dandelion patch...

Lost

2012-01-25T14:13:00.000-07:00

I lost myself along the way.

Looking for me, I would sometimes say,

That I needed to do more things for me,

and that if I did, I would suddenly be

The person I knew I was sure to become.

It worked for most people, a few, maybe some.

And I lost myself, I don't know where I went.

Each hour and minute I searched, rashly spent,

Like sand in my pocket, a pocket with holes.

My mind troubled and trapped like a raft on the shoals.

Tired, I stopped searching for me,

And sat for a moment, and looked up to see

My eyes in the face of a tow-headed boy.

They danced in delight at some hand-crafted toy.

He smiled my smile, and then raced away

And my heart leapt as it saw me this way.

I followed his form as he drifted from sight

and then appeared a slight fairy, or sprite,

and she twirled and danced, and her hair was mine,

fanning out as she spun, gold in the sunshine,

She gently kissed me on my face,

and flew off with ethereal beauty and grace.

And as she vanished, I felt in the gap

of my arm a small push, and then in my lap

Was a waif of a tot, with pink rosebud lips,

She spoke not a real word, but mumbled a bit.

Her eyes were searching, and wide, like mine

And her hair wild, and airy, wispy and fine.

She pointed her finger at something nearby,

and I looked where she pointed, and let out a cry,
For there, on the ground, was a babe struggling forth,
on her hands and her knees, both covered with earth,
She looked up at me and her face lit with glee,

and she laughed and rocked and struggled towards me.

I lifted her up and held her to my breast,

and she, in turn, laid her head there to rest.

I looked down at her face as she closed her eyes,

and realized with no small amount of surprise,

that her fringes of lashes were dark and long,

Just like mine. Then she sang a broken song,

As if trying to imitate the songs that I sang

and at that moment, my heart felt a pang.

While searching for myself, I forgot to see,

that in my children were the best parts of me.

I found myself, all woven in them, by us three:
My God, my companion, and finally me.

Bound and Determined

2012-01-24T16:45:00.001-07:00

Alright...I admit it, now that you called me on it.

Yes...the first drawing DOES have a blue floor line.

And that is because I don't believe in throwing away perfectly good paper (except for those moments when I feel like torturing Jeremy, and I sneak bits of cardboard into the trash, and watch with perverse delight as he fishes them out and puts them into the recycling bin).

And I was just far too tired to walk over to the counter and get my blue pen, and decided to use the black one in my drawer instead.

Normally, the OC disordered person in me would have shunned the piece of paper with the blue line as it didn't match the black, but today I'm taking baby steps out of my OCD-ness, and have allowed you to see a flaw in my brain function.

Anyway, back to what I was going to talk about.

A few days ago, Eden started to get a fever.

"No sweat!" the veteran mom in my head said to me, and I pulled out the big guns (read: acetaminophen and a cool, wet rag), and went to work.

No dice.

Her fever just kept getting worse.

Like the smart mom I am, I decided that I should probably take my sick baby to Costco, and simultaneously switch her supplemented meals to a foreign, foul-smelling formula, and naively expected that rainbows would shoot forth from her tiny heart.

Now, cut me a little slack. I was really tired.

Eden hadn't slept well the night before, and I was on Crazy-Irrational-but-Functional-Mom mode.

I won't go into the nitty-gritty, but let's just say that she was less than delighted with my choices on her behalf.

Jeremy mutated into the Overly-Anxious-and-Paranoid-Father (it's a beautiful thing), and we decided to take her to the doctor Friday night (I seriously think that doctors just guess 99% of the time...just sayin'...).

There was really nothing they could do for her, since she had a virus, so we went home.

On Sunday she surprised us by turning a sickly-pink color from head to toe, and shook it up by having spots the same color scattered across her body.

My first thought was chicken pox, and my heart sank, for two reasons. One, she's been vaccinated (I think) for that, and two, I've never had it, so not only would my poor baby suffer, but I would be incapacitated.

So we googled it, and it wasn't chicken pox.

Whew.

We basically had no clue, and the new after-hours doctor wasn't going to be in her office until 3PM (what kind of on-call doctor is unavailable at noon?), and so we would have to sweat it out.

Luckily for me, Emily came up with the most likely explanation: Roseolea.

All her symptoms matched, and so we decided to just wait it out, and not see the doctor since they hadn't done anything when we went in, and probably wouldn't be able to do anything for her, unless she was bleeding from some orifice, or her eyeballs popped out, or she evolved into a toad or something.

Next morning, she was normal-colored again, but super crabby.

She basically spent the entire time she was sick in a dazed stupor, or half-sleeping in my arms.

She made up for it today.

She woke up, and was happy to crawl around, and then got cranky so I put her down for a nap after she'd been awake for about two hours. So, basically she woke up at 9:30 (lucky me!) and kept muttering/crying until about an hour ago.

I kept going in there, trying to figure out what her deal was, and figured it was because she had slept for almost 72 hours straight.

And then I remembered...

Normally, Eden likes to be swaddled, and I hadn't done it while she was sick because she was a floppy bag of dough, and didn't need much inducement to go to sleep while she was under the weather.
Odd, yes, for an almost nine-month-old, especially since she just pulls her arms out when I lay her down anyway.

But, she's got a good dose of her mother's OCD, and wanted to be wrapped up, by-dang-it-golly-yo-shizzle, and wasn't going to go to sleep until I did it right.

So, I wrapped her up, popped her suck-suck toy in her mouth, and left the room.

Silence.

I guess we all like normalcy.

Even when we're one day shy of nine months.

Facing my face

2012-01-16T14:42:00.001-07:00

As you all know, I'm a total make-up junkie. My heart actually skips a beat when I see giant palettes of eyeshadow at Costco, and I wonder to myself if I can somehow manage to hide it under all the stuff in my cart without alerting Jeremy or my penny-pinching conscience.

I have yet to succeed (mostly because Jeremy tells me I can get whatever I want, and then I feel guilty. It would be better if he just told me "no" and then I could play the whole deprived wife, or I could act out defiantly and put a whole flat of eyeshadow in our cart just to prove that nobody messes with me). But, there is always our next trip to Costco...

And I have struggled to find a good skin care routine that I actually like.

I have done the whole, "Blast your face with acid to burn the impurities off!" via Proactiv, Neutrogena (which I think I am actually allergic to), Biore, and just about every other over-the-counter product you can find at Wal-Mart.

This may work for you, or your sister, or your cousin, but it doesn't work for me. Because I have oily skin.

Now before you go, "EW! OILYYY!" it's not necessarily a bad thing. It means my skin will stay younger looking while everyone else's faces are doing pug impressions.

So, I count myself lucky, even though I hated it for years. I would actually get teary when people would talk about T-zones.

The thing with oily skin, is you don't want to strip away the oils completely (or at all...) because that signals your body to make MORE oil, and if you don't like oil in the first place, you really won't like it when it increases in quantity.

It never made sense to me to use all those acidic cleansers, but I did it because I didn't know what else to do.

So, I did some research, and found that oily skin needs oil. So, I did something that gave me the jibblies.

I slathered olive oil on my face.

It was AMAZING.

But I was still having break-out problems (well, not really break-outs, so much as clogged pores. Gross, I know, but let's be real here, and be grateful I'm not talking about something more disturbing, like toe fungus, or other unmentionable things I am too embarrassed to even list), so I ditched the olive oil regimen.

Everything remained the same, and it's been months since I tried anything more than just washing my face with soap. It's super annoying.

When I would use products with salicylic acid, I would dry out then break out. When I used olive oil (which absorbs nicely into your skin without leaving an oily residue. Don't be afraid of it...I had the nicest, softest hands when I was using it, and I am now cursing the fact that I stopped using it as a moisturizer on my hands because of all the splits I have from my hands being too dry because I wash them like a maniacal germaphobe on crack), there was no change in my skin, other than it was nicely hydrated.

What do I do next?

Something I forgot was super important: Exfoliate.

Nothing fancy, mind you (and I've done all sorts of harsh exfoliating contraptions, which, honestly, aren't necessary, and you can hurt your skin). Just a washcloth and some mild soap (I use Burt's Bees...I have a platonic love affair with all of Burt's products...sigh...). And the result? Nicely clearing up skin. Simple.

Stupid dead-skin cells.

Anyway, so I have been doing that for a few weeks (I should have picked up on this sooner. Mom has been doing this for years. Mom's so smart....). It happened that I went one day without wearing make-up (*gasp*), because I was sick. I figured nobody would see me except Jeremy and the kids, so I didn't need to paint myself beautiful, plus putting make-up on when you are sick is akin to self-flagellation.

After dinner, I was sitting at the table zoning, and Joshua stopped as he walked through the kitchen, and looked at me. He said, "Mom? Why are you red around here (making circling motions around his eyes)?" I don't recall what I said in return, but I believe I promptly went into the bathroom to see what he was talking about and/or face plant in my powder container. Indeed, my eyes were baggy and red. I guess my make-up skills have hid the fact that I am sleep deprived (yes, I stay up late...and it takes it toll on my face and my relationship with Jeremy, since we end up having asinine arguments at one in the morning about how many strings the hammers on a piano hit, and I end up storming out of our bedroom and tearing off the lid of my piano to prove to him that each hammer only hits one string, and then go to bed angry, because he is right...).

Days passed... and I noticed one morning that my skin was starting to look fresher, less aggravated (my skin doesn't like soap, but that's the only way I can get the many, many, many layers of make-up off), and I decided that I would go make-up free that day (with the caveat that I would put make-up around this section *circling motions around eyes* of my face to ward off any seven-year-old commentary. It actually was okay. That is probably the first time in YEARS I have voluntarily not put make-up on and went in public.

When Jeremy came home, I gave him my "I'm feeling sneaky, can you guess why?" face, and asked him if he noticed anything.

He blinked a few times.

"No."

"I'm not wearing any make-up!" I exclaimed. "Can you tell?"

He cocked his head, and analyzed my face.

"Nope."

"Really?" I was kind of disappointed. Had I been deceiving myself all these years thinking that make-up actually gave me a new face?

"Yeah, looks the same."

Now would be a good time to mention that Jeremy has super bad vision. Even with his glasses on (He, like everyone, is victim to the Eye-Doctor-Syndrome, where you think there is actually a correct answer to "One or two? Which one is better? Three or four?" and you end up guessing 99% of the time, and end up with one wacked-out prescription).

I might try being foundation-free again someday.

Maybe.

Smarmy Hobbits

2012-01-13T15:15:00.001-07:00

Nothing to do with my post, I just felt like jumping on the zombie bandwagon, since they are so trendy.

My piano tuner is here today.

He tricks me into him coming every six months.

When he finishes my tune-up, he looks up at me, slyly pulls out his little black book, and says, "Let's see, in six months, I have an opening on such-and-such a day, what time works for you?"

And I stammer and stutter, and he leaves my house $90 richer, and me a little less so, and I also feel a little manipulated.

So, I decided a few days ago that I would not let it happen again.

NO SIR!

I would not let this nice, little, bald, hobbit-like man trick me again (maybe he's more like a leprechaun...).

Jeremy backed me up and said, "I'll just tell him, 'thank you, we'll see you in a year,' and leave it at that!"

It is so comforting to have a husband who is firm where I am limp-noodley.

I couldn't bear to let him in, though, today, and made Jeremy promise to let him in. I knew he would see my steely resolve, and crumble.

...or...

No, I mostly felt guilty.

I mean, what if we are his only source of income?

Isn't it possible that he could be living off of $180 a year?

He probably lives in his car.

And lives off the samples at Costco.

Or, he could just be going around over-charging poor suckers like me, and rolling in piles of one dollar bills in his living room.

Jeremy just came back into the kitchen, to tell me that our $90 check won't work.

The piano tuner's price went up, and now he needs $100 to tune my piano.

I should charge him for my unused, and now obsolete, check.

Smarmy little hobbit.

Doin-ga Doin-ga

2012-01-11T10:57:00.000-07:00

I think I live in a wormhole in the space-time continuum.

It seems like I had Eden years ago, but that she should be three months old still.

Yeah, hurts my brain, too.

Yet, here she is, almost nine months old, mobile, and searching for all the doorstops she can find.

My mother-in-law came over yesterday, and she looked over Eden and said, "You stop that! You can't grow up yet!"

I responded for Eden by saying, "I LOVE it!"

Eden just smiled at my MIL and waved her fat arms enthusiastically, smacking my arm with her sausage-like fingers.

Jeremy frequently mentions how surprised he is at how aware Eden is.

My girls have always been that way, though. From day one.

Joshua was a cranky bag of dough that slept for the first six months, and suddenly woke up and hasn't stopped going since. Of course, he could have been in that state since I insisted on putting him in the swing all the time so I could play Myst....

You know, I didn't think a nine-month old could have a sense of humor, but apparently they can. I was sitting at this very computer desk a week ago, and I had Eden on my lap, and Eva was perched on a chair next to me, her elbows on my desk, and her fanny in the air. Eden started laughing, and kept on going at it for quite a while. When I finally looked down, Eden had her hand on Eva's fanny and was opening and closing her fist, as if she was tickling her. "Eden's silly!" came Eva's amused remark.

I think they are two peas in a pod, as far as their humor goes. Remember this blog?

Yeah. Time to hide to dolls now.

Late Nights and Spaghetti Squash

2012-01-05T17:04:00.000-07:00

I discovered this food blogger, Chef Bob. Jeremy and I think he is quite awesome. Watch his video, and you, too, will become a believer. Though, his chopping up of a chicken isn't quite as easy as he makes it out to be....

Jeremy and I decided that we need to watch all his videos, and then cook together. You know, so we can bond...

You see...Jeremy and I have been struggling to find quality time together.

Mostly because we are both so exhausted at the end of the day that we spend every evening scouring the internet for episodes of TV shows that we don't get to see since we don't have cable. Or TV of any sort, for that matter.

Yesterday was no exception. It was only different because Jeremy wasn't home for dinner, and I had play super parent by myself (super parent status is granted to any parent that manages to feed all their children at some point in the eveningish time before they are hurried off to bed an hour early because you just can't take it anymore).

Jeremy finally stumbled in after 8 PM, and he had with him half of a squash.

It was a magical spaghetti squash.

Now, if you are like me, when you heard the term "spaghetti squash," your whole body just tensed up and you poorly restrained a shudder.

That's how I used to feel about them. Jeremy would, in a sing-songy tone, talk about the spaghetti squash's delightful qualities, and I would quietly dry heave when he wasn't looking. I suppose it was wrong of me to be so prejudice against a plant I had never before tried, but I had plenty of bad memories of zucchini that prevented me from eating one for years after my childhood, and thus all other squash-like plants were banned from my palate. Except for pumpkins. And cucumbers.

So, when my mother-in-law said she was going to bring some spaghetti squash to dinner a few nights ago, I looked sideways at the wall (because nobody else was looking at me at the time), and resolved to be polite. She brought in a plate full of yellow wormy-ness, and I seriously had my doubts.

I dutifully put some on my plate, and looked at it sideways. It looked at me as if it didn't care, and just laid there, looking limp. I poked it with my fork and lifted some of the "spaghetti," closed my eyes, and put it in my mouth.

Wow.

It was AMAZING! It was the penultimate comfort food.

I shouldn't have been surprised. I mean, my MIL has this magical touch with things that require lots of butter and salt (like her fried potatoes...I tried to make them like she does, and after failing time after time, I decided that the universe granted her dominion over all things grated potatoes, and by golly, I'd just do my own thing and be super awesome at making country potatoes. So there...).

