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).

Throwing Up With The Kardashians

I don't usually watch TV during the day. In fact, I don't really watch a lot of it at night either. Especially if it's reality TV (I make an exception for The Amazing Race and, occasionally, Intervention. Okay, and Hoarders, but only because it comes on after Intervention and sometimes I just can't look away).

But I've cancelled the daily paper so sometimes I don't have anything to look at while I eat lunch. So the other day I turned on the TV while I ate. And do you know what was on?

This:


And I got sucked in. Kind of like with Hoarders. Except it made me sicker than even that show does. And no matter how much they make up that one sister who doesn't get to take New York wherever it is Kim and Kourtney are taking it, she is still not cute. So when I got to the second commercial break, I changed the channel.

And do you know what was on that channel?

The Departed.

The edited version. So, of course, I had to watch. Because I've seen the original and I was pretty curious how they were going to clean that up enough to still have some story left.

I remembered it had a lot of language, but I had forgotten this part:

Which doesn't look so bad in this picture. But see that plastic bag at Jack's elbow? It's got a severed hand in it. A bloody one. And I tried really hard to find a still frame of him while he's waving that thing around, but I couldn't. So you'll just have to take my word for it that it's gross.

But I chose to watch that over the Kardashians because it didn't make me want to barf the way they did. And I get grossed out by band-aids, people. When my kid got three stitches, she didn't cry, but I passed out. So that's saying something when I can stomach a severed hand, but not a couple of reality TV stars.*

Here's the thing, though. I'd rather watch a story about people who could be real--even if they are really terrible people--than a story about people pretending to be real.

Phoniness makes me nauseous. So Kim and company have been added to my list of things I cannot look at. They are right up there with any kind of bandages stuck to anything (particularly any area near a swimming pool) and snakes eating things.

Which is seriously going to infringe on my People and US Weekly consumption. So please keep me informed as to how the stars are continuing to be just like the rest of us, because I can't take a chance on another Kardashian encounter.

* And also, The Departed has Matt Damon and Leo DiCaprio who I have no problem looking at.

A Gold Medal In Humility

You know what makes for a good leader? (Newt Gingrich, take note).

Humility.

I've been thinking about this a lot for about the past week because of this guy:

You see I went to a meeting on Saturday that he spoke at. I've actually heard him speak a number of times and even talked to him in person once or twice. In fact, I've got his autograph on a little piece of paper that says it's a-okay for me to go into an LDS temple.*

Because, he's not just an Olympic gold medalist, he's also a counselor in my stake's presidency (which is like if a bishop of a diocese had a helper). I've never seen him do his gold-medal winning pommel horse routine-- at least not since 1984 (though I hear he still does it on occassion)--but the thing I really like about him is his self-deprecating humor.

For example, he once told a friend of mine that he had to speak at a middle school career day and he had no idea what he was going to tell those kids. In his words (which are very paraphrased, since I wasn't there), "What am I supposed to tell them? Practice the pommel horse so you can ride that train for the rest of your life?"

The other thing I like about him is that, when I wear heels, I tower over him. Which I can't brag about very often because I'm 5'3". On a good day. Which means...

Peter Vidmar is ... short. I'm comfortable saying that because it's not something he's trying to hide. In fact, he jokes about it a lot. And it always makes me laugh. Like at this meeting on Saturday. He showed a soccer picture of one of his sons when he was four years old and then said, "When you're a four year old Vidmar, that soccer ball is huge!"

And then he told the story behind this picture that he has kept on his desk for twenty-two years. As he was driving his son to get his very first AYSO soccer picture taken, President Vidmar (that's what we call him in our stake) looked over and saw his son had wiped his chocolatey fingers on his white uniform. So he said to him, "What are you doing? Your mom got that uniform all clean and ready for you and now you've smeared chocolate all over it right before your picture!" And some more stuff like that.

And you know what his son did?

The exact same thing that my kids have done--and maybe your kids too--when I've gotten mad at them for some little thing that doesn't really matter in the big scheme of things.

He cried.

So President Vidmar apologized, his little boy got his picture taken and when they got it back the little smudge of chocolate was barely visible. And the story could end there and the incident forgotten. But it doesn't and it isn't.

