Just In Case You're Wondering

Angie at Live to Write... Edit When Necessary... passed along these questions for me to answer. And it's a good thing too, because now I don't have to think up something to write on my own. I mean, other than my answers to these questions:

If you could go back in time and relive one moment, what would it be?

I would go back to the boat I was on in Belize just over three years ago when the dive guide asked who was going to be doing the 140 foot deep dive into the Blue Hole. And this time I would say yes instead of asking if reef sharks eat people. The snorkeling far away from the sharks was beautiful though.

If you could go back in time and change one thing what would it be?

Wow. Only one? I would go back to the years I was at BYU and take a class from Eugene England. That's how cool I think he was. (BTW, I'm married to the guy who wrote that article about Prof. England. He's pretty cool too).

What movie/TV character do you most resemble in personality?


Hmmm. That's a tough one. I've been told I look like Sarah Jessica Parker, who I think is a terrible actress and kinda looks like a horse-- but must be an all right gal cuz she's married to Ferris Bueller-- but you be the judge. Do we look alike?




SJP                         Me

 As far as personality though, maybe Angela from The Office. Because I am kind of little and very judgmental. Not to mention self-righteous. I don't like cats though, or numbers, but I do have the word "cats" in my blog title. And I do use numbers on occasion. So, yeah, let's say Angela.

If you could push one person off a cliff and get away with it, who would you choose?

Another tough one. There are so many people I'd like to push over a cliff. But let's go with Ashton Kutcher. I find him, his acting, and his little camera very irritating.

Name one habit you want to change in yourself.

I could curse less. But I kinda like doing that, so maybe I won't change that one. How about yelling at my kids every morning? I bet that's one they'd like me to change too.
 
Why do you blog (answer in one sentence).

Because I'm a narcissist and a procrastinator of housecleaning tasks and I like to write, so blogging fulfills all of those needs and people tell me how much they like to read it, which is awesome because no one ever says how my clean house made their day. And sometimes I don't like to follow rules so I'm answering in one really long sentence and a pointless second sentence.

And now I have to pass these questions along to three other people. So here goes...

Take it away

1. Kristy at Kristy's stories
2. Karen at Karen's Make Believe World
3. Jenny at Mommy Snark

And the Mother of the Year Award Goes To.... Not Me.

Another Halloween has come and gone and with it all of my hopes and aspirations of being nominated for Mother of the Year.

And here's why:

For at least eight months Girl 1 has been planning on dressing up as a horse for Halloween. (She's ten and a girl, so, of course, she loves horses). She envisioned a costume for her and her best friend made out of chicken wire, fabric and a lot of help from me and my mad sewing skills. Which she's sure I have because I have a sewing machine. In a closet. In the garage. That she's never seen me use.

So, yeah, that didn't happen. Instead I've spent the past eight months saying, "Halloween is still months away; let's at least get to October before we start talking costumes." And by "saying" I may mean "yelling in frustration."

And then last week I started "saying", "Fine. I will look online for a horse costume, but I am not buying anything."

But I did buy something. Ninja accessories. Because when we couldn't find a horse costume big enough to fit someone over eighteen months old, that's what she came up with. And I'm sure I could have borrowed daggers, swords , and masks from one of my many friends who have boys, but after eight months of horse costume talk, she broke me. So I spent the $6.

And then she gave the sword to her BFF so she could also be a ninja. She asked me to find something black for BFF to wrap around her face, so I made some suggestions, like, "Seriously? She can't find anything at her own house?" But I drew the line at actually getting up and looking for a costume for someone else's kid. Much as I like that kid and her parents.

Then I sent all my kids over to their house on Saturday. And again today. Because I needed a nap and I figured she kinda owed me for making her kid's costume.

But at least Girl 1 got a choice. Her two younger sisters I just tried to guilt into wearing the poodle skirts I made for them in June so they could go to a sock hop. On My Birthday. And I bought saddle shoes for them to wear--which aren't going to fit either one of them next year because even though they are 2 1/2 years apart, they are the same size.

It worked with Girl 3, but Girl 2 opted to wear something from the dress-up box and then borrow some tights from me. Despite the fact she is two feet shorter than me. But hey, neglect has made her resourceful. And Girl 3 looked awfully cute as a 50's girl. She even had cat eye glasses to wear. I mean, sure, they're her older sister's. And they're prescription glasses. And she complained they hurt her eyes. But man, did she look like an authentic 50's girl!