Now, before you go all gaggy on me about spaghetti squash, I'll just tell you that you just need some butter and salt, and BAM most amazing thing ever (gee...I sound like Dad. He puts salt and butter on everything and claims it's super amazing. I draw the line at just about everything he says that about. BUT, if he said it about spaghetti squash, I would have to agree.)

Anyway, so Jeremy came in with the two things I found most comforting: spaghetti squash and him.

*Happy Sigh*

So, we ate spaghetti squash, watched an episode of "Chuck," and snuggled. It was great.

While we may not get the fantastically amazing, brain-enlarging, super-married-people quality time that I fantasize about, this is awesome for the time being.

And you can't ask for more than awesome.

The Six of Us

2012-01-02T18:12:00.001-07:00

I apparently need to clean my scanner.

Whatever.

Anyway, I thought I would just do a little update on the family today, since I have nothing funny to say, and I felt compelled to blog.

Eden has started to army crawl. I thought it would never happen since we spend the majority of the time in the kitchen that has wood floors, and I couldn't imagine her managing it since they are so slippery. But, she has since proved that crawling is easier in the kitchen, since she can just pull herself with her arms, and then just let her legs drag. I don't think I will ever convince her that her legs are anything but decorative. She loves her siblings, and is often on her belly army-crawling after them. She also like to rip paper, eat it, throw it up on the kitchen floor, and then finger paint with it.

Lily has mastered the two words that will shape her life and relationships: "They're mean..." (and "I DO!" too...she says this a lot). She has become very tidy, and can be heard singing, "eee uhhh eeee uhhh" (clean up clean up) when I ask her to put her toys away. She is also an obsessive door closer. She has also decided that everything needs to be completely fair at the dinner table and refuses to eat if she didn't get some salad dressing, too, even if she doesn't have salad in her bowl. FAIR IS FAIR. She glared at me the other night after I had distributed corn on the cob to everyone except herself, and after about 8 minutes I couldn't stand it anymore, and just gave her her own. She surprised me by eating it all, and entertained herself by pulling out the sharp corn cob holders and looking at Jeremy with a concerned face. He would satisfy her by putting them back in, but got tired of it after the seventh time. She thought it highly entertaining, but I could see she really wanted to just poke someone really hard with one (like how she took the sharp barbeque tongs and stabbed them into Jeremy's back as he lay prostrate on the floor the other night...)

Eva has nurtured her princessness, and has reached a new level of high-pitched speaking I thought impossible. But, during the times she isn't impersonating a squirrel, she is singing, for Eden's delight and pleasure, the ABCs very off-key. She is generally helpful, and sweet, except for when she is not. She is in the "Why" stage, and I find it frustrating when she insists on asking why questions that I cannot answer. I can sort of see why she does it though. It's like her brain is doing one of these:

Joshua is working hard at arguing with us as much as posible, and has been doing so since the day he turned seven. I know it's normal, but it's gotten to the point where he argues about stupid stuff, like when we were in the car the other day and Eva said, "Mommy, you are beautiful..." to which Joshua replied, "No, she isn't," to which I replied with a very angry voice some random monster sounds as my heart crushed under the weight of his words, and Jeremy told Josh he was going to bed for the rest of the day when we got home. Other than that, he is very helpful, and super smart (hence all the arguing), and he thoroughly enjoys astronomy and reading his history book aloud to me in the kitchen. My favorite story he read was about Anasi the spider (an african tale) and how he was so greedy he kept giving up food that would have helped his village, but he thought he could find something better, and when Joshua got to the moral of "You should eat what is placed in front of you" he looked up at me sheepishly as I stirred the soup we were having for dinner that he requested we eat "tomorrow" (read, never).

Jeremy is working hard, and when he is home he tries to interact with the children by biting them and/or licking them. When he isn't doing that, he gives them little tid bits of information, that result in very exciting dinner conversations. One that immediately comes to mind is when Eva asked us one of her why questions that spurred a conversation about how we were made by God, and Jeremy queried out loud if the "intelligences" that we were made of were male and female, or if we chose that (to which I replied that we were always male and female...I could be wrong, but I don't think so. Somebody back me up here.), and then he wondered, again, out loud, what we were before we were "intelligences." I think I shrugged, and he pushed forward, ignoring me, and got a spacey look on his face, and exclaimed, "Beetles!" I am pretty sure I inhaled something I was laughing so hard, and Jeremy made some comment about how he loves that I still laugh at him. He's still working on his Mustang, and I still hate it, since she is a vertiable expense-inducing mistress. Jeremy is convinced that I will love it when he is done. Personally, I will love it when it plummets accidentally over a cliff and smashes into a very small metal pancake.

I'm just doing the same ol' same ol'. Nothing exciting going on.
Yeah.

I'll let you know when I do.

The Great Migration

2011-12-28T19:26:00.000-07:00

When Joshua was one month old, I had had enough. I booted him from our room.

His little snuffling noises kept me awake all night long, and I was feeling myself slowly lose sanity, and I had visions of circling the bedroom on my hands and knees, wearing off the paint on the walls, in a total "Yellow Wallpaper" fashion (if you have not read it, do, but then make sure that you have someone nearby to tell you that you are, in fact, normal and sane, because you will seriously doubt it when you are through).

He seemed to be okay. Of course, nothing really douses the fire that is raging within my first born.

Then comes along Eva, and I couldn't bear the thought of her leaving our room (and that could be for several reasons, like the fact that she was our only "planned" child, or the fact that she was so cute looking up over the side of the pack 'n play, or the fact that she would have to bunk with Josh in our tiny two bedroom apartment...). I finally broke down and threw her and Josh into the same room, and let the pieces fall where they would.

It was okay.

Then, we had Lily, and things were getting tight in our little two bedroom apartment, and I considered throwing her into Josh and Eva's room, since they had a bunk bed, but I really wondered if they would all survive the sheer amount of childhoodness (or would it be childrogen, or perhaps, childesterone?) that would errupt explosively if she joined them. Luckily we moved, and Lily moved into her own bedroom, as did Eva and Josh.

It's been freaking AWESOME.

Then, something happened where I got pregnant and had another baby (I can't seem to stop that from happening...), and Eden's been our roommate for eight months.

I like Eden in our room. She's so cute, and happy. And she sleeps through the chatter that Jeremy and I produce at the end of the day. Most of the time...

I decided that I needed to do two things: Wean Eden, and move Lily into Eva's room, so I could put Eden in Lily's old room (I guess I've put off putting Lily into a big bed, even though she is two. I mean, she's so freaking small...It's like I had twins, since Eden and Lily are almost the same size).

I thought, "Gee, wouldn't it be perfect to do it while Jeremy is on Christmas break???" and then I remembered what weaning a baby is like, and what moving a child into another child's room is like, and put it off for another day.

The day after Christmas, despite the fact that I knew it would be dreadful, I decided that it was a good day to move Lily into Eva's room. We cleaned the whole house, moved out Lily's bedding from the crib, and Eden in, with Lily moaning piteously the whole time as her world was shattered, and she was removed from her own space, and down the hallway from her parents, and though she couldn't say it, was probably wondering what she did wrong (Eva was probably wondering the same thing).

Christina and Mike came over that night (along with their own little squish) and bets were made as to who would survive the Eva-Lily combo. I handsdown bet everything on Lily. You don't mess with The Lily.

It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be.

Lily only climbed up on the top bunk twice, and fell off twice, but her body is pretty springing, so no permanent damage was done (just imagine an angora rabbit falling from the top bunk, and you've got the right image). And kudos to Eva who slept through Lily climbing all over her. She even slept through Lily pulling her hair really hard when we tried to remove Lily from the top bunk. She only cried out and said a slurred, "Shespullingmyhairaaagggghhh......" and then promptly fell asleep after we untangled Lily from her blond tresses.

It's now day three...and I'm glad we did it.

But I know it's going to be like three years before all the kinks are worked out, and by then we'll have moved into my dream-nine-bedroom home. That has sound-proof walls.

And trampoline floors.

And a built in cow that makes its own ice cream.

It's gonna be awesome.

My Life as a Charles Dicken's Novel

2011-12-23T18:03:00.000-07:00

Have you read a Dicken's novel?

It goes something like this: Sad people, sad about something sad, and then they are happy for a (very) short season, and then there is some horrible climax where somebody dies, or nearly dies, and it could be a bad guy, or it could be a good guy (just depended on how old Charlie was feeling that day), or somebody has a change of heart, for the betterment of all the rest of the crew, and then subsequently dies, and then something awesome happens (either a good or bad awesome) and then everybody is happy, or nearly so, or at least resigned to their lot, and the book ends in a sort of weirdly sad happy way.

If there was a formula for Dicken's that is it.

It's like Agatha Christie in a way, only her formula is more gruesome (where, oddly, hundreds of people end up dying in the same little town and only some old lady or crotchety Belgian know what's going on, and for some reason Scotland Yard isn't all over those two. Miss Marple and Hercule are like human death black holes...).

Anyway, I was revamping my blog a while ago, and so I was reading some of my old posts. I was so happy back when I first started. I blogged blithly about everyday life, and thoroughly enjoyed myself.

And, as if broadsided by the complete works of Charles Dickens, I started down the sad path. Maybe you can't see it in my blogs, but I could see it.

As I experienced life, life bled into my writing, and tainted my light-hearted prose.

I'm waiting for the denouement, where I have some sort of life altering epiphany.

I need some sort of Ghosts of Dara's Past, or something. Or maybe some crazy guy to try and murder me. Or maybe a corrupt banker to erase my fortune and make me destitute and happy.

I need the boost of an upward swing. I sort of fabricated my own today, since no mongering banker was lurking in the shadows. I gave up Castleville on Facebook and started painting again.

It's amazing what you can do when you aren't worried about when your stone blocks are going to finish "cooking," and I feel happy. Even Eva throwing up her peanut butter sandwich and the chicken nuggets she had for lunch four times didn't dampen my spirits. Maybe it was the paint fumes messing with my brain.

I was thinking of something Mom said to me a little while back. She, after twenty some odd years, took an oil painting class and, as she stood in her kitchen dabbing paint on a canvas, she looked at me and said, "Don't wait to do thing things you want to do."

Okay, Mom. Will do.

Perhaps I should hop out of the novel I've been in, and start one of my own. After all, perhaps the reason all of Dicken's books were so sad was because everyone was living to be acted upon, instead of picking themselves up and doing something about their problems.

Sorry, Charlie. No offense intended.

Hair today...

2011-12-20T13:20:00.002-07:00

A few weeks ago, I was working on something important (no, I wasn't editing one of my custom radio stations on Pandora) and I saw an ad for some online store. The model was wearing some kind of atrocity of an outfit complete with clashing colors, but that wasn't what caught my attention. She had a long, beautiful fishtail.

No, she wasn't a mermaid (though that would have made Eva happy, since she's been somewhat downcast since I told her that despite all her hopes she wasn't going to grow up to be a mermaid). Her hair was done in a fishtail. It was so breathtaking to me that I, then and there, decided that nothing was going to stop me from having one too.

Just as a reminder, this was my hair last summer. So, needless to say, it hasn't grown much since then, because I have this magnetic attraction to scissors, but I have managed to save my hair from myself for quite awhile and managed to produce this:

Pay no attention to the horrible editing job on this photo...I haven't mastered Photoshop yet.

Impressive, I know. I have to put it in pony tails everyday because if I didn't I would have a total 70s mullet.

*shudder*

I know it's a long shot for me to even try...I mean, I probably subconsciously thought that I would actually look like the model, complete with the perfect figure and complexion, if I managed to get my hair that long.

But, maybe I will...

...and maybe I'll be a mermaid someday.

"Ho ho ho!" to "No, no, no!"

2011-12-13T15:25:00.003-07:00

I remember being a kid, and how the weeks before Christmas seemed to drag on, and on...and on...It was like the holiday purposefully slowed down the month, and Christmas day seemed years away.

I also remember writing letters to Santa, and getting excited, wondering what kind of loot I would get come Christmas morning.

After I stopped believing in Santa, I would tell my parents what I wanted, and the anticipation was just as great. Nothing like getting loads of stuff!

STUFF!

I remember one year, I wrote down everything I wanted (I think I was asked to, I'm not sure), and sort of blandly handed it to Mom. I wasn't expecting to get everything that was on my list (not that I asked for anything super fancy...I think I asked for a Barbie, a book, and some clothes). Mom and Dad weren't exactly Mr. and Mrs. Howell, and I had never gotten everything my ~~greedy~~ hopeful little heart wanted.

On Christmas morning, I got the shock of a lifetime: I got everything on that list.

And you know something? I felt sort of robbed.

That year, I got everything my little heart could come up with to wish for, and once those desires were satisfied, I was left feeling empty.

Fast forward twenty years.

For the rest of the story...

There was an old drain that swallowed a spider...

2011-12-08T11:49:00.006-07:00

I, in no way, shape or form, have any sort of sentimental feelings towards pigs or spiders...that being said...

The awesome thing about homeschooling, is that you get to learn all sorts of cool stuff as the teacher, and you actually enjoy all that learning the second time around.

For instance, I have learned all sorts of stuff about geography that I am ashamed to say I never knew before, or, mostly likey, blocked from my memory. Like where Israel really is.

For the rest of the story...

Emergency Preparedness

2011-12-06T13:40:00.002-07:00

I like being prepared. I don't know if it's because of all the conference talks given on food storage, or what, but I always feel this need to have what I might ever need on hand.

Which is why I have a Costco membership.

That, and I really like their food court's hot dogs.

At any rate, a few weeks ago, I decided it would be super-mom-ish of me to get all the kids' stocking candy way in advance, so that I wouldn't have to worry about it come December 24th, when I would suddenly realize that I had somehow forgotten to get stocking stuffers.

I was at WinCo at the time, and in case you didn't know, they sell their candy at HALF the price of every store I have been to. They even trump Wal-Mart. Nothing beats sixty-eight cents for a candy bar, I'm just sayin'...

I scanned the candy wall, and I discovered something that made my heart leap for joy: The Rocky Road Candy Bar. I hadn't had one of those in YEARS. WinCo then became my happy place.

So, I threw one of those into my cart, and then picked out candy for the kids that I knew I would never eat, unless otherwise desperate.

I don't remember when I ate that candy bar. It's all a blur. But I remember having really, really, really bad day, and I ended up swallowing it, and then eating my kids' Christmas M&Ms. I don't like M&Ms especially. But they will certainly do in a pinch. And a pinch it was. I don't even remember what was going on, all I know is that I broke my "I am never going to eat chocolate again, except on special occasions, like Christmas, and perhaps flag day, and other lesser holidays, and maybe on the last Saturday of the month, and probably on Sundays, because, that's a day of rest, and I can rest from my chocolate hiatus, and also on Thursdays because that's really my Friday, because Jeremy doesn't work on Fridays, so we should celebrate with chocolate" rule.

I sighed with joy in my chocolate coma.

And then I realized I HAD to go back to WinCo to get some more candy for Christmas.

Gee, what a shame...

So, I scanned to candy wall again, and I grabbed a Rocky Road, and a whole bunch more M&Ms, this time the fancy kind (like the peanut kind, and the peanut butter...yumm....), and threw in a whole bunch of bags of skittles, which promised all sorts of excitingness with their brightly colored packages. While I was standing there, I felt the need to buy the most fancy chocolate I could find (I had, a few days before, discovered this completely delectable Belgian chocolate, called something like Ferrararararara...it was super fancy...and super tasty...), and since I couldn't find anything foreign, except for Lindt chocolates (yack), I picked out a Dairy Milk Chocolate Cadbury bar.