I've heard that Peter Vidmar keeps his gold medals hanging on a wall where other people can see them because he's often asked about them. But he keeps this picture of his now grown son in the chocolate-smudged uniform on his desk to remind him every day about what's really important in life.

After told the congregation that story and shared a few other insightful things,  he showed us this video: Parenting: Touching the Hearts of Our Youth. I don't care who you are, what religion you practice or don't, or if you're a parent or not, this video is for you. But I'm warning you. I'm not a cryer and I got a little choked up.

So did a lot of people, including President Vidmar and the other members of the stake presidency-- who are pretty successful men in their own right. And, I've gotta tell you, I love seeing grown men who aren't afraid to cry in public. Not crocodile tears, but the genuine kind. Especially the men who are very successful professionally, because humility doesn't always get you very far in the world. But when it comes to success in things that really count...

That takes some humility.

* This is called a temple recommend and it's not really up to President V. whether I can go or not. He just very nicely asks me questions about whether I'm following the standards we believe God has given us to live by. It's up to me to decide if I can answer those questions honestly or not.

Conversations at Breakfast: Maid in China

So it's a good thing I had this post already planned out because I took a toddler to breakfast this morning for the first time in four years. And then I remembered how there's a lot less conversing and a lot more wiping of little fingers and mouths during breakfast with a toddler (FYI, Cinnamon Sugar Bagel Poppers, not a good choice for a two year old). Also, there is a lot more crying and yelling of things like, "mine!" The Yentas (oh, they were there) were not amused.

Now, onto a conversation from a few months ago. The one right after Thanksgiving where Paula said, "so I met my new Chinese sister-in-law while we were at my mom's."

But let's backtrack even further for some background info. You see, Paula has this brother who is like a luxury car without a muffler. He's a nice guy who spews out a lot of crap. In other words, he lacks a filter. (At least according to Paula. I've never actually met the guy). For example, one time he was being wheeled into surgery and he got into a fight with his doctor. And if there's one guy you don't want to offend, it's the one holding the knife who's about to cut you open.

Anyway, Bob* decided after being divorced for a while that he needed a new wife. And since he likes Asian women, he decided to go right to the source. More specifically, China. Because, if there's one thing China's got, it's Asian women. Lots of them. Like a quarter billion or something.

But when I say he went right to the source, I don't actually mean he went to China. More like, he went to the Internet where he met her via e-mail. Which is, in itself, pretty interesting considering the fact he didn't speak Chinese and his new wife, Candy (not her real name, just the American one she chose for herself), didn't speak English.  I mean write. Write Chinese. Or speak it.

But what is the inability to communicate in the face of true love? Not much, if you are Bob and Candy. for after a whirlwind romance via email and a meet and greet in China, they decided to marry. Unfortunately, the one thing America won't import from China, is their women. So the newlyweds had to part until Candy and her son, Peter (not his real name either), could get visas.

Fast forward many months later to Candy's first American Thanksgiving where she meets her new husband's family. And they meet her.

Here are some cultural differences Paula noticed right off the bat. Now, maybe these aren't things that all people from rural China do, but since Candy is our only exposure to that part of the world, we're going to assume they do. Kind of like people in other countries assume all Americans wear cowboy boots and say things like, "nucular" (can't imagine where they got that idea).

Anywho...

Cultural Difference #1: the Chinese think their phones are pets. So they put ears on them. This is something I can actually get on board with. Phones aren't any cheaper than pets, but I bet they don't get scared by fireworks. And, if they get eaten by wolves, who cares? You can just buy a new one.

Cultural Difference #2: Chinese mothers think it's okay for their ten year old boys to wear girly kitty socks and hoodies with ears. Which makes me think there must be a shortage of actual pets in China if they are trying to make everything look like an animal.

Cultural Difference #3 became obvious while Paula rubbed her Dad's shoulders. Her brother, seeing this, wanted in so he said, "Wife!" then pointed to his sister and then to his own shoulders. And Candy's response? She giggled and pranced over to give him a back rub.

And then when Bob saw his sister drinking some juice he said, "Wife! Juice!" Candy's response? ...I think you already know.