Also, I may have forgotten today was Halloween because we had a church trunk-or-treat activity on Friday where they sure got a lot of candy. So, in my mind, Halloween was over. Until someone mentioned something about trick-or-treating on Monday. But that was on Saturday night. And when I realized we would have to do the whole dress-up thing again, a wave of horror washed over me. Because by this time the kids had eaten much of their candy for breakfast. And lunch. And a little more for dinner. Which meant there was none left over for me to re-gift to actual Halloween night trick-or-treaters.

 And no way was I going back to Target for more.

So I raided the snack drawer. Which was chock full of some pretzel cheese sandwich cracker things that my kids refused to eat. So those went in the give away bowl.  Plus a whole lot of lame plastic bat rings and pumpkin erasers my husband was convinced no one would take. He advised me thus, "Don't let them see what's in the bowl. Just reach in, grab something, then put your hand all the way in their bag before you drop it so they can't see what it is." (Have I mentioned he's a lawyer?).

Sound advice, I know. But instead I sent hubby with the kids to knock doors and beg for candy while I set the bowl on the porch, turned out all the lights, and watched TV.

Best. Halloween. Ever.

* One more reason--and there are a lot-- I won't be nominated for Mother of the Year: I don't always make it home before my kids do because I know Girl 3 can get into our locked house through the doggie door and then let the other two in. At least until she grows another inch or two.

In Honor of Baby Kegel. And Some Other People Too.

Today's post is a tribute to some friends of mine. Which, for some reason, brings to mind that old Willie Nelson song, To All The Girls I've Loved Before. I'm really not sure why. Maybe because of that part where he sings:

I'm glad you came along

so I dedicate this song

to all the girls I've loved before...

But honestly, I can't explain how the soundtrack in my head works. I mean, I do love these two girls. Just not in the same way I think Willie Nelson would love them.

Anyhow...

Moving on to the actual tributary part of this blog, I'd like to start with Sheridan. And if I were any kind of technical computer genius person, I would make that name light up and flash. Maybe even do a little dance.

Sadly, I think we've already established here, I am not that girl. Which is okay. Because Sheridan is not a flashy, name- in -lights kind of gal anyway. Quite the opposite, actually. In fact, Sheridan is the kind of gal whose husband once said to me, "please take her shopping and I don't care how much you spend. I just want my shirts back."

And what I heard is, "shopping spree at Nordstrom on somebody else's dime." 

So we went. But I told her before we left to wear a bra, because I knew she wouldn't if I didn't make her. Except she still didn't. Instead she packed one in her purse. Her small purse. (Here's something you should know about bras. If you have borne and nursed three children, you should be wearing a bra with cups and underwire. Not one that can be wadded up and stuffed into a purse. Those days--and those boobs--are gone my friends).

But Sheridan's boobs had been hiding under her husband's shirts, and she didn't know this. So, being the charitable woman I am, I sacrificed my own bra for her use so that she could see how nice clothes look when breasts are properly positioned inside them.

She's still not convinced. Which is actually pretty awesome, because it gives me something to tease her about. And thank goodness there's one real woman in the sea of plastic that is Orange County (not that there's anything wrong with the plastic--no judgment here).  

But her courage in the face of conformity is not why I want to pay tribute to her today. No, the real reason she deserves my kudos is for her tireless and underpaid efforts to educate women about childbirth. Not the sterilized, hospital, let's-make-this-as-convenient-as-possible kind, but the beautiful, calm, women's-bodies-are-amazing kind. Which I think is really cool. Because what we go through to have children--whether naturally, with an epidural, by c-section, or adoption--should be celebrated and not feared. And if you want to go to a place where it is, check out Sheridan's blog http://thegiftofgivinglife.com/. While you're there, take a look at the book she helped write, whose button I would grab, except... well, that whole computer brain deficiency thing I've got going on.

Let's move on now to friend #2, Nikki, who is as good at birthing children as Sheridan is at teaching people how to birth them. For example, one time Nikki gave birth to twins. Then about two years later she gave birth again.

To triplets.