I threw it all in my cart, and then raced to the checkout line, and bought all my, er...the family's Christmas candy.

That bag in the back of my Suburban spoke to me all the way around town as we did our errands....and all that afternoon...and all that night....and then...Sunday came.

Sunday was a blur. It all ended in a total hydrogen bomb-like chocolate explosion after we got home from church and we (read Jeremy) put our kids in their rooms for "quiet time" (read mommy needs to decompress with all your Christmas candy). I ate the entire Dairy Milk Chocolate Cadbury bar. In about 3 1/2 minutes.

I was super sick.

But I was super happy.

But it did nothing for my voice at choir practice.

Anyway...that held me over for a while.

And then today, I made the mistake of going to the mall...and I walked around it three times to get some exercise...and that meant I passed by three candy stores three times.

Needless to say, my self-control at the mall made me cranky, so I came home, threw bread and jam packets at my kids, closed their doors, and finally had some alone time with my...uh the family's Christmas candy....yeah...It was good.

Looks like I need to go to WincCo again.

Spine

2011-12-02T19:41:00.006-07:00

I sleep in a hammock, on my stomach. It hurts as much as it sounds.

Now, this is not on purpose.

You see, I used to sleep in a bed, and it was a bed until my children decided it was an indoor trampoline, and pounded the poor pillow-toppy-springy-ness out of it, making it sag in the middle.

So, every night, I lie in bed, and I remind myself to not sleep on my stomach, because what happens when I do is my back feels like I just slapped it with a wooden spoon all night long. My brain turns off, though, after I fall asleep and I somehow end up on my stomach with my face in a puddle of drool...because everybody drools when they sleep on their stomachs. They do. And if they say they don't, they are lying.

I don't know if it's because I started having sciatica after I had my kids, or what, but it is seriously annoying. I hate feeling like my eternally young spirit resides in an 80-year-old body.

I'm assuming that an 80-year-old body feels like that, though...it may not be true. I should ask Gigi.

Maybe an 80-year-old body feels more like jello. I think I would like that.

Cherry flavored jello.

With those canned fruity bits.

As it is, I can't actually bend over to pick anything up. I have to stand completely straight, swing one leg straight back to balance my body (like I am a giant T), and reach my arm down (turning me into an F) to grab Eden's pajamas and lift her up that way. She thinks it's super fun. She doesn't know she has a broken mama.

Luckily for me, the universe invented yoga just for me, and, if I am diligent, I have little back pain.

Unfortunately for me, I spent the entirety of November on my bottom writing my stupid novel, and now my body is paying for it.

Looks like I have to get up and do something about my brokenness now.

Woo hoo.

The Race

2011-11-26T20:52:00.003-07:00

I ran a race this month.

Two actually.

And they were both against myself.

The first race I started was the National Novel Writing Month race. The basic idea is that you write 50,000 words in one month and you "win." I "won" that nice picture over there you see at the top, right-hand corner of my page. Awesome? Yes...yes it is.

That race took me twenty-six days. TWENTY-SIX DAYS (Well...twenty-three, really, because I didn't write on Sundays, because, that's the Lord's day, and writing about magic on the sabbath seems sacrilegious)! Needless to say, I didn't do much else except NaNoWriMo all month long. So much for all those hand-print mayflowers I was going to do with the kids....and the turkey-shaped bread...and the turkey beanbags...

Emily was my writing buddy. She was like my pacer, helping me, encouraging me, sometimes pushing me down and laughing, but mostly she was supportive. And I made all sorts of friends in the Utah Wrimos chatroom. You will forever be in my soul, GaterlauralAnMollymie12. We are so close....

Anyway, I also ran my FIRST ever race. It was four miles (So, I guess I would call that a 5K Plus. Sounds fancy.), and I ran it with Jenny and Missy. Well, I should say that I ran it with Missy, since Jenny pushed us out of the way and beat us to the finish line by a full 12 minutes. It was definitely an experience. My favorite part (aside from listening to Missy the whole time--I couldn't talk because this was my first 5K Plus...I was, uh...focusing), was the end, when Jenny and Missy were shouting at me, "SPRINT TO THE END! SPRINT TO THE END!" I obliged, and because sprinting didn't hurt my body nearly as much as the jogging did, I liked that most.

Yeah...so I've done mental and physical races this month.

I don't think I want to do either again.

For a long time.

You see, after the race on Thanksgiving, I hobbled around my house for the rest of the day (and the day after...and the day after that...and probably will tomorrow...). I looked down to see my brain hobbling around next to me on its weak little legs. I should have just stomped on it and put it out of its misery.

Anyway...I finished. I may not have had the best time out of everybody competing, but I finished.

And now I want to just eat a obscene amount of ice cream.

You are super lucky I blogged, because, I gotta tell ya, honey, I didn't feel like it. I'm tired.

Trees and Weeds

2011-11-18T12:24:00.004-07:00

I had to venture out into the world today.

That makes four times this week.

That's like the Daraness Book of World Records worthy.

Today, though, was different.

I only had one little.

Lily needed to go to the doctor for her 2-year well checkup (which, I was sorta torked about, since I was there on Monday for Eden's 6-month well checkup, and thought it was lame that they wouldn't let me just have their appointments at the same time. I mean, it's not like they don't over schedule anyway....)

As I was driving down the road, I had to stop for a traffic light. That's when the car with the super excited trees came by.

I immediately saw it in blue ink on a lined piece of paper. Either that's really awesome, or I need to get out more.

Anyway, so we made it to the doctor's office, and they handed me one of those ages and stages forms (I don't do those, as I said in an earlier post...), and I casually flipped through it.

I got really, really paranoid.

You see, the Lily doesn't talk.

Well, she talks, but usually it sounds like a furbie, or resembles something like, "Furiblei shriple sog?"

And all the questions were about how much and what your child was saying.

She's got "ow" and "no" down, and will occasionally meow, or yell "MOMMY!" at the top of her lungs.

But nothing close to the TWO HUNDRED words she's supposed to know.

That's a lot of words for a little lady. Talk about pressure.

Anyway, the doctor waltzed in, the usually open and free Lily curled up in a ball on the floor. Any attempts the doctor made to get a closer look at her resulted in her thrashing around and yelling "NO NO NO!" and trying to get away. This became augmented when he tried to take off her pants. And I really don't blame her...I mean, if some strange, gigantic man with tiny red Iron Men on his shirt was trying to unbutton my pants, I'd try to get away too.

It was finally decided that it would be best if I held her while he poked and prodded, and she only just allowed that. He finished, and stuck his hand out.

"Gimme five?" He smiled winningly.

Lily looked at his hand in scorn.

"NO!"

I stuck my hand out, and said,

"Gimme five?"

She slapped my hand, and then looked scathingly at the doctor, who tried again, this time with a knuckle bump, which she also scorned.

He sighed, and gave up, but cheered up when he looked at her stats.

"Hey, at least she's getting bigger!" he quipped. "10th percentile for weight, and 80th for her height!"

This caused me great relief since the last time we were there she was in the oneth percentile (is that a word?).

So, Lily's my little weed.

And she has a healthy fear of strange men.

Keep that fear, Lily...keep that fear.

The Call

2011-11-14T13:55:00.006-07:00

A few weeks ago, I was feeling pretty down.

I was having those all-too-familiar "I'm not worth anything" moments, and I started feeling sorry for myself.

Nobody liked my blog...

I didn't have a calling...

I actually sat in the Blue Chair and cried while Jeremy sat, befuddled, listening to me talk about how my life was over, and how nobody liked me, and what's the point of trying anymore, and how come I didn't have a secret stash of chocolate for times like these.

He's a good man. I feel really bad for him.

Anywho, that morning, someone I had been blog stalking actually came to my blog! Thanks, Elise...you really made my day.

And after church that day, we were told that the first councilor in the bishopric wanted to speak to us.

Duh duh duh!

My mind was reeling with the possibilities...

I eagerly awaited our appointment on Tuesday...

When the day finally came, I readied myself, and wondered if wearing knee-high furry uggs were appropriate for church, and then decided, what hey, life's short to not wear them (like yesterday when I decided that life was too short to wear anything other than my leopard print pajama bottoms to choir practice).

I sat down in the office, and I fidgeted as Brother 1st Councilor chatted and made awkward small talk. I think my uggs made him uncomfortable.

He finally said, "Well, we'd like to extend to you a Calling."

He paused.

"Now, I know some people feel like this calling is a slap in the face, but for me, I've done it twice, and I really enjoyed it..."

He paused. Visions of being the ward chair-setter-upper danced through my head.

"Well, I won't keep you in suspense..."

He paused.

"We'd like you to serve as the Nursery Leader."

"Oh!" I said, surprised. I then smiled to let him know that wasn't a disappointed "oh."

He filled me in on all the magicalness that is Nursery Leader, but I didn't hear a word he was saying. I was too busy plotting.

You see, a few years ago, Jeremy and I were called into the nursery. I was ECSTATIC. I mean, who wouldn't like to take off their shoes and play on the floor and eat tiny, bear-shaped crackers, sing songs, and generally have a good time for two hours while everyone else has to sit in Gospel Doctrine and Relief Society?

Well, I entered that calling with glorious images in my head of how freaking fun it was going to be. It was, however, not to be.

Our ward had like twenty kids in the nursery, and so the bishopric called 3-5 couples, in addition to the nursery leader, to manage all the littles. Our first Sunday it became clear to me that what I had in mind, and what the others had in mind, was not going to mesh well. At all.

I tried to let it go, and tried to focus on the positive. Only to be disappointed. Again.

There we were, in the middle of the Toy Bomb fallout, and the nursery leader disappeared. As did all the other nursery workers.

Just imagine, me, pregnant, and Jeremy, with 20 little kids. All by ourselves.

I got pretty torked.

I went to the door, and looked outside.

There was the nursery leader, standing in the hallway, with all the other nursery works, just chilling and having a good time.

I then fried them all with my laser vision, and brought their sorry ashes to the bishop's office, and waited for fire to rain down from heaven.

No...

I actually didn't do anything. I just was mad. And I got madder, because this kept happening, for the duration of our time there.

Luckily for me, we were only there for a few weeks, as Jeremy was called as the Ward Clerk, and we were set free.

SO, when Brother 1st Councilor said I would the Nursery Leader, and that all the other workers would be set to pasture, and that it would be just me and Jeremy, my heart leapt for joy!

I AM GOING TO BE IN CHARGE!

When we were set apart on Sunday, Jeremy was called as a worker, and I, the Leader. I made sure to rub that in as soon as we were out of earshot.

Jeremy shrugged and quipped, "How is that any different than now?"

I could feel the power surging through my spiritual veins, and I could feel myself starting to get mouthy, which wasn't good, since at that moment, I was talking to the Primary President. Yeah, that's a no no...

She was cool about it, though.

(I was getting really excited about the whole idea, but one thing pulled a cloud over everything: When people heard what my calling was, they all winced and asked, "Soooo...are you excited?" Then I got a lot of apologetic good-lucks. I think the worst thing I heard was this: I was sitting in the chairs outside the bishop's office, and the previous Nursery Leader was sitting next to me. A friend of her's walked up to her and said, "Hey! You get to leave nursery!" She looked over at me, and backtracked, saying, "Hey, you get to go into nursery!" Dude...it's nursery, not the chain-gang.)

Anyway, as I was talking with Sister Primary President, I asked if I would be allowed to put a sign on the door about bringing sick kids, because I am anti-sick-children-at-church (Don't judge me. The First Presidency has said if you or your littles are sick, please stay home. Just look in the Handbook), and she was all for it. She kept talking, but my brain was busy working on something to put on the door, maybe with the words "black death" thrown in somewhere.

This is my greatest pet peeve, probably because I got sick every other week when I was teaching primary last year. It was annoying. Seriously, if your child had a fever, cough, bladder infection (yes, that was one that really happened), sore throat, mange, or whatever, PLEASE, do everybody a favor and keep the sicky home.

I came up with a little rhyme last night, that I'm going to laminate and put on the nursery door:

To All Parents:

Be a dear,

Remember, spit gets

shared in here.

So, check for cooties,

Double-quick,

And take your littles home,

If sick.

Catchy, huh?

Things

2011-11-08T19:18:00.006-07:00

I can see how freeing it would be to be a person living in a hut in the middle of the Savannah somewhere, with only the dirt and your family for company, and perhaps the occasional grangy lion.

Can't you just see it? Your only concern is just to live, and due to the occasional grangy lions, to survive.

None of this blastedly demoralizing technology to bog you down and make you feel CRAZY when you lose all those precious pictures of your naked babies in the hospital because some jerk from Nebraska decided to create some sort of computer "worm" or "virus" or "yeti" (they don't have these yet as far as I know...maybe I'll program a computer yeti to destroy peoples computers and lives...) that deletes all your pixelated memories and flushes them down the virtual drain, and you are left feeling exposed and robbed, sickened that all your plans (you know what I'm talking about...the plans for embarrassing your children when their first dates come over and you show them all those above mentioned naked baby pictures, and they curse your name forever, until they realize, when they themselves become parents, that it was actually a good idea, and the cycle repeats generation after generation) are RUINED.RUINED.

None of that!

It seriously has made me sick inside that all of Eden's hospital pictures are gone.

Forever.

And that the video I took of her hiccuping is gone. She sounded JUST like a Coo Coo clock.

Sigh...

Jeremy tried to make me feel better by saying, "At least we have Eden!" and then I started feeling weepy because I realized at any second something could land on the house and squish her crib, or she could become a victim to SIDS or something...Reminded me of Tara, and how she used to worry about her child falling into the oven or dishwasher or microwave or something and dying, because, you know, that could really happen...It COULD.

Life would be so much simpler without things...

Blast you, virtual memory-destroying yeti.

SMRT!

2011-11-05T20:22:00.002-06:00

I've been trying to think of something controversial to blog about to get ya'll stirred up.

I've got nothing.

So, I decided just to talk about me, because, really, this is my blog, and that's what I do, and ya'll are just a bunch of voyeurs.

A year or so ago, I got really sick. Like Super-Duper-I-Want-To-Die sick. It wasn't like an "achoo!" sick, it was full blown nausea/vomiting/diarrhea/anything-else-that-can-ooze-from-my-body-in-a-gross-way sick.

I passed it off as some sort of bug.

Well, it repeated itself a few months later. I had no idea what triggered it, or if I had just discovered a new form of ebola, that acted more like the flu, and I fully anticipated that this whole thing would end with me in a pile of vomitpoo, with my brain leaking out somewhere and becoming an omelet.

Then, this summer, it happened twice within a two week time period.

Then I had it fig'ered.

I was allergic to jalapenos.

So, I studiously avoided jalapenos.

Then it happened AGAIN.

I had it fig'ered.

It was peppers.

So, I studiously avoided peppers.

Then it happened AGAIN.

What the hay!?

Then a little voice popped up in my head and said, "Hey, I think I remember Missy saying something about how onions made her super sick, blah blah blah..." and then I zoned out because something shiny flashed across the floor, and distracted me.

I eventually called Missy, and confirmed what my brain had said.

I then reflected on those times I got supper sick. Every time I had eaten raw onions. Like, the white kind.

Okay, I said to myself, no more raw white onions.

So, two days ago, I was scrounging around the fridge looking for something to eat, and came across some tuna fish salad. I had thrown some red onion into it because red onions are super delicious, and I can't live without them.

12 hours later, at 4 AM, I woke up and thought I was going to die. And I only ate like 1/4 inch slice of red onion.

Luckily, it passed quickly (no pun intended), and I walked into the bright new world of never-eating-another-raw-onion-of-any-type-whatsoever-for-the-rest-of-my-life. I'm a little worried though, because Missy said she eventually developed the same reaction to broccoli.