But in my favorite example of CD #3, Paula and her mom were having a conversation with Candy. (Actually more with Candy's phone since it was magic and she could say something in Chinese into it and the phone would say it back to her in English and vice versa those Asians have all the best technology). Candy said to Paula, "so, you nurse? Husband want me to be nurse."

And Paula, in recounting this story to us, paid me the highest compliment by saying, "and then my mom said something that Brittany would say."

What was it that Paula's mom said? Well, she straightened up, got fiery look in her eye and said, "In America, women do what they want!"

And it's true. I would totally say that.

But what Candy said--with a smile-- was, "I think I do what husband want."

And what Bob yelled from the other room as he overheard this conversation was, "Stop Americanizing her! I can't get this here!"

We had a good breakfast laugh over that story, though Paula does pray her brother doesn't call Candy Wife! in public. People might take that the wrong way. But she's pretty sure he does because of that whole no-filter thing he's got going on. We also kind of wonder if Candy isn't sitting in her comfortable American home right now, playing with her pet/cell phone while her son's at school and her husband's at work, thinking she's got a pretty good gig going on. She does what makes her husband happy for a few hours a day when he's home from work and then has the rest of her life to do what makes her happy. And everybody is happy. It's sort of a win-win.



I'll tell you one thing though, I'm won't be answering to the call of Wife! anytime soon.

(And also, today Monica expressed her feelings about GATE being dumb and said I should put that on the blog because she wanted to hear if people agreed. Your thoughts? Let me clarify, she meant the program, not the kids in it. Obviously, they are not dumb).

* Bob is not his real American name, but I can't remember what it is. I don't think he has a Chinese name.

Tuesdays Are For Breakfasts

My bi-weekly blog posts have sort of fallen to the wayside lately. Mostly because I'm trying to edit my book (and by edit, I mean basically re-write the whole thing so I'm not embarrassed to send it out for some real editing), but also because things keep coming up. Things I could probably give up so I could focus more on writing, except I don't want to.

Like my weekly breakfast group. There's four of us who've been meeting for breakfast once a week for years now. In fact, when we started our babies looked like this:

and we would take them to story time at the library after our cinnamon rolls.

Now they get story time at school (or not. Who knows?)  and we get to eat and have conversations that don't include the words, "please stop rolling around on the floor."

Except when we are ROFLing. Which sometimes happens.

There are a few others who come when they can, but the four of us work our schedules around breakfast, not the other way around.

And you know what? We're not the only group of ladies who do this. Lately when we've met for bagels at our new regular breakfast location, we've had to fight the Tuesday Yentas for a table. I mean, we do it very politely even though the Yentas all look to be about 80 years old and we could probably kick their ...

But those old ladies have a little bit of an attitude. Like, because they're old and wear matching lime green polo's that say Tuesday Yentas on them, somehow their breakfast group is more legit than ours. So I suggested we come up with our own name and get our own t-shirts. Maybe in hot pink to really show them up.

We tried to think of a name that would evoke who we are in much the same way the Yentas have. Something that said, "hey we're Mormon sisters who like to eat bagels and other breakfast foods together," but in fewer words. But really, how can a people who haven't even come up with a good title for that monthly mid-week Relief Society meeting compete with Yiddish?

So I suggested the name Breakfast Bitchers. Because, really, that's what our breakfasts are all about. Not every time, of course. Sometimes we have some pretty spiritual discussions like this one or funny conversations about whether to name a baby Kegel.

But most of our chats revolve around getting all our frustrations out and being able to say to each other, "you're child/spouse/pet does that too?" Or even, "oh no s/he/it didn't!" and feeling like 1) we're not alone and/or 2) there's someone who's having a worse day than me.

Without fail, though, I always feel full after breakfast. And not just with carbs.

The other girls vetoed my t-shirt idea, so I' won't be sharing pictures of us wearing them. But, I've been thinking for a while now that my readers ought to get filled up on Tuesdays too. Even if it's just with a good laugh.

So, starting next week I'll be writing a new segment called Conversations at Breakfast. I can't guarantee it will happen every week, but when there's something good to share, I'll be sharing it.

Like the story of how Paula got a new sister-in-law. From China.

That's one you're not gonna want to miss, so stay tuned.