Because she's efficient like that. Five kids in two pregnancies gets things done pretty quick if you're looking to have a big family. Which maybe she wasn't so much, but, hey, she's sure made life fun for those kids. Even if they don't always make it fun for her

Including the one that came a few years after the triplets. If you're counting, that's three pregnancies, six kids, and four years. See what I mean when I say that ability to have children is pretty amazing? Especially when you can have so many, so quickly.

And guess what Nikki did today. She went ahead and had another baby. Just one this time. And she waited seven years. But still, pretty amazing, right?

Before she had that baby, though, she got a little training from Sheridan about how to do it. Even though she'd already done it. Three times. But it never hurts to learn a few new tricks. Like how to hypnotize a baby using Sheridan's hypnobabies tactics (still don't think I have the definition of that right). Plus Sheridan gave her these cool stickers to put on her purse, and her steering wheel, and lots of other places, to remind her to "exercise"*

And when Nikki's kids found these stickers they thought they were really cool and wondered if they were for the baby. Because, did I mention? Her boys' names all start with K.

Oh, and the new baby is a boy.

So wouldn't Kegel make a great name?

Her kids thought so.

Nikki did not.

But welcome to the world anyway Baby K (but not Kegel). You are blessed to have such a fantastic mom who entertained herself in the hospital this week-- while waiting for you to be born six weeks early--by letting one of your big sisters do this to her:

Pretty awesome mom, right? Just imagine how much fun you're going to have once you're out of that pumpkin!

* If you don't know what a Kegel is then you 1) have never given birth or 2) have some serious bladder issues if you have.  Either way, you should look it up so this post will make a little more sense

Be Careful What You Joke About

Yesterday I thought of a really awesome blogpost. But I've slept since then and now it's gone. That's sort of how things work--or don't work--in my head.

So, until I remember what I planned on writing today, I'm going to tell you a little story about a friend of mine from high school. He was a Catholic boy and I was a Mormon girl. And there were a lot of us Mormon girls (and boys too) around because, as you may remember, I'm from southern Idaho. Which, while not the heart of the Jello Belt*, is definitely the nuts and carrots.

There weren't a lot of Catholic boys around though. Only two, in fact. And a lot of us Mormon kids didn't get that my friend was a pretty good Catholic. Like go-to -Mass-while-his-parents-were-out-of-town good.  Many of my Mormon friends and I, on the other hand, were the kind of kids who tried to get out of going to church when our parents were in town. There was no way I would have shown up at church without my parents. Which is probably one reason they never left town. Ever.

But, I was the "right" religion, so clearly I was on a more direct route to Heaven. We Mormons tend to think that way sometimes. (Although, I don't think we're the only religion guilty of that kind of arrogance).

Then one day I moved. To Cleveland, Ohio. Where there are more than two Catholic boys. Many, many more. But not many more than two Mormon girls. Especially at the Catholic school where I taught. In fact, there was only one there. Me.

And I figured out that there were really a lot of good people of all different religions. And maybe I didn't have all the answers. And maybe I could learn something from all these other people that would increase my own faith in Jesus Christ and help me live my own religion a little better.

I also decided that not everybody needed to be Mormon. Actually, I think it's best that not everybody is. Things tend to get a little weird when there are too many of us in one place. Case in point: Utah. (No offense, Utah. Love you! Your mountains are awesome!) And maybe that pastor guy who offended my cousins, Mitt and John, has been there and that's why he thinks we're a cult. (He's wrong, btw).

Anyway, my point is, I'm not really a send-the-missionaries to your house kind of gal. I live my life so people can see what I believe, I talk about my beliefs, and I'll answer any question someone may have about my religion. But, unless you ask me to, I'm not gonna send any nineteen year old boys to your doorstep.

So when I saw my old high school friend this past summer, I shared this philosophy with him. And we talked about lots of other things, including the fact that he should join Facebook so he could stay in touch with me and everyone else he's tried to avoid for twenty years. I may have mentioned this a few times. Like maybe a hundred.

And guess what? He did join. So the first comment I posted to him was a very funny one about how now that I'd converted him to FB I had a book he should read and I was sending some boys in ties over to hand deliver it to him. And I laughed and I laughed at my cleverness. Because what were the odds of some missionaries showing up at his door in Boise, Idaho?