Good thing I don't like broccoli.

Which brings me to something else.

I have given up chocolate.

For life.

Why, do you ask?

The caffeine content? The sugar? The fat?

No, not because of any of those reasons.

Because I had an out of body experience the other day, and I watched in horror as my body stood in the pantry and shoveled hand over fist my kids' (chocolate) Halloween candy into my wide, gaping mouth, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. It was sad. And my kids weren't to pleased either.

"Don't eat all the candy!" was Eva's squeaky plea.

"Well, why don't you just limit yourself, and eat a little?" some may ask.

Because when you are an alcoholic you don't just drink a little glass of vodka every once in a while as a treat.

So, I'm off chocolate.

I consoled myself this evening by eating half a pan of rice crispy treats. At one point I stopped using my fingers to eat them, and just used the knife to get it into my mouth faster, since periodically licking the marshmallow off my fingers was slowing me down.

Jeremy sat with his back to me at the computer working on the ward program. He growled in frustration at one point, and I said,

"Are you struggling? Sibilinga? They took sibilinga! Bring back to us...bring back to us..."

Jeremy gave me a, "huh?" and kept working, totally ignoring my Indiana Jones reference.

I think the rice crispies got to me.

My Bed

2011-11-01T19:10:00.004-06:00

Sorry for the unedited pictures. Jeremy's computer grew up in the Great Depression.

Not that I am not EXTREMELY grateful that I have it!

Anyway...

I love my bed. It's a lovely bed, and it does bed things, like let me sleep in it. It's great. I don't think it could be any better than it is, even if I had just bought it new yesterday. Nothing says love like wear and tear.

Jeremy loves our bed too. It's a magical bed. Jeremy can fall asleep in it in 30 seconds flat (no joke...although that could be due to the fact that he wakes up at 4 AM and works 10-hour days...maybe...).

The problem is that Jeremy is a snuggler.

And as I have said many many many many many times before, I, unfortunately, am not.

If I unravel myself like I am wont to do I run the risk of giving Jeremy he wrong idea. He thinks any other position than a fetal one is an indication that I want to snuggle.

Me no likey snuggles.

Personally, I think that Jeremy snuggles at every chance because he knows I'll curl up in a ball on the edge of the bed, giving him the opportunity to take over the whole sleeping space.

I'm on to him.

I'm gonna start wearing porcupine pelts as pajamas so I can sleep how I like.

In the middle of the bed.

Losing It

2011-10-28T16:53:00.003-06:00

These last few days have been trying to my soul.

My nerves are raw.

And I've discovered I've had a difficult time articulating my anxieties.

Yesterday, I expressed myself by eating a whole bunch of fried chicken, burritos, and chocolate.

Today, I repeated yesterday, and found myself disappointed (not to mention sick).

I spoke again to my friends half-way around the world.

I'd always thought a trip to India would be fantastically fantastic, but now I think I would be haunted by the 8 hours of customer service I have endured (I had to call back today because the recovery disks didn't work, the new hard drive didn't work, the recovery disks didn't work on the hard drive, and the computer kept coming up with new colors of vertical lines).

And I found myself thinking, "OOOO, just give me the chance and I'll rip you a new one! Make your ears burn as my fiery words slide down your ear canal and liquefy your brain, and make your eyes shrivel into little charred raisins, that I will put in my bran cereal and eat for breakfast, but ONLY if I start liking raisins between now and then, which I probably won't, in which case I will throw them out into my yard for the crows to consume, and they will eat them, regurgitate them for their young, and then their babies will defecate your raisiny eyeballs in their nest and STEP ON THEM."

Yeah, I think I've reached a new low.

So, while I was enduring another hour of elevator music, I was trying to think of something exciting to say to my new technician. Something that would shake him to his very core if he made me do one more of those horribly stupid "steps." (They aren't "steps." Steps indicate that you are moving forward, or backward, or in extreme cases, falling down. These "steps" did NOTHING. At least falling down would have been exciting. I mean, the computer finally exploding would have been a great way to void my warranty.)

After realizing that I had nothing at all to shoot at the poor fellow, I realized that I apparently need to read some more books.

(It's at times like these that I really wish I could upload some drawing of this conundrum into Jeremy's computer, but I'm afraid if I add one more thing to this poor computer's hard drive, it will explode. All the Bubble Shooter I have been playing as therapy has brought this poor computer to the brink...)

Years ago, I would have come up with something witty and scathing.

Today, all I could come up with was, "poopface."

And not even "You're a poopface." Just, "poopface."

Bleh...I think Krishna (no, not the same Krishna...must be a very popular name. Like John or Mary. Or poopface.) understood I was going to actually fly to India and smear his shirt with something foul, like...poop...and side stepped any potential "steps," and ordered a return to the factory.

Halle-freaking-lujah.

"Seven to nine days turn around time!" Krishna chirped.

He then began asking me about the weather here in Utah, and if there was snow, and if I had planned my weekend, and gee, was that a baby he heard in the background, blah blah blah. I think it must be their policy to distract their pre-postal customers with extreme politeness.

I could like Krishna. I could. Maybe. Maybe if I don't ever have to call customer service again.

Tomato, Tahmhato...

2011-10-26T14:06:00.005-06:00

*Note: I am SO not making fun of these people. They are super awesome, and I wouldn't last one day in their position.

Computers stink.

Did you know?

A few days ago, my computer turned off randomly. I was like, "What the hay?" and rebooted.

Then, it did it again, and I was like, "WHAT THE HAY!?!" and rebooted.

Then I remembered that long tradition of actually cleaning your computer.

Gee...

So, I ran my virus thing, and thought, "Okay, now everything will be better."

The virus thingy said, "Hi, now that we have detected and removed valuable software, er...I mean infected files, let's do a boot-time scan."

"Okay," I said.

*click click*

Boottime scan: IN-FECTED FiLeS, KILL!

*REBOOT*

I sat expectantly...

And my computer decided that it would be fun to show me static and vertical lines.

I wasn't pleased.

I tried to fix it myself, and that didn't work.

So, next best thing: Call Dad.

(This whole time I had Chris' voice chanting in my head, "DON'T BUY HP! DON'T BUY HP!" *sniff*)

"DAD! HELP ME!" I cried (well, not really, but that's what I was thinking in my head.).

Dad's help boiled down to calling up Costco and chewing them out.

I'm not a chew-er-out-er.

So, I did the next best thing: Call Jeremy.

Jeremy, knee deep in other people's problems, had no advice to offer except, "Call HP."

I squirmed and threw a mental tantrum on my mental floor.

"But, I don't waaaaannnnnttt to!" I screamed (not really...I said something like, "But I don't have their nuuummmmmbbbberrrrr!")

He had to go, so I had to do something else: Look for HP's number.

It was too easy to find. No more mental tantrums. I hate it when I can't have mental tantrums.

So, I called HP.

*ring ring* "Welcome to HP! What would you like to do?"

"Uh...Tech Support?"

"Okay, you said, "Tech Support?" Would you like to make that a statement?"

"Tech Support." I stated flatly.

"Alright, we will transfer you to our next available technician."

*Obligatory elevator music*

Waiting....

*Ring ring*

"Hello," a young, obviously Russian, woman answered. "My name is Payenka, can I have youhr birthday, phone nhumber, social security nhumber, address, licience nuhmber, visa nuhmber, youhr weight, height, and your favorite cohlor please?"

"Uh...Okay.."

After the pleasantries were taken care of we got down to business.

Mostly it seemed like she wanted me to keep turning on and off my computer.

"Dude," I felt like saying. "You think I haven't tried that a whole bunch of times?"

After that didn't work, she had me do a few rain dances, gregorian chants, and some Tai Bo.

"Okay," she finally said. "It loohks like it's not youhr hard drhive, and muhst be something ehlse..."

"Finally, we're getting somewhere..." I grumbled to myself.

"Hmmm...."she replied sagely. "Let me put youh on hold for a mohment...."

Waiting....More obligatory elevator music.

"Dah-Rah? Youh still there?"

"Yes," I replied, trying to keep my head from imploding.

"Hokay, I cahn't heelp you anymhore, my compu-ter is dohwn, so youh wihll nheed to cahll bahck in 1 or 2 hours, and tahlk to another technicee-an. So, tell them what we have dohne, and tell them we had two steeps remaining, and we will send you a graphics cahrd, and if that dohesn't wohrk, we wihll take youhr machine, fihx it freeh of cohst, and then sheep hit bahckh toh youhrh doorstehp-hhhhh."

It all sounded so easy and pleasant.

"Okay," I replied, deflating a little. "Thank you so much."

"It wahs nice tah-king to you, Dah-Rah,"

Jeremy came home about this time, and tried to make his way through the jello-like atmosphere I had created around myself and the dead computer.

"DON'T PIERCE THE MOURNING BUBBLE!" I screamed, but all he could hear was, "Woh woh woh woh woh woh!" because of said jello-atmosphere.

Suddenly the one to two hours was up, and I called HP back.

*ring ring*

"Hello, welcome to HP! This is a totally different menu from the last one you used! Tell me what you would like to do."

"Tech Support..." I wept into the phone.

"Okay, you Tech Support, is that right?"

"Yeeeesss..."

"Our next available technician will be right with you."

*different, yet slightly more aggravating elevator music*

*ring ring*

"Hello," a young, obviously Indian man answered. "My name is Punpoiepoigpoiqpoieurngiopo, can you give me your name, social security number, size of shoe, pants, shirt, the last known location of your cat, and all the names of family members you can remember on your father's mother's uncle's first wife's farm hand's bible dictionary?"

"Wha-???"

"*garbling something unintelligible* house on fire *garble garble* voodoo babies *garble garble* what seems to be the problem?"

I heaved a large sigh, and started into it, explaining all that Payenka and I had done.

Punpoiepoigpoiqpoieurngiopo wasn't interested in what we had done, since there was no "case file," presumably because her computer was down at the time, and she couldn't make one.

So, Punpoie had me turn the computer on and off and on and off, and I kept doing it wondering why I had to persist in this stupidity.

When that didn't work he switched gears and had me open the tower.

Oooooo...

He had me unplug this, and unplug that, replug everything, turn on the computer, and when that didn't work, do it all over again, but this time switching the wires, and patting my head and rubbing my belly while I walked on a tight rope, and tried to touch my nose with my tongue, all while simultaneously trying to put my elbow in my ear.

"Sorry, Punpoie, I'm still getting static and vertical lines..."

"Hmmm..." he said sagely. "Let's try doing a system recovery."

"Okay..."

So, system recovery began.

Punpoie asked, after it had started,

"How much time does it say?"

All the screen said was, "Stop hurting me...let me die in peace..."

I didn't think Punpoie would go for that, so I said,

"It just says, 'Please wait...'"

"Okay, this could take up to an hour...let me go talk to my supervisor..."

I waited, and watched my screen. All of the sudden the estimated time popped up.

"PUNPOIE!" I yelled.

I could hear him scrambling to pick up the phone, and he yelled back,

"WHAT WHAT!!?!?!?!?"

"IT SAYS 23 minutes, and 3% is done!"

"...is that all?"

I felt sheepish.

"Well, yeah..."

"I'm going to talk to my supervisor...I'll be back."

I sat watching the time and percentage move.

Punpoie came back a few minutes later.

"Dara (yes, he did pronounce it correctly, and it was made clear to me I was born in the wrong continent), what is the time?"

I looked at the screen.

"It says 11 minutes.."

"No, I mean..."

"Oh, it says, 55%..."

"No, I mean what is the time?"

"Well, NOW it says 10 minutes..."

"*SIGH* NO, I mean what is..."

"NOW it says 58%..."

I was wondering why he wasn't getting it. I mean, I was pretty clear. But it was also obvious that he was about to start banging the phone on his desk if I didn't stop whatever wrong thing it was I was doing.

Then it suddenly dawned on me.

"Oh...you mean, what time is it?"

He breathed a huge sigh of relief.

"YES."

"Oh, it's seven."

He waited.

"...In the evening?" Came his tentative reply.

"Oh, yeah." I left out the "doy" that almost sprang to my lips.

"What time zone?"

He then started saying this:

"GARBLE GARBLE GARBLE garble GaRbLe garble MONEY garBlE garble COST."

"Whoa... could you say that again, I am very confused..." Truth was, I was about to cry.

"Okay, I will say it very slowly... G A R B L E G A R B LE G A R B L E g a r b l e G..."

I closed my eyes, to concentrate better, and Lily started screaming at that moment, and Punpoie said,

"Would you like to call back at a later time? It sounds like you are busy."

"NO! er..I mean, no, that's okay ha ha ha!" I couldn't bear the thought of doing this all over again, and being transfer ed to somebody else, who, in all likelihood, lived in the Congo, or worse, New York.

Our conversation went up from there, I think mostly because he was about to hand me of to some other poor sucker.

"Dara, I am going to transfer you to my supervisor, Krishna. Have a nice day."

Krishna then answered the phone, and set me up with recovery disks since nothing else was working, but not before we had to verbally re-live the last four hours, just to make sure.

Personally, by the end of this whole thing, I wanted to throw my computer in the trash and just start all over.

But, I will say, kudos to me and to Payenka and Punpoie and Krishna for not losing our tempers with each other.

And good for them for learning another language.

From now on, I'm going to be better, and I'm going to learn a language.

The language of "Listen to Chris from now on and NEVER EVER EVER buy an HP."

What I Believe

2011-10-24T16:34:00.002-06:00

What a cutie patootie!

A few weeks ago, I was reading on LDS.org. I was casually browsing the handbook of instructions (I do this occasionally when I feel like people are breaking rules...).

I came across a section about the internet, and it said something to the effect that if you are on the internet, gladly share your beliefs.

I filed that away for another time, and kept looking for the dirt I needed on people, er...uh, I mean, clarification on church policy.

*cough cough*

Then we had conference, and I heard the messengers of God speak (namely Elder L. Tom Perry, who spoke about sharing our testimonies of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ) and I filed away some more inspiration, and kept plodding forward.

THEN, a few days ago, I read this in 2 Corinthians 4:

"We having the same spirit of faith, according as it is written, I believed, and therefore have I spoken; we also believe, and therefore speak;"

More filing was done, this time with a little bit of guilt, and I practically tripped over this and hurt myself:

"For I will forgive you of your sins with this commandment—that you remain steadfast in your minds in solemnity and the spirit of prayer, in bearing testimony to all the world of those things which are communicated unto you."

So...This is what I believe.

I believe that the gospel of Jesus Christ was restored by Joseph Smith.

I believe that the Book of Mormon is the Word of God, and was given to us as a second witness (the bible being the first) of Jesus Christ.

I believe that we receive modern-day revelation from a prophet of God, and he speaks the will of a loving Heavenly Father.

I believe that God loves me, and made me unique, and that I am eternally important to Him, as his child.

And you are too.

And I don't just believe.

I know these things are true.

I have tested them out for myself.

I have felt the presence of angels.

I have asked God to know if the Book of Mormon is true.

I have asked if Joseph Smith is a prophet.

I have gained a testimony of my Savior, Jesus Christ, and know that he suffered and died for me, and for all mankind, because he loves us, so very much.

I know that if I keep a few, simple rules that God has set down, that I can, through the atonement of Jesus Christ, return to my Heavenly Father, and live with him, and my family, forever.

This is my testimony.

I don't know everything, and I have so, so much to learn. But I know that God is still a God of miracles, and he has worked miracles in my life, and he will work them in your life, if you have faith.

