. Mine does too. Judging by what Facebook says about me, all I do is blog and run (slowly) and criticize Beyonce for writing singing songs with the lyrics "sucks to be you." There's no mention of how some days I don't want to get out of bed (I call those days January). According to Facebook, the worst thing that's happened to me in the last year is that my dog didn't get eaten by wolves.

My Facebook's pictures are even more misleading. By the looks of them, I'm a scuba diving pilot whose family is darling enough to pull off wearing purple and orange in pictures. And if my Facebook posts one more Disneyland picture, I may use those knitting needles to poke my eyes out. I mean, we get it, I live 25 miles from the happiest place on earth. Do I have to rub it in?

So, in the interest of full disclosure, I'm posting this embarrassing picture of myself:

Can you believe I ever wore tie dye??! Yikes!

And my status report for the day?

Probably won't make it to the beach or Disneyland this weekend.

Cuz I'm keeping it real folks.

A Post About BYU Football. Surprised? Me Too.

I'm totally stealing this blogpost idea from DeNae--who I find to be quite hilarious-- at My Real Life Was Backordered.  Her most recent post did not rise to her usual level of hilarity because she had to tackle some serious stuff...

Football.

BYU football to be more specific.

Which, I have to tell you, I am NOT a fan of. If you cut me, I will not bleed blue. And I will not cover that cut with a Cougar band-aid (truthfully, I will not cover it with any kind of band-aid, because ewww, gross... So please don't cut me).

Apparently, back in 1980, the Cougs went to the Holiday Bowl. Which, I have to assume by the name, occurred on some kind of holiday. Anyway, some miracle happened there where the Cougars came back from a twenty point deficit to win with only four minutes left in the game.

Now, despite the fact I spent five (yes five) years at the BYU, I don't know anything about this Miracle Bowl. I mean, sure it happened eleven years before my time there, but the thing about people who do bleed blue is that they never forget their football victories. Especially when they beat another private religious university. It's like a double victory. Mormons get a trophy and proof that our church really is true. Kind of like when Tebow makes a touchdown Christians everywhere win the war on Christmas. I'm not really sure how that works.

Anyway, I need your help. See, I don't care for BYU football for reasons I'll not get into right now (the list is too long), but I do like football. And I can't help feeling a measure of pride when my alma mater wins at something. I've tried not to, but I can't squelch that little burning in my heart that comes from knowing my school is better at something than someone else's school is. I'm competitive that way.

But I digress because putting out that burning is not what I need help with. I need help because I want to know more about this game now, but I don't really want to google it.

And I don't want to know more just about the game.

Nope... what I really want to know is the inspiring story behind it. Because I hear there is one. And a friend of mine has a husband who wants to make a movie about it. Yeah! But he doesn't have enough money to do it. Boo!

So here's how you can help me be able to see this movie (you can even watch it to, if you want):
Go to here and donate a little bit of money. It won't take much if we all do it. Maybe you could put that money you were going to bet on the Superbowl toward this instead. Or maybe you could buy one less bag of chips and skip the jar of cheese dip. I don't know.

But I'm willing to bet that this movie will be a lot more memorable in the long run than this year's Superbowl is going to be.

(So I just looked at this site again and realized there's a short video with it. Not going to tell you how many times I've looked at it and wished there were a video when there was all along. I don't need to embarrass myself. But now I do want to see the real movie even more. Also noticed there's a guy in the picture with a mustache. So next I'd like to see a movie about the miracle behind how he got to keep that at BYU).