Well, pretty high actually. Because they did. And he was kind enough to offer to weed whack their ties for them (I'm sure in a very friendly way. He's not the kind of guy to seriously threaten somebody with a gardening implement). And they offered to help him with his yard work. Which probably would have been easier for them to do if they hadn't been wearing suits and ties.

I don't know if they left a copy of the Book of Mormon with him-- or if he'll read it if they did-- but, just in case, here's a little message from some of my Baptist friends.

* the Jello Belt is the region of the United States from about Boise, Idaho, through all of Utah down into Gilbert, Arizona where many, many members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints live (aka, Mormons) and consume large quantities of Jell-o concoctions they refer to as "salad". These salads often include the unlikely ingredients of vegetables-- such as carrots-- and nuts.

Wanted: New SAHM

That's it folks. I've decided to resign. Larsen Inc. will have to find a new CFO, chef, cleaning lady, driver, personal shopper, hairdresser, life coach, and drama queen.

Because, you see, rather than find a more effective method than nagging and yelling to get what I want, I'm just going to quit. Who needs that kind of stress anyway? The pay is terrible, the benefits often unnoticable. And don't even get me started on the hours. 24/7 with very few breaks.

So the next time you come to my house, just be warned, the following are likely to occur:  you will (1) get stuck to the floor after tripping over backpacks, shoes and underwear; (2) gasp at the lack of running water and electricity; (3) smell my bathrooms and realize the toilet is not actually supposed to be brown; (4) find my children--their hair tangled and bodies filthy-- trying to BBQ the dog (5) my husband desperately trying his hand at paying bills in order to get the magic lights and flushing toilets back (yeah, good luck without the computer)

Once you've taken all this in, look for my chaise lounge. There you will find me, flashlight in one hand, book in the other.

You'll have to take your complaints to someone else, though.

Because I'm not in charge anymore.

A-Tiltin' And A-Whirlin'

I've climbed on folks. The lap bar's down and I've already started tiltin'. Next comes the whirlin'. And I don't see this ride ending before January.

It started this past weekend with the first of two trips within a month to Palm Springs. Or, as I like to call it, Las Vegas's older, hotter (not in a good way) and gayer brother. You know a city is full of old people when its major streets are named after Bob Hope, Frank Sinatra and Dinah Shore (Dinah, who?) and not Martin Luther King Jr. But, on the bright side--and I may be perpetuating a stereotype here--I think the large gay population is the reason Palm Springs is so much cleaner and tidier than its younger (and wilder) brother.

 So why would a straight woman who doesn't golf or like the heat, go to Palm Springs twice in four weeks? Well, I do like weekends alone with my husband. Especially when the hotel room and dinners are paid for by someone other than him. Which is why I went last weekend. And I like girlfriends who are celebrating their fortieth birthdays. Which is why I'm going next month. (Also, I like outlet shopping--hubby does not, girlfriends do--and there is that there).

Speaking of girlfriends, I've got another quick trip planned with some more of those this coming weekend. That is, if my parents don't show up to go to a friend's funeral. In which case, I'll get to see them for a minute or two, so that's okay. Even if they are sad. Because who likes to lose a friend unexpectedly? (That may be the vomit part of this ride, actually).

Then there's that whole week-long school book fair I'm co-chairing. That's the week I'll really be spinning. But the next week is our Thanksgiving break, and all I have to do then is drive twelve hours to Utah, make  dinner for a lotta people, and then help with my cousin's wedding reception. Then drive twelve hours back home. So that should be relaxing.

And did I mention I signed up to be Girl 3's room mom in her school class? Why, you ask? Because being room mom is kind of like giving birth. Once it's over, you forget how painful it was until you're in the midst of labor again. Then you wonder why in the hell you signed up for this again. But it's too late because you can't go back now.

Plus you love the teacher. And your kid...

Most of the time.

All this is on top of the one to three hours a week I'm volunteering in all three kids' classes. Oh, and I think there are some holidays coming up too. I maybe should put those on my calendar so I don't forget.

Then there's the book I'm about 10,000 words from finishing. Which I thought I could do in a couple weeks, but it's taking a lot longer than that. I can't imagine why. But I've gotta have it done, edited, and revised before December so I have something to brag about in my Christmas card.