I don't know all the mysteries of God, but I know a little, and it's not how much you know (though it is important that you continue to study and seek knowledge), but how you act on what you know.

And I know God will bless me with knowledge as I seek it.

What do you believe?

Eat To Live, Not Live To Eat

2011-10-21T16:07:00.004-06:00

...because we should ALL be comfortable in our own skins!

Anyway...

A few day ago, I said to Jeremy,

"I think homeschooling is going to make me skinny...I'm too busy to eat."

I don't remember his response.

Probably because my brain was all muddled from lack of calories.

Great for me! Bad for baby...Last year when I was losing weight, Jeremy would joke that my milk turned powdered (TMI, yes, but funny as heck! You can't tell me you didn't laugh just a leetle...) and he'd make a "PFFF!" noise when we would talk about it...*sigh* I love that silly man....

So, instead of watching what I am eating, I'm not watching what I'm eating, and at about 3 PM every day, I'm wandering through the kitchen wondering why the hay I'm so hungry.

I'm trying to be better. No powdered milk for baby. I actually have to tell myself, "It's okay to eat that vegetable soup, but you should probably add some bread for stamina."

So, health is on my mind much of the time (probably because I seem to keep having the same cold or cough over and over and over and over...yes, yes, yes, Mom, I AM taking vitamin D).

So, it piqued my interest when I was reading the news yesterday about this guy. To sum up, in case you don't want to read his entire blog (no, I didn't read the whole thing yesterday afternoon and sit back in mixed horror and delight at what this man is trying to accomplish...), he basically went from being totally ripped to totally fat in five months. On purpose. He wanted to know what it was like, and hopes to inspire people on his journey to fit again.

At first I was like, WHOA! Why would somebody eat an entire buck of Kentucky Fried Chicken (drooool) JUST to prove a point (Drew has challenges every week, and one was to eat an entire bucket of deep fried chicken, and all of them are specifically designed to make him gain weight)??

It's brilliant if you think about it (the idea of experiencing something that troubles many of us, ie. weight issues, not the eating of a whole bucket of deep-fried death...although...that sounds pretty good right now...and, really, my ethics tell me that I don't need to do drugs to understand what they will do to my body. There are enough billboards around here with people on them with severe meth-face that there is no guess work on my part, but I digress...).

I mean, now he'll actually be able to empathize with people, and he's inspiring people all over the place.

But... (there is always a but)

I thought, "Gee, I bet God isn't too happy with what he is doing to his body...I mean, a WHOLE bucket of KFC? Eleven corn dogs? Fifty chicken nuggets????" And I wagged my finger at him and said, "Shame, shame, shame on what you do! Your body is a TEMPLE, man!"

But...(See? There is always a but...)

Then I thought, "Gee, I bet God isn't too happy with what I have done and am doing to my body." And visions of chocolate binges and unrestrained pringle consumption danced in my head (Drew talks about pringles in his blog...it was all so oddly familiar...).

It's not so fun when you realize you're doing something that's a no-no.

It's a challenge to turn food into a tool, not entertainment (or comfort). I can't tell you how many times I have wandered around my kitchen in panic looking for a quick fix (NO, I am NOT talking about last night when I resorted to eating white baking chips, peanuts, and some questionable ice cream....).

Our recent problem at our home has been eating out all the time. Yes, it's convenient, yes, it's easier, but man...it's a total blow to the bank account and the waist line.

And besides...there is only so much Del Taco or Panda Express you can eat before it all starts to blend together in one big ol' mass of beans or rice.

And I could just do that at home.

For cheaper.

And it's healthier.

So, I'm going to cheer Drew on, but only for the SECOND half of this challenge. It will be fun to see him get healthy again.

I mean, I almost gagged just reading about the chicken nugget challenge, and I LOVE chicken nuggets.

LOVE.

Tuna-Barbie Melt

2011-10-18T17:41:00.004-06:00

Years ago, I got a Barbie for my birthday.

Not just any Barbie...

It was a Peaches and Cream Barbie.

She was just lovely.

Until, that is, David threw her up in a tree and her face melted.

I wasn't too pleased.

Barbies were a rare commodity in our house (save the Michael Jackson Barbie we inherited from our neighbors, which was quickly decapitated, and squeals reigned as we discovered that he had, not a wiggly piece of plastic [if you've decapitated a barbie, you know what I am talking about...I've personally done many], but a squid-like cone thingy, and I don't think that Michael ever got his head back. He was far too awesome without one.), so I was justly mortified when David threw her up into the tree and watched in horror as her pretty face melted away in the sunny So. Cal. heat.

I guess there are worse ways to die.

Well.

Maybe not.

I mean, it took several weeks for her face to disappear, and no amount of shaking the tree made any difference.

I think I may have complained to Mom or Dad, but I think Barbies-Up-Trees problems fell to the bottom of the list of important things-to-stop-my-monster-children-from-doing Mom had.

I don't know if Dad had a list.

If he had one, it would probably look like this:

1. Write something awesome about Lord of the Rings.

2. Publish something awesome I wrote about Lord of the Rings.

3. Play "Rogue."

4. Read Lord of the Rings.

5. Swim in the pool in my barely-there ice cube-blue swim trunks, and scare my children.

6. Dry off, and secretly wish I had a Lord of the Rings towel.

I totally forgot the whole point of this blog.

Oh well.

Something about being picked on...or something.

P.S. I just clicked spell check, and it said "No Misspellings Found." That's like getting an A+++ in Bloggerness!

The Blue Chair

2011-10-14T00:15:00.004-06:00

Once upon a time, Mom and Dad bought two chairs.

Dad's was a leather recliner, that the cats tore to shreds, and made clickity-clackity noises when you jet-blasted it into recline mode.

Mom's was a blue corduroy that summed up Mom's soul:

Soft, comfortable, and moody-blue.

Not that Mom is moody.

But if you close your eyes and think of Mom, she has a blue glow, like her soul is of blue hue. Like she's floating in a moody-blue sky. Bluedy-blue.

I loved that chair.

Sitting in it was like getting a mommy hug.

And I don't know about you, but I don't get enough Mom hugs.

(Dad doesn't hug. He makes clickity-clackity noises when his daughters turn on the sentiment and jet-blast his man-den solitude with moody-ness.)

I remember playing hide-and-seek one day with Emily, and I ran into Mom's room, frantically looking for a place to hide, and Mom tucked me under the The Blue Chair.

Emily never found me. I was all safe under the Blue Chair. Mom was smug. I was smug.

Best hiding place ever (although, the dryer was a close second. But the dryer didn't smell like Mom....and it didn't take any joy in our hide-and-seek games...).

I don't know how I got so lucky, but I have the Blue Chair.

M I N E.

My own little piece of Mom.

Probably literally.

In all the years that thing has exisited, I don't think its had a bath.

I was rocking away in it with Eden the other day, and I looked down the crevices of the Blue Chair. It was pretty scary.

I should probably clean it out. Especially since Lily eats whatever she finds, and asks questions later (like today when she picked up a Luau Barbeque potato chip off the floor and popped it in her mouth, only to spit it out and make a "kkkkkkkkhhhhhh!" sound. Yeah, I know how you feel, Lily...I had the same reaction, and so did Jeremy, apparently, since he "accidentally" scattered them on the kitchen floor...).

So there you have it.

A little piece of Dandelion history for you.

Just in case you wanted to know.

Progress

2011-10-10T18:21:00.004-06:00

We've all been trucking along over here at the dandelion patch…

Can I just tell you, I love home schooling?

No, that wasn't a sarcastic tone you heard.

Besides bonding with my eldest Dandeling, I’m learning lots of stuff. We extensively studied the process of mummification last week. It went something like this:

Me: “Okay, so the Egyptian priests would shove a stick up the person’s nose, and then yank the brain out.”

Dandelings: *GASP* “Why???”

Me: “Because they thought that the brain was useless. Anyway…So, then they would pull the organs out, and put them in canopic jars, except for the heart, which they would wrap up in linen and then put back into the chest cavity…”

Dandelings: *GASP* “WHY???”

Me: “So that Osiris could measure the person and see if they were good or not based on their heart. If they were good, they went to heaven, if they were bad, some giant dog would eat them…So, then they would wash the body, fill the body with resin, wrap it up, wait fourty days, and then do it all over again…”

This produced a slew of mummy pictures and monuments to King Tut.

It’s fun. We finished off the week by making paper bag owls and owl cookies (nothing to do with mummies, but I had to end with something at least remotely normal…although, stuffing the owls had a sort of ethereal feeling associated with it, and I wondered how they would fair with Osiris…).

I’m constantly amazed at how easy everything is for Josh (despite my above illustration). I probably wouldn't like home schooling so much if it wasn't.

And I’m learning how much I don’t know.

Like the other day, after getting some interesting produce from Bountiful Baskets.

I got this long, purple thing in my “Asian pack.”

So I Binged “exciting Asian vegetables” (which, on second thought, don’t search that. It might produce some super “exciting“ results that you may not enjoy…).

Me: “Uh…OH! Here we go… it’s an aubergine. Man, this whole time I thought it was an eggplant.”

Jeremy: *silence*

Me: “I wonder what an aubergine is…*typity typity* …Oh…it’s an eggplant.”

Jeremy: “…huh?”

Me: “Nothing…let’s just chop it up and throw it on the pizza, under the cheese, that way the kids won’t notice.”

It almost worked. Eva started picking them off her pizza, exclaiming that she didn't like mushrooms.

Me: “Eva, it’s NOT a mushroom…”

Eva: “What is it?” *dubious look*

Me: “It’s not a mushroom….just eat it.”
Good thing for me, aubergineggplanties don’t taste like anything, so they just turned into sauce-flavored chunky bits.

Nothing like eggplant to fool the picky eaters.

They’re all going to end up looking like this guy:

I think I’ll name him Aubergine (he's a skeleton, in case you couldn't tell..he will bring a joy into your life that only Ben could tell you about...).

*For all you crafty crafters out there, I have started contributing to this blog. I‘ll post my Aubergine tutorial there! You can also find my mummy tutorial too (no, I didn't actually mummify something, although, I might be tempted to mummify my cat when she passes on. I love that cat.).*

Presents

2011-10-03T16:53:00.002-06:00

So, last night I was thinking about my blog, and what I was going to post today, and it was totally awesome!

And between the hours of midnight and right now, I totally forgot what it was.

But know it was awesome.

Because awesome is what you deserve.

What sparked the idea was Pepper's undying love for Jeremy.

Every morning, when Jeremy goes into the garage to put his shoes on, Pepper has left a tiny present in his shoe.

Usually it's styrofoam.

Jeremy, for some reason, doesn't find it cute.

I have to admit I am rather jealous of Pepper's obvious preference for Jeremy.

Or, at least, his shoes.

She doesn't snuggle with my shoes.

But, she does sit by my head and sniff my face when I am in The Blue Rocking Chair (I will have to blog about this chair...).

It's a special thing to receive presents from a cat.

Like the presents she left all over our floor Conference morning in the shape of poorly digested kitty kibble.

Yeah.

That was tasty.

I told Jeremy I would clean it up, and he could hold the baby.

"No, that's okay," he replied, rolling bits of kitty kibble into a wet wipe, and then drenching the carpet with windex.

"No, really, I'll do it," I insisted.

"No, Dara, it's okay, I don't mind..."

Really? Even avid cat lovers "mind" cleaning up kitty barf.

"Jeremy, take the baby."

"Wha--"

I then plopped Eden in his arms and went to work.

Sheesh...

Why did I do this?

Because Jeremy is the sort who will clean it until there is a hole in the carpet.

And that is pointless.

Because we all know that where once a kitty barfs, kitty barf stays.

Forever.

And that's why you should never eat off the carpet.

Say Hello, Wave Goodbye

2011-09-29T15:41:00.002-06:00

Again, this post has nothing to do with my drawing.

I just like my drawings.

A few years ago, Mom told me a story about one of her friends, Anita. She said that when they were talking on the phone, and Mom had to go, she would tell Anita, and Anita would reply, "Okay, goodbye," and hang up.

Mom said (if I remember correctly) that it threw her a little every time Anita did that.

No pleasantries, no drawn out sentiments.

Just, "Okay, goodbye," *click*

I liked that.

I frequently am at a loss when it comes to ending a phone conversation. It feels awkward.

"Well, I must be going..."

"Thank you so much for calling!"

"Oh, you're welcome."

"I'll see you on Sunday!"

"Okay, maybe we could sit together?"

"Sure, I'll have to check with the husband..."

"Well, let me know..."

"Sure! Well, gotta go..."

"Okay...

"I'll talk to you later."

"Alrighty..."

"...uh...goodbye."

"...bye..."

EEeeee...even now, that gives me jibblies.

At some point, my brain took over and decided to end things Anita Fashion.

I was on the phone with somebody and we chatted, and when our conversation came to a close, she said,

"Okay, well I have to go..."

"Okay, goodbye." *Click*

Before the phone went dead (on my end) the person made some noise, and didn't have a chance to say goodbye.

I think I surprised them.

So, in the future, if I do this to you, don't be offended. Think of it as a little gift.

I'm saving you from an awkward goodbye.

Okay?

Goodbye.

*Click*

Unhappy Ending

2011-09-26T15:50:00.004-06:00

This blog has nothing to do with yoga (although, I can do the crow pose, as demonstrated above. Not well, but I can do it. *patting self on back*)

But this blog has everything to do with a happy ending.

Or rather, unhappy endings.

In college, I took many (many) writing and literature courses.

I had one professor say that we Ah-Mer-uh-cuns have a very difficult time not having a happy ending.

I think I assimilated that idea and made it a part of my psyche, because I then wrote a short story for my Short Story class (shocker, yes, I know! Who'd a thought?).

I ended it with my protagonist going insane and being committed to an insane asylum.

It was FREAKING awesome.

My professor gave me back my paper and said, "Your story was okay, but I felt like it betrayed the reader," which I interpreted as, "I was totally drawn into your story, and when I didn't get my happy ending, I got mad, and gave you a B because I wanted it to end happy, because, dang it, I'm a happy-ending-loving Ah-Mer-uh-can."

I considered redoing it just to get a better grade, but decided against it (either because I am true to my art, or because I simply felt perverse satisfaction in dinging my professor, take your pick).

Fast forward many (many) years.

I was sitting at the kitchen table this morning doing school with Josh.

Eva had dragged her chair next to his, and looked at me with wide innocent eyes, and said,

"Mom, tell me a story about Eva and she's all alone."

"Okay, once upon a time, there was an Eva, and she was all alone..."

Eva's little mouth turned down in sympathy.

"...and she jumped on the trampoline alone..."

Her little eyes threatened to well up at this point.

"...and played with chalk all alone..."

She began curling up in a ball in her blanket on the chair...

"And she played and she played, and then decided to go inside where her family was, and they ate dinner and went on a walk, and they lived happily ever after, the end."

I gave her a big grin, and she smiled, but her eyes darkened.

She felt gyped. I think she would enjoyed it more if she had died in the story and there was lots of blood involved.

I guess she ain't a happy-ending-loving Ah-Mer-uh-can.

Makes me think of my professor once again.

And giggle a little inside...hehehe...

Of course, I have never been one to really super sugar coat anything (except cookies).

Like the other day when my kids asked me what happened to Pocahontas.

"Uh," I replied. "She went to England."

They waited.

"Annndddd....she got married."

Again, waiting.

"And then she caught a bug, and it went up her nose and into her blood stream, made her really sick and then she DIED."

*GASPS*

And they both followed me around all day asking why Pocahontas got sick and died.

It was awesome.

Reality is more fun than fiction.