And I may be thinking about doing a triathlon this summer. Which means I've been learning how to swim; because I don't want to be the only one out there wearing those little arm floaty things. There's been some running involved with that too. And some thinking about biking.

I've started to think instead of trying to do everything--none of it very well,--I should  pick one thing and get really good at that. But maybe that one thing I'm good at is taking on too many things at one time. That's something to think about.

In the meantime, I'm just hoping I make it off this ride without a lap full of puke. Because I'm already wondering why I climbed on.

WHEEEEE!!!!!

Stop The Whirl; I Want To Get Off

It's been a while since I wrote about vomit, so I think it's about time I did again. Because who doesn't like a good puke story?

For this one we'll need to go back in time--late nineteen eighties/early nineties (I can't remember for sure. I am old.)--to the fair city of Burley, Idaho. Surely you've heard of it, because everyone knows someone from Burley. Apparently they are a prolific people there.

And if you've heard of Burley then you've no doubt heard of the Cassia County Fair & Rodeo (and carnival, though that part is not in the title). "THE Fair", as it is more commonly known, is the biggest event of the year.

Of. The. Year.

Which gives you a pretty good idea of how little went on the other 360 days of the calendar.

It always falls on the week before school starts which gives the kids (like me) an opportunity to show off a few of their new school outfits before the official start of the year. You know, like a fall preview fashion show for your fellow classmates and the ex-cons working the rides at the carnival.

It's also a time to meet up with friends you haven't seen or talked to very much over the summer because 1) you all have things called jobs,  2)you  don't have a cell phone because, remember, we've gone back in time to pre-texting 1989/90, and 3) Mark Zuckerberg is still in diapers, so how could anyone be aware of where you are or what you're doing?

So there I am at the biggest Fashion Week event west of the Snake River and east of the Nevada border that includes not only farm animals, but also a variety of rickety rides that spin. And how could I resist those? (The rides I mean. I found the animals very resistable).  When a ghetto Disneyland is dropped in your backyard once a year, you don't pass up that kind of fun.

My friends and I--we'll call them Candice, Steph, Nate, and Jeff--decided to ride the Tilt-A-Whirl. Which, if you are not familiar with, is a poor man's version of the Tea Cups. You sit in a giant tin can which goes around a track in a circle and then--if you're really dumb--you make the tin can itself spin around and around as fast as it can. Because you're 17 and invincible and nothing can make you throw up.

Unless your name is Jeff. And then the Tilt-A-Whirl can make you sick. Very, very sick. So sick, in fact, that you will puke about thirty seconds into the ride. While the ride is still spinning. And spinning. And spinning. Very fast. Which will, essentially, turn the ride into something like those machines that make cotton candy. Except instead of sugar, you add vomit and new school clothes. And nobody wants that flavor of cotton candy.

Especially the carnies who are running the ride. And keep running the ride--ostensibley to rid the tin can of vomit chunks through centrifugal force, though their laughing made me question their motives--even though every time you go by you plead with them to SSTTooopp TTHHHe RRIIIdddeee!!! But of course they only hear ST...
TH... RI....

Maybe they misinterpretted those sounds to mean, "Please, kind gentlemen without teeth, let us ride this ride for no less than three minutes or until we are thoroughly covered in puke. Thank you." Because that's what they did.
By the time they finally did stop the ride, Jeff was the lone passenger on the left side of the car while everyone else was piled on my lap on the right side. Which worked nicely for me--despite the pain in my legs--because my friends shielded my brand spankin' paid-for-with-my-own-money new clothes from the flying vomit.

You might think this experience forever ruined the dizzying joy of the Tilt-A-Whirl for me. Wrong. I'll still go for a whirl occassionally, but not without remembering-- and laughing about --that one puke-filled ride.

But it doesn't take a carnival ride to bring this memory back. Every time life starts getting a little crazy, a picture flashes through my mind of the five us shouting "STOP THE RIDE!" begging to be let off and rueing the moment we decided to get on.

It reminds me of a line I heard somewhere, sometime, from someone:  Stop the world. I want to get off.

My life feels like that some times. Like maybe even right now.

You know what, though? It didn't take us long after we got off that ride to start laughing about it. And I don't regret going on it.

Sometimes you've just gotta hang on and enjoy the ride--even the projectile vomiting part--knowing you'll laugh about it later.