Unless you are Charles Dickons.

There was a writer who knew when to kill of his characters.

Freaking awesome.

I should file to have another holiday put on the calendar: National Unhappy Ending Day. Or National Reality in Literature Day. Then we can all put on restrictive dresses, and pay homage to Charlotte Bronte, and sisters. And Poe. Yeah.

But I'd wear a feathered hat for Poe.

I think he'd like that.

Life's Not Fair

2011-09-19T13:07:00.004-06:00

I loaded the kiddies into the car this morning, and headed to the cemetery park.

I love the cemetery park...

I just wish it had more trees.

Anyway, I decided today that instead of keeping the kids pace (ie. slower than mud) I would have them keep pace with me (ie. slightly faster than mud. It's really sad when old people walk faster than you...but on the flip side, it probably makes them feel like Olympians to out-walk a young mommy with four satellites in tow. Anything I can do to make old people feel like Olympians!)

So, I was clipping along at a good pace. Joshua was attempting to race with the other exercisers, Lily and Eden were strapped snugly in the stroller, and Eva was next to me.

I should have known better.

I mean, I can always tell when my kids are in a growth spurt by the sheer amount of bruises they have on their bodies.

Eva is apparently in a growth spurt. She looks like an abused banana.

So, there we were, me walking quickly, Joshua loitering in the grass, and Eva running to keep up with me, and WHAM, down she goes like she'd been clothes-lined (but, only if the clothes line was actually chasing her down, and hitting her from behind).

The amount of crying was tantamount to her pain (real, or imagined).

Damages were assessed (she bit it pretty bad: two bloody knees--she insisted on wearing a dress this morning--and a battered ego), boo boos were kissed, and we continued.

We pick up the pace again, and five seconds later, WHAM, down she goes again in a pile of bloody limbs (her knees AND an elbow this time), crushed ego, and produced an abundant amount of weeping, whaling and gnashing of teeth. Lily, who is learning to be empathetic, pulled up her pants and showed Eva her old owie, with a very concerned look on her face. Eva just screamed at everybody to stop touching her and leave her alone.

"Eva," I said gently. "Why don't you sit on the grass for a few minutes..."

Between sobs she said, "No-o-o-o...I'll keep wa-a-a-lking..."

That's my girl. Don't let life get you down, even when it's not fair.

Rivalry

2011-09-13T10:06:00.004-06:00

When I was pregnant with Eva, my main concern was that Joshua would have a total meltdown and become a rotten toddler when she was born.

I was pleasantly surprised that he loved the little bologna loaf I gave birth to.

And it stayed that way.

Until she could move.

As soon as Joshua realized that Eva's new mobility meant that she could access his property, he took exception to his little sister, and I heard no end of it.

I STILL have heard no end of it.

It concerns me.

I have the vision in my head where my children are best friends with each other, and live in perfect harmony and love.

Yeah.

I don't know why I thought that would happen.

I have hereditarial-familial-contentionitis-rivalisis.

I remember all the kicking/hair-pulling/biting/scratching/name-calling shouting-matches that went on as a kid.

And when Mom and Dad finally decided to stop doing that, the damage had already been done.

Just kidding!

No, Mom and Dad rarely contended with each other (and we only knew about it after, since they kept it private), and were in general respectful and loving to each other, which is probably why the found their children's behavior so shocking and abominable (which, for the record, I learned from my siblings. Just sayin'...).

And why is it children fight?

It's the same reason adults fight. Adults are just more eloquent.

It's lack of self-control.

No, really, it is.

Anger is like a flowing river of death, oh I mean, emotion, and if you don't learn to dam it up (hee hee...), then you are not in control, and someone else is.

I read in a book, The Soft-Spoken Parent, that anger feels deceptively righteous. "They did this to ME! I, therefore, have a RIGHT to have INDIGNATION, and will exert this power liberally on all who cross my path today. Thank you very much."

For children, this is natural, since they haven't come to earth with built in self-control (or manners, for that matter).

And where do they learn to have self-control?

From their parents.

So, your kid is the way he is because of YOU.

Makes me kinda sad.

My kids are contentious because I have shown them the example.

"WHATDOYOUTHINKYOUAREDOING????"

"STOPTHATRIGHTNOWORYOUWILLGOINTIMEOUT!"

"DOYOUNEEDASPANK???"

Yeah.

Talk about no self-control.

I always admire little people who are mild and kind.

I think of what magical parents they must have.

*sigh*

BUT, there is always the opportunity to change before you die, and so I'm trying to make the most of the time I have left.

I may not survive long with the containment of my passionate emotions.

It's probably going to make my brain explode.

Jeremy will have my tombstone engraved thus:

"Here lies the dust of one Dara Card

Who's brain exploded from trying hard."

The Carbohydratato

2011-09-09T10:28:00.005-06:00

Eating well is difficult, especially if you limit yourself to tasteless foods like tofu.

Tofu is gross.

Just sayin'...

BUT, eating well can taste wonderful, too. You just gotta know how to mix it.

One of my favorite things in the world is a potato. Potatoes are super fantastic.

They have a super bad rap, too.

Potatoes are a starchy vegetable (like cooked carrots) and most diets will have you shun them like they are the plague: "Carbs! Oh the horror!"

But it's not the potato's fault (or the carrot's either). They are just misunderstood.

The real culprits are the cheese, sour cream, butter, bacon, and general lard we pile on top of the innocent potato.

If you can't live without those toppings (and I know I can't at times...butter...yum...), go with lower fat versions. I know some people "can tell" the difference, but if you don't know it's low fat, you probably can't taste it. I know I can't. But I've been eating low fat or fat free for quite some time, so I'm probably not a reliable source.

It's like Tara's little girl. She couldn't have dairy, so she didn't know what fabulous thing she was missing by not eating ice cream, and ate some abominable soy/tofu/bean curd/tree-hugger "ice cream" and genuinely enjoyed it. You, too, will eventually forget.

Unless you are stubborn.

But, what about all those carbohydrates??? Carbohydrates aren't bad, unless they come in overly processed forms, like, say, that brownie I ate yesterday. A potato carbohydrate is far better than a candy bar carbohydrate. The closer your food is to having just popped out of the ground, bush, or tree, the better. The more processed, the lesser the value.

So, happily eat your potatoes. Just be careful what you dump on them. A good alternative to circling the potato bar is to visit the chili pot. Pour some good, healthy chili on your potato, and sit back in satisfied wonder.

Or, try this recipe. It is by far my most favorite way to eat potatoes.

Roasted Potatoes adapted from Brown Eyed Baker

18 (four for me, four for Jeremy, four for Eva, four for Joshua, two for Lily) red potatoes, cut into wedges (I usually get about 8 wedges from one potato)

1 TBSP Extra Virgin Olive Oil

1/4 cup Italian bread crumbs (I use a little less than this)

2 TBSP Parmesan cheese

Heat the oven to 375.

Toss all ingredients together (I toss with the EVOO first, and then add the other ingredients). Spread on cookie sheet. Bake for 30-40 minutes, stirring half-way through.

These are way, WAY, WAY better than any french fry on earth. Yum!

People

2011-09-06T12:57:00.009-06:00

I'm a hermit (some would argue Hermit Crab, complete with claws *pinch pinch*).

I like being in my house (and going on walks around the cemetery park).

Never going anywhere (unless it involves spending money on things like food and wooden birds from Tai Pan Trading company).

But, from time to time, I have a need to be with People.

Even if it's just around Wal-Mart. I need to see that I'm not the only person on Earth, and after spending days on end with my littles, it really feels like I'm the only person left.

All by myself.

With four little people.

All alone...

With four little people.

Four.

Little.

People.

And I occasionally go out on a limb and visit with people I actually know.

Cue Steve's party.

I hadn't seen Steve for, like, 15 years. So I thought it was a good time to say "hi," especially since I don't recall ever having a conversation with him back in New Mexico, and I figured since we're friends on facebook, we should probably have at least one in-person conversation.

Check.

Thank you for the books, Steve. I will eventually run them over to the Library. And I will eventually read your book. I told Jeremy I wasn't sure I could do it by myself because it might be too scary, and he said he would read it with me...

...and I'm very sorry that my children pinned down your daughter on your lawn. It's how they show love.

Jeremy and I actually had friends once, and they would come and visit every quarter. Then they had to move to stupid Idaho. Idaho has sucked up so many of my friends.

So, I am extra glad that I have family around, because even if they get sucked up into Stupid Idaho, or some other Stupid State, they are still family, and we can almost always pick up where we have left off, usually mid-sentence.

Cue Emily and Ben.

It's always a little funny to me that Emily and I are friends. I mean, I spent the greater part of my younger life following her around trying to force myself on her, in the hopes that we would be super awesome sister-friends, and she spent the greater part of her younger life barricading her bedroom door.

But we had some good days.

Like the days she would pretend to be my horse and let me ride on her back.

It was awesome.

But I don't think she'd let me do that now.

So we watch episodes of Lost and eat homemade ice cream, and occasionally let our kids fight together in the playroom and throw lunch at each other.

I'm kind of envious of Ben and Emily sometimes. I miss living with Mom and Dad. All those endless episodes of Monk and Phase 10 games, where Mom would feign indifference and win every game, and Dad would freak out when people skipped him more than once a game.

Good times...

I've got some good People in my life.

I think I'm one of the lucky ones.

Introducing "Fit Fridays"!

2011-09-02T14:29:00.004-06:00

Okay, so I promised when I made my other blog, A Mighty Change, that I would update every day, and that made me feel OCD, so I deleted the blog and decided to just update here.

Yeah.

That really worked.

So, I decided to do Fit Fridays.

I've been thinking about it for a while, but my intense life of drawing stick people has made me very busy.

Emily inspired me to start again.

So, unless I start feeling super crazy, I am going to post a health blog every Friday, for your reading pleasure.

Starting today.

When I started out on this journey, I weighed 160 lbs (which ain't too shabby, since I topped out at about 175 a year and a half ago).

I now weigh 155.

What did I do, you ask?

Well, I got the flu, and that helped.

But I stopped counting calories.

Counting calories is awesome in some ways, but can also be a big black pit. To control what you put in your mouth is liberating, but to think of it too much can trigger food panic, and you end up binging.

I've done this a lot.

I managed to overcome the panic last year, and lost 30 lbs in six months, after having Lily. Getting pregnant again, and my overindulgence of sweet things undid most of my efforts.

I counted calories faithfully, and I managed to lose weight, at a good, slow pace.

Losing weight quickly isn't good (I hate to say it, but it's true). You tend to gain it all back just as quickly, and you might add a few pounds on the way (weigh? ha ha!).

div>Now, I have lost 5 lbs in a relatively short amount of time, and like I said, I stopped counting calories. The problem was I was constantly thinking about food: what I could eat, when I could eat, how much I could get away with, how many calories I burned exercising, even considered figuring out how many calories a chocolate chip had, calories, calories, calories. Made me feel a little like a crazy person.

So, I decided on a new tactic.

Eat lots and LOTS of fruit (and vegetables). Like two or three pieces for breakfast, with a splash of toast and a sprinkle of egg on the side, plus two big glasses of water. It's THE perfect breakfast. I use Smart Balance instead of butter, and just a little jam (not because it's bad for you, but because I just don't like lots of jam. Apple butter, on the other hand....). The egg is fried with PAM, and accessorized with a blob of ketchup. Yum yum.

I don't think eggs are evil. I think they are down right awesome, and tasty to boot. Plus, they give you some protein and some fat, which your body needs. The toast fills in the gaps (literally expands), and if you eat a banana, you get a boost of potassium energy from the fruit (other fruits do this as well, but bananas hold a special place in my heart...).

I usually eat this every day.

My kids love it, too, so that makes things easy.

I got super lucky with my kids, since they don't like anything fancy, and prefer whole foods to processed (there was actually a time I had to beg, plead with, or threaten my children so they would eat their mac 'n cheese).

Now, the rule is simple: Fill up your plate with 75 % fruits or veggies (preferably raw...I'll talk about starchy vegetables in the posts to come), and then throw in some reasonable grains, beans and/or meat. Think small here, people. Like the palm of your hand small. Those 32 oz. steaks may be tasty, but they are too much.

I feel satisfied.

Now, I still get those food crazies in the afternoon, and sometimes after dinner. I know it is super hard, but don't reach for a sweet, sugary snack. Eat some fruit. It will fill you more than a candy bar will, and will satisfy the sweets craving. I KNOW IT'S HARD! Heaven knows how many times I have eaten a piece of fruit and then chased it down with a whole bunch of chocolate, peanut butter, or mint chips. I haven't gone so far as to bite into a brick of almond bark, but there is always tomorrow, and that almond bark is sitting in my pantry.

If you feel like you are going to eat something you will regret later, and you have already eaten a piece of fruit, then eat a piece of bread. It may not be cake, but it will satisfy you. Or, if you like them (like I do), eat peanuts in the shell (you have to work for them, and won't eat as many as you would if they were in a jar), unsalted. I used to feel bad about them, until I found out that they aren't a nut, but a legume, so consume them freely. Yum yum.

So, this week, just try a day where you use your 75% rule: 3/4 of your plate with raw fruits and veggies, the rest lean meat, beans, or grains. This works for breakfast, lunch and dinner (if you eat a salad with any of these meals, go with a light dressing, or if you have to have your super awesome Hidden Valley Ranch dressing (like I do) be careful with how much you use. It's a dressing, not the main dish). Let me know how it goes!

P.S. Changing your approach to food is only half the battle. You need to get up and get moving! 20 minutes of exercise a day will do amazing things for your body. I try and walk a mile every day, and then I do some exercise DVDs (Jillian Michaels' 30-Day Shred, Yoga Meltdown; Denise Austin's Body Boot Camp, Shrink Your Female Fat Zones; Pilates with Ana Caban; and Power Yoga with Rodney Yi). Your body needs a mix-up: weights, biometric training, stretching, aerobics, and cardiovascular. The key is to find something you love, and do it!

Jeremy

2011-08-31T14:05:00.007-06:00

I feel really bad for Jeremy.

I'm not a snuggler.

After about 30 seconds, I start feeling claustrophobic and begin to bite.

Which is sad.

Jeremy, if he had his way, would be at the bottom of a giant pile of people (people he likes, that is), and would be completely content up to the very last breath, and would promptly die of happiness and asphyxiation, and I would be about a 75 yards away from said pile, behind a barbed wire fence, and a can of mace yelling, "SEE?!? See where your incessant need for affection has gotten you!?!?"

I know I have talked about this before. I'm bound to repeat myself, you see, especially since I am approaching 500 posts, and my subject matter is limited, and let's face it, motherhood turns your brain into mush (but a happy mush..like warm apple sauce...or fresh play dough...or baby poo...).

BUT, I am talking about this today, because Jeremy's birthday is tomorrow.

The big Three Three.

Okay, maybe it's not so big.

"You know," I quipped one day. "Jesus was in the middle of his ministry when he was your age."

I don't remember Jeremy's response (mother brain = mush. Did I mention that?), but if it's like any of the other responses Jeremy gives me, then it was probably a half-smile, side-ways glance, I'm-only-JUST-tolerating-you face.

He's so cute when he makes that face!

*sigh*

So, here's to Jeremy, my snuggly husband! Jeremy, if you can hear this, you are awesome. I was super tempted to call your phone today and hold it up to the radio that was playing When In Rome's "Promise" because I know how much you like awesome 80s music. Just like me. Match made in heaven.

My special gift for him (besides the box of chocolates I handpicked out at See's, making very sure that I picked ones I wouldn't be tempted to eat, and I succeeded, because Jeremy likes truffles, and I'll be frank, I think truffles are overrated, and the combination of fruit and chocolate violates the laws of nature, and I even picked out a coconut one, just to show that I was REALLY getting it for Jeremy, and I wasn't going to sneak any, because, it's not MY birthday, even though I like the smell of coconut, but the texture reminds me of spider legs) will be 20 minutes of snuggling.

...well...maybe 15.

Maybe I'll count to 60 slowly and call it good.

Or maybe I should just get him a copy of "How to hug a porcupine" (prequel to "How to spank a sloth" and "How to cuddle a crocodile." I'm eagerly awaiting "How to soothe a kinkajou," out Fall 2012!).

Happy Birthday, Jeremy! You're my bestest friend in the whole world!

FACT!

Sensitized

2011-08-28T13:23:00.005-06:00

A few days ago, something happened, and it basically ruined the rest of that afternoon, the rest of that day, the rest of that (this) weekend.

It wasn't one of those things that hits you right away. It gradually unravelled my life and my composure.

And the thought that entered my head was, "WHAT DID I DO WRONG??" followed by, "HOW ON EARTH AM I GOING TO FIX THIS??"

Few things trouble me as much as the concerns of parenthood.

"GET A THICKER SKIN!" some yell.

"GET OVER IT!"

"YOU'RE TOO SENSITIVE!"

And then they start telling you what you could do better.

Because, you know, they know your kids better than you do.

So, I spent a good deal of time this weekend wondering if I was too sensitive, and needed to buck up, as they say.

And I decided, no.

What is so great about being calloused?

And hard?

Stony?

Desensitized?

Are those virtues??

No. And the scriptures often warn against being hard-hearted.

And commend those meek ones, those sensitive ones.

Now, I'm not talking about being emo here, and letting your emotions get the better of you so you are a worthless mess (although, I did a lot of that).

What I am talking about, and want to accomplish, is being sensitized, and having the wisdom to know how to put it into action; to act with a heart full of sorrow, anguish, or absolute joy, and do it beautifully, gracefully.

There is so much freedom in this.

With a stone-cold approach, you are limited to indifference, or worse, contempt.

And with children, that is never okay.

With anybody, that is never okay.

God wants us to feel, and to feel deeply.

I've been called sensitive, and it's not generally said as a compliment.

But I say, open your heart, and feel. For the love of everything holy, feel, and feel deeply.

Love, and love deeply.

Be sensitive.

Because, only then, can God talk to you.

And I need Him to talk to me.

As my self-control speedily melted, I yearned for some experienced person to give me guidance, and direction, comfort, a thread to hold on to.

And I concluded that the only person who could give me the comfort of pure understanding was God.

Jeremy, looking for the same peace, turned to me and said, "Let's pray..."

And I was ashamed of myself. Too ashamed, and I couldn't. But I wanted to. And knew He was there, and would be when I could raise myself up enough to kneel.

So, please...Feel. Let God mold you, guide you, love you, and I'll be there, too, learning how to be better.

Sniffle, wipe, sniffle drip drip....

2011-08-24T13:18:00.006-06:00

Some days, you just need to curl up in a pile of warm, clean laundry...

I've needed to do that for the last 3 days.

I've been so sick, I forgot I wrote a blog on Monday. I KID YOU NOT.

Jeremy reminded me Monday night.

I clicked on my blog to look at my blog list (you know, so I could read you guys'es' blogs...Yes. I do read them. And, I would like to comment, if you could just change your comment settings...yeah, I'm talking to YOU! No more of this "Open ID" crap. Let's play nice and let everyone comment! Oh, and you private bloggers out there, I lost some of your blogs when my computer crashed, so if you could send me your links again...that would be nice...), and he said, "HEY! You didn't tell me you wrote a new blog!"

I sniffed loudly, wiped my nose on my yoga pants, rubbed my watery eyes, coughed in his face and said,

"That's because I forgot...*cough cough*"

He looked at me like I was crazy.

Which I am, so I should be used to the look by now.

I've been so sick I FORGOT I was sick.

One of my friends called me up to invite me to a Dessert Party (no idea what it is, but it sounds potentially life-changingly exciting), and I said,

"Yeah, that sounds like fund! What timbe is it at? Oh, wait...I'mb sick, but maybe I'll be bedder by Friday..."

I've seriously been sick 30 times this year. Maybe it's because I'm getting old. I don't know. I take enough vitamin D to start my own solar system (you know, me, at the center, shining brightly with some orbiting planetoids, meteors, and other space junk, with vitamin D oozing out my pores in a gloriously yellow glow...). Maybe our living space has mold.

Maybe I have AIDS from licking a sucker my kids dropped on a used bandaid.

Or maybe it's BECAUSE PEOPLE KEEP BRINGING THEIR SICK CHILDREN TO PRIMARY AND TURNING MY KIDS IN TO TYPHOID MARYS THAT KEEP GETTING ME SICK! EVERY OTHER FREAKING WEEK! GAAAHHHH....

...I suppose this wouldn't be a problem if my children didn't insist on licking...or sharing their boogers...with me...and my shirt....and everything else...

And can you imagine if they went to school??? Eeya...It'd be like a scene out of that movie I watched about Ebola where the people were all stretched out on stretchers (which seems reasonable...), and were patiently waiting for their brains to turn to mush...yeah...except it would just be me, with my littles running around cheering my death on so they can have free access to the monkey bread.

"...Ra ra ah ah ah Ma Ma goo goo gah...want your bad sickness..."

Bleh...

Childhood Memories

2011-08-22T16:18:00.004-06:00

I had a vivid imagination as a child.

I truly believed that the dolls I had were going to kill me in my sleep, so they lived on the top shelf of my closet and my stuffed animals would protect me, in the event that the dolls made it off that top shelf in my closet.

Did I mention that I kept them on the top shelf in my closet?

I blame my brothers for my fear of dolls.

They exposed me to one too many horror flicks as a kid.

And "Chucky" was just wrong.

My neighbor friends fueled the fire by telling me of "a friend" they had who got a Chucky doll for his birthday, and the kid threw it in the trash, but it somehow made it back into his house...

Yeah...

Needless to say, I felt safe with my stuffed animals. They not only were faithful companions to me, but proved their trustworthiness by marrying my barbie dolls (who weren't, oddly, part of the Dolly Death Cult).

So, imagine my horror when I watched all those commercials with the live little teddy bear running around snuggling blanket.

And don't get me started on Teddy Ruxpen.

Years pass...and I'm working as a page in a library. And my (adult) friend, Rachel, decides to buy a Furbie (she's an adult, did I tell you?). Well, if you didn't know, Furbies were designed to learn, so they would talk to other Furbies, and learn new words, etc.

Rachel thought it was awesome.

I was a little more than creeped out by it.

As Rachel left the breakroom one day, she put her furbie in her locker and walked out. I continued to eat my lunch, and chills ran down my spin as I heard noises coming from Rachel's locker. It said:

"Ooooo...I'm scared..."

It must have been reading my mind...evil little possessed stuffed animal...

So, now my littles have their own possessed stuffed animals, and while they love them, they creep me out, especially when they start talking at night, when they are alone, in the playroom, and I'm in the living room, in the dark, watching "Season of the Witch" or something like unto it (that was a total waste of time, by the way...stupid movie...It destroyed so many brain cells it took me five minutes to figure out how to use the remote when it was over, and Jeremy had to remind me what my name was)...

I frequently hear, "I love you!" or some odd, maniacal laughing.

...eeee....Jibblies...

Terrible Love

2011-08-20T12:08:00.004-06:00

Jeremy says this a lot when I am mad.

It inspired me.

I thought, "Gee, that would make a great poem!" and I could feel the Sendak Effect blossom, with pictures of "WE'LL EAT YOU UP, WE LOVE YOU SO!" dancing in my head.

I haven't written the poem yet, because everything I come up with sounds semi-abusive, and I'm afraid people would get the wrong idea ("I LOVE YOU WITH A TERRIBLE LOVE! WITH PUSH, AND BITE, AND KICK, AND SHOVE!").

I think Jeremy is my muse (can boys be muses??).

He would look great in a toga, and a wreath on his head...

And man-sandals...

And some sort of scroll in his hand, or maybe a weapon...

Yeah.

Julius Caesar, eat your heart out.

At Some Point...

2011-08-15T10:49:00.004-06:00

I have been thinking about my motivations for exercising.

"I want to be fit and healthy and live for 100 years!" I lie to myself.

No, I mostly want to look good.

In a bikini.

A bikini that I will never buy.

Because I don't wear bikinis.

At some point, I wonder if I will stop caring.

I SHOULD exercise because it makes me feel good (and it does), and will help me get to that 100 year mark.

But when my belly becomes a wrinkly mess, will I just lose my drive?

I hope not.

Wrinkles should be like scars. We should be proud of them.

So, when I am 99, I can look at my fellow oldians, and exclaim with pride, "Look at THIS wrinkle! Beat that depth and width, I dare ya!" And then we can beat each other with our canes and walkers as we fight over lounge chairs and jello cups at the rest home.

Right now wrinkles are just annoying. Like when I am trying to put on eyeliner and the pencil gets caught in my "smile lines" and ruins my attempts at looking younger than I am. Yeah.

It's a losing battle.

Because......we all end up looking like Yoda.

Invention

2011-08-09T16:28:00.004-06:00

At 6:21 AM exactly, I was awakened by a sound...

It went like:

"SLORPSLUPSLOOOORSLUUUUCKSLOORRRPPSLIPSLIPSLIPSLOOOPSLORRP."

Eden has found her hands.

Great.

Not that sucking her hands is a bad thing. I mean, I sucked my fingers until I was six-ish. Then my fingers got too long, and they started tasting funny, so that was the end of that. Along with sticking corners of blankets up my nose. But that's another story for another day....

Eden mostly just uses her hands to gag herself.

But she seems happy, so maybe I shouldn't be so down about it.

And I suppose it's another thing to keep her tiny self occupied, so I can run around and get a million things done sans the not-so-tiny-or-light floppy sack of flour that is Eden.

P.S. If you squeeze her, she will bark out a laugh! I did it like 10 times this morning, until she started looking a little overwhelmed. Performance anxiety, I suppose.

On second thought...

2011-08-08T18:06:00.003-06:00

...I think I'll just post my progress here, but not everyday. The more I thought about it, the more crazy it made me feel inside. Yeah...So...Stay tuned! :D For those of you who missed it:

When I was 21, I was in pretty good shape. I went to the gym several times a week, and was pretty active on top of that.

Living at home, I was fortunate to have wholesome meals cooked by my sweet mommy, and when I chose to eat an entire bag of Hershey's Treasures, my super-charged 21-year-old metabolism would zap those puppies away.

It was awesome!

Then I got married.

Between the day I got married, and the first day of the fall semester (about 60 days), I gained 15 lbs.

Being the typical newlyweds, we had the worst diet on earth, mainly consisting of sugar cereals and macaroni and cheese (on those off times when I didn't burn it...or everything else I cooked for that matter).

A year later, we moved into my parents' home. I was pregnant with my first child. In the first trimester, I lost those 15 lbs merely from having morning sickness.

After my baby was born, I struggled to lose any weight (I had gained back the 15lbs). I had heard that nursing would literally suck the fat off my body, and I waited in anticipation.

Nothing.

BUT, I kept up being active. My husband and I went on walks almost every night, and I did pilates about 3 days a week. I would also go to the gym intermittently.

Over the following four years, I had two more children, and during those years, my weight fluctuate, but mostly just increased.

Now, I was still active, doing pilates, walking, sometimes running, going to the gym, doing every Denise Austin workout I could find, yoga, weights...

I could still fit into my size 7 jeans without a problem.

I had gained 40 lbs since getting married. I went from a slight 135 to a not-so-thin 172. But, like I said, I could still wear my regular clothes.

After having my third baby, I decided to do something about my weight. I worked out and dieted, trying all sorts of diets. I even tried the 1/2 grapefruit and 3 stalks of celery diet, and I couldn't do it for one day.

Frankly, I like to eat, so not eating really wasn't an option.

I controlled my calories and was active.

I lost 30 lbs in six months.

It was hard.

REALLY, REALLY HARD. I was cranky ALL THE TIME.

But, I got down to 145 lbs.

And I felt really good!

I had lots of energy, and that was one of my major goals. I wanted to be able to play with my kids and not feel like I was going to die.

After I got down to 145, I got pregnant with my fourth baby.

And I decided that eating ice cream was awesome, so I ate a lot of it, and gained a TON of weight.

Now, in my opinion, there is NO SUCH THING as "baby weight." You only increase your calories during pregnancy during the second trimester (or is it third? My brain is fried...), and you only increase it by 300. That's like a piece of bread, an apple, an orange, and a carrot. Or, if you are into that kind of thing, 3 TBSP of butter. Or half a cup of sugar. Or 40 stalks of celery.

So, all that weight you gain because of your "cravings" is a bunch of bologna (sometimes literally).

Pregnancy is not a time to lose self-control.

But I did.

And now I am paying for it!

Yesterday, I was analyzing myself in the mirror (I do this a lot...and weigh myself a lot...).

I asked my husband, "Do I look fat?"

He looked at me and said, "No, you look great for having had four children."

I turned and looked at him full in the face and asked a question I knew I wouldn't like the answer to.

"How about if I HADN'T had any children?"

He smiled, knowing he was cornered, and replied,

"You look 'healthy.'"

"You're mean..."I faked cried, but it is true, and probably a nicer answer to my question than I deserved.

When I weighed 172 lbs almost two years ago, I was healthier than at my current 160 lbs.

Like I said before, I was really active. A lot of what I was carrying around was muscle (under a nice layer of fat).

NOW, it's just mostly fat.

There is a huge difference between 172 lbs of muscle and 160 lbs of fat.

And I can feel it.

Now, I am in a "healthy" range for my height. What bothers me is my waist-to-hip ratio.

For a regular, healthy person, the hips should be wider than the waist. That isn't the case with me. I carry my weight in my belly, and that is the worst place to have it. Belly fat will kill you. It's better to have your junk in your trunk, if you know what I mean.

I'm not so much hung up on being skinny as I am about having my body be in the fittest state for my body. There are actually skinny-fat people out there. What I mean is, that there are people who are thin, but they aren't healthy. And there are people who weigh more than the average Hollywood starlet, but are super fit. It's not about numbers.

I want my body to be in its own, specific, perfect state (or as close as I can get to it).

So, as I lay in bed last night, I tried to think of some sort of motivation to get myself back on track.

In the past, I thought of having a "cheat day" at the end of my goal, where I could eat all the bad stuff I wanted. But, that tended to back-fire--gaining all those lbs back is very disheartening. And I was having the wrong approach to this whole thing.

I mean, I want to be healthy for the rest of my life, and let's face it, that won't happen if I am eating cookie dough all the time.

Then I thought, how about a money incentive? $1 per pound? $5 per pound? $10???

Or, should virtue be it's own reward?

I decided that the best thing to do would be to be accountable to a bunch of people on the internet. Hee hee! I figured if I were to post every day for the next 30 days (or longer) what I am doing, and what I am eating, and (eeyyaaaa...) what I look like, it would be a greater push than anything else. I mean, when you have to admit to a million people that, yes, you just ate 7 cookies and chased it down with a cup of melted butter and a handful of sugar cubes, it makes you want to change.

Now, I'm not into diets that require me to only eat 389 calories a day. No, thank you. This is especially important since I am a nursing mother. I don't want to diminish my milk supply, and deprive my rolly polly baby.

I want to eat what I like that is good for me, like fruits and vegetables, grains, eggs, some meat...For this experiment, I'm going to try and keep my fat/sugar intake to only 10% of my caloric intake (ie. if I eat the average 2000 calories a day, I would only eat 200 in fats and sugars).

My approach is something like, "I am going to eat as much fruits and vegetables as possible, but when I feel grangey (my husband's word), I will fill in the gaps with bread, and throw in a smattering of eggs, salad dressing, and meat because I just really, really like them."

It is important to me that I am healthy for life, but it has been weighing on my mind that I need to do this so that my family is, too. Luckily for me, my husband is all for eating in a healthy fashion, and my kids, more often than not (unless there are brownies involved), tend towards whole foods. But I know they will go where I lead them. If I eat crap, they will eat crap. It's one thing to have my body on my conscience, but it's a whole different thing to have the health of my family on my head.

So, this blog is my way of tracking my journey to get healthy and fit, and stay that way.

My New Project!

2011-08-08T12:02:00.002-06:00

I've started a new blog, that is going to follow what I am doing for the next 30 (or so) days. There will be pictures, so readers beware! Ha ha ha!

http://30daypush.blogspot.com/2011/08/why-im-doing-this.html

Don't worry, I'll still be posting on this blog. I just needed another place to do it, because, let's face it, my other blog's posts aren't going to be that funny.

I am what I am

2011-08-05T13:56:00.003-06:00

I think everyone is too hard on themselves.

We always want what other people have, and belittle what is "us."

Well, today is the day to stop, and rejoice in what you are!

I mean, if everybody was, say, strawberry ice cream, we would all get bored pretty fast.

So, let's have some rockyroad, and some butter pecan, and some cookie dough, and some vanilla bean! Let's go crazy people!

I used to think that so many people I knew were "beautiful." But I was never "beautiful." But then I realized one day, that all those people I thought were attractive, smart, and awesome, were attractive, smart, and awesome in totally different ways from each other, and yet I could still say that about each and every one of them.

So, here's to loving our own quirks, and flaws, and our awesome-nesses, and our skills!

No more feeling perpetually bad about yourself!

(Although, I do have lingering guilt about spending so much time on the computer...and stealing Jenny Dexter's barbies when I was 9....

...and her barbie shoes...)

Jeremy and I were talking to Josh yesterday about how special each one of them kids are (whoa, brain glitch). We said, "There is only one Josh in the world. Others may have your name, but there is only one you. We don't get another one if you are gone."

I think we need to remember that about each other, and ourselves. We are not replaceable. We each have something the world wouldn't be the same without.

So, I proudly say to one and all, I am a big ol' gallon sized container of Moose Tracks, all full of chocolately-peanutbuttery-fudgey goodness. Some people may not like it, but that's okay. I think I'm tasty, and that's all that matters.

Bi-Polar

2011-08-03T15:35:00.003-06:00

So, I've made it to Level 3 of the 30-Day Shred. Look at me in my awesomeness! I mostly "progressed" because I was tired of levels 1 and 2. What can I say? I have the attention span of a gnat. Mostly when I do level 3, I stand and stare in utter disbelief at the TV while I try not to have a heart attack or stroke, or, in all likelihood, both.

I think I need to change my approach to life.

I've been trying to eat better...You know, lots of fruits and vegetables, drink lots of water, go with small amounts of meat a day, if any...And I feel really good, and in control of my life when I do. I feel happy...smug even. In the past, I've been able to maintain eating like that for months.

Nowadays, I do really, REALLY well, unless I go shopping, or to the movies, or explore my pantry for too long, or the outside fridge, or think too long about fried potatoes, or anything fried for that matter...

Jeremy had the brilliant idea to take the kids to see a movie yesterday afternoon (We watched Kung Fu Panda 2...Joshua spent the whole time yelling "OH YEAH!" while bouncing up and down on his bottom while the fuzzy creatures beat the tar out of each other. I felt like I had failed as a parent for bringing my tender little people to that film...Of course, Lily wasn't paying attention, but was alternately falling down the stairs and running up and down the aisles yelling "DA! DA! DA!" and Eva was mainly concerned with, "where'd the popcorn go?" and Eden just sat in her car seat snorting her indifference.)

Now, I have a weakness for popcorn, specifically Theater Popcorn.

"Would you like extra butter on your popcorn?" They ask.

"Just dip the entire bag in the stuff, please, and let it sit for a minute," is my reply.

I like it THAT much (I have a similar approach to mayonnaise at Subway..."Just keep going...yeah, a little more...keep going....")

Like, I would seriously lick it if it was dripping off my fingers, and running down my arms.

And I also have a weakness for candy, specifically any candy.

So, going to the movies was a total blow to my diet, er...I mean, lifestyle.

Before I knew what was happening, half the popcorn was gone, and I was frantically searching around my seat for all the lost pieces, and the two boxes of candy we bought.

It was really, really sad.

When we got home, to amend our wicked ways for filling them up with so much sodium, high fructose corn syrup, and empty-calories, we gave the kids some whole wheat bread, and threw them in bed.

I didn't eat anything, being too busy cleaning up (read: on the computer).

Jeremy came in from changing the cat's poop box, and immediately started pulling things out of the fridge (I swear, nothing dampens that man's appetite).

The wheat noodles didn't do it for me.

So, I decided I needed to eat an obscene amount of Otter Pops.

I think I'm bi-polar.

Or my stomach is, or something.

Today I made some machine-less ice cream, and then worked out.

I'm thinking I either found the ultimate compromise, or the universe it scheduled to implode any minute now...

"PUNCH!"

2011-07-28T12:44:00.007-06:00

"MOM! Can I see your muscle??"

That was Eva's innocent inquiry to see my (apparently) one and only muscle.

I obliged her and flexed my arm.

It made me tired.

Joshua swelled with son-ly pride, and said,

"You are strong! Are you stronger than Daddy?"

I seriously wondered for a minute if I was, and then replied, just in case I was wrong (after all, I will probably never really see how strong he is, since when we rough house, he won't play dirty...but, boy, do I...*Jeremy weeping and wailing, and me gnashing my teeth*),

"No, Daddy is stronger than me."

Josh thought for a second.

"So, he's so strong he could punch you down?"

He said "punch" like "PUNCH!" with lots of spit and extra umph-ing to the "CH" sound.

"Josh, Daddy has never hit me."

"NEVER???" He asked, unbelieving. I guess to my little man, hitting females is a matter of course to show who is boss. He doesn't seem to connect in his brain that sisters+hitting=massive amounts of timeout.

"Never."

I immediately felt a swelling of gratitude and love in my heart that my husband has never raised his hand to me in anger (or at all).

I feel like I live in a sugar cube sometimes, with how lucky and blessed I have been.

Makes me think of something I read once:

"When God handed out good lives, why did he give one to me?"

To be, or not to be...

2011-07-25T12:47:00.004-06:00

My computer died last night.

And I suppose, to be perfectly honest, it was murdered. It didn't commit suicide. But murder isn't nearly as funny...but it might be, if I draw it right.

Anyway, I was going through my now-deleted list of favorite blogs, and one of them (don't worry, it was somebody I only blogstalk..I don't actually know them) spit out a virus at me and it ate my software. I could actually hear it munching away (but, I suppose it could have been Jeremy, who was loudly munching away on a hot dog at the time...).

My screen went black.

My heart sank.

And Jeremy kept eating his hot dog, and said, in an anti-climactic way, "I'm gonna hop in the shower."

I sat with my computer in my lap, rocking back and forth, and consoling it's lifeless body,

"Shhh...it's going to be okay...shhhh...."

The computer replied by saying,

"Hello, I am dead. Please press any key to make it permanent."

I knew it was a trick question, so I didn't do anything.

"...Good job! Now I am still dead, but will give you the option to resurrect me, with slightly less (okay, A LOT less) information than you had on me before...."

"OOO! I pick that one!"

"Okay, all I need is some DVD-Rs..."

I then tried a whole bunch of CD-Rs and for some reason they didn't work.

"WHAT AM I DOING WRONG!?!?!?" I screamed, shoving multiple disks into any slot I could find.

"I DON'T WANT THOSE!" my computer screamed back, spiting out the useless CDs.

We glared at each other, and then I pushed the button on top of the monitor and walked toward the bathroom.

I could hear it protesting as I went down the hallway that it couldn't see, and that it was lonely.

Oh well...

Dad came over today and helped me get my computer back to near-normal condition.

I asked him, "So...how do I get the information off the back-up disks?"

"I don't know. Good luck."

Gee, thanks, Dad...

Lucky for you, I figured it out, otherwise, you might have found your car mysteriously covered in eggs...

Temper, Temper...

2011-07-23T19:49:00.004-06:00

I got angry today.

So, all rational conversation went out the window, and I produced a lot of slobbery "glarablu tthhbbppp grrrr snraggle pooooooop!"

I then went a bought a fish.

Which was a stupid thing to do because now I have another creature to take care of and make sure doesn't die.

I know it's not Mr. Fishie's fault, but I am bitter towards him for he is the embodiment of my anger-ness.

Which makes me think of deer.

We have stupid deer who ate my lettuce.

And apparently it's illegal to shoot deer where we live.

Maybe if I put Mr. Fishie out there, the deer will eat him, too...

So I went to look at my garden after I bought my hate-fish, and glowered at my produce.

My zucchini have attitude. Underneath my one healthy zucchini, I have two other wrinkly yellow ones that are giving me attitude.

Them, and the pygmy Roma tomatoes that are growing next to them.

And one of the plants I was faithfully watering for weeks turned out to be a weed.

Stupid weed.

Stupid deer.

Stupid fish.

Then I read some "Little women," and felt guilty, because I am not as nice as they are.

Or as good.

Stupid Little Women.

And that made me think of my friend, Steve, who wrote a book, and I haven't read it yet, or joined his Facebook fan club.

And the library doesn't have a copy.

Stupid library.

And Barnes and Nobel sells it for $20.

And that is stupid.

No offence to you, Steve. I am just offended that they charge so much. Nevermind that I spent $40 on Mr. Fishie and his house....

Books shouldn't cost that much. I mean, I got a "discard" Beatrix Potter board book from the library today for .50 cents!

You should sell your book for .50 cents, and I'd even buy two copies because cheap things should be bought in bulk. Except, then, I suppose you wouldn't make a living.

And then Jeremy thinks he's the spiky-haired stick figure I draw.

"DUDE!" I yell. "You are SOOOOO self-centered. This blog is about me! ME!"

*glaring*

AND THEN, I had tacos for lunch, and have indigestion.

Stupid tacos.

*glaring some more*

Pink Snakes and Unicorns

2011-07-20T12:31:00.006-06:00

I was eating lunch in the kitchen yesterday, and the conversation went something like this:

"Mom, can you show me a rattlesnake mouth?" Joshua asked.

"Okay," I replied. I quickly googled it...or maybe I binged it...whatever.

It pulled up the designated snake mouth, and also the hand of someone who gotten bitten by said mouth. It wasn't pretty. I then had to explain in layman's terms what had happened to the poor soul who got bitten, and by golly, that is why people should stay away from snakes. *Long, lingering stare at Joshua*

The pictures then spawned a conversation about other types of snakes, ultimately ending with the great Anaconda.

I had shown Josh a picture of one that ate an alligator and had subsquently exploded a few months back and it was still fresh in his memory.

"Are there anaconda in Utah?" Josh asked, fretfully.

"No," I replied. "There are no anaconda in Utah. They had some in Florida, but most of them are in Brazil."

Eva then ran up to me with wide eyes and an enthusiastic chirp.

"I WANT A PINK SNAKE!"

"Sorry, Eva...there are no pink snakes."

I immediately wanted one, too, and felt sad that there weren't any. I mean, wouldn't a pink snake be awesome?? What kind of world do we live in that doesn't have pink snakes??

Undaunted by her lack of pink snake-ness, Eva squeaked, "I want a unicorn!"

"You can't have one, Eva," Josh reprimanded her.

"Unicorns!" She squeaked again.

"Eva," Josh said in a stern voice. "There are no unicorns in Utah."

Again, sad feeling in my heart....

Someday, I will have a pink snake, a unicorn, and a dragon.

I will.

And I will take my pink snake with me while I alternately ride my unicorn and dragon.

And I will teach my unicorn to ride the dragon, so I can sit on both.

And my pink snake will curl up in my shirt, next to my belly to keep warm on our chilly flights on the stacked unicorn-dragon, but most of the time, I would hold him up so he could feel the wind in his face...

Awesome....

Do you ever wonder??

2011-07-19T10:33:00.003-06:00

Those pictures have nothing to do with my blog.

I just have had those images bouncing around my head and I had to get them out before I went totally crazy.

They do make me wonder, though...

Do you ever wonder if you are totally messed up?

I have been wondering that more and more lately.

Usually I go through life with this sort of, "I'm okay with me, and you should be too (with me, that is)" mentality, but as time drifts on, and I spend more time with people I really am starting to wonder.

Not that I am concerned what people think of me. I have almost gotten to the point where I really don't care. The only time I seem to care is when I am sitting in the company of people I don't know well, and that care evaporates as soon as I am no longer with them.

So, since I am a hermit, that only happens two or three times a year.

But, as I have popped out of my body and observed myself from time to time, I really wonder if I am super screwed up.

But if everyone else feels the same way, then maybe I'm not screwed up, I'm just normal.

I guess that's when the Spirit comes into play. I mean, if God thinks I'm okay, then what else matters, right?

Crunklie

2011-07-16T19:59:00.005-06:00

Chris invented a word years ago: Krickle. It's awesome. It perfectly describes how I feel about my children getting kidnapped.

So, I was very pleased when Eva invented Crunklie. It's a good, solid word. She used it to describe her wonky sandal a few days ago. And it perfectly describes my day today...

It was one of those days today...

I woke up.

And I really shouldn't have.

But, since I have little people I had to drag myself out of bed.

Blast those little people....

Not that they are bad.

But, when mama ain't happy...well, you know how it is...

It seems to me that instead of children freaking out and being total lunatics when mommy is a sorry-sack of a mess they should look at their mommy and have pity and compassion and be as quiet and tiny as possible.

But that isn't how it is.

They like to copy.

And, if they are being true to what they are imitating, man...I feel really bad for Jeremy.

I ended up slouched in my computer chair, head on the desk, with my arm trailing on the floor while Jeremy pleaded for me to help him put the kids in bed.

"I can't," I replied, slurping the rather impressive drool puddle back into my mouth. "I'm not here right now."

Only slightly amused, Jeremy asked, "Who's there, then?"

"I don't know," I moaned, wondering why he wasn't showering me with love and/or chocolate. "Beelzebub...or Legion, perhaps."

I then felt a tad sacrilegious, and attempted to be at least a 13% mom and help out...especially when the terrified Lily screams came wafting down the hallway.

Apparently the kids put Lily in the baby swing and were giving her the ride of her life, and Eva decided that everybody needed a bath via her very full water cup.

Josh went to his room, Eva went to her room, and Lily wandered, shaken (and wet), into the kitchen. I wrapped her in her blanket and held her.

She must have been really freaked out since she is 100% Daddy's girl. Mommy will only just do in a pinch.

We gathered our naughty brood together in the kitchen, commanded them to kneel, and Jeremy and I avoided eye contact when it was time to say prayer. Both of us felt evil. But my hesitation lasted longer than Jeremy's, and he was the one who had to shame-facedly address our Maker and apologize for being the crumbiest parents on earth, and then put in a shameless plug that "we all be good and obedient tomorrow."

Jeremy then got dressed and went to the temple, and I filled a bowl with an obscene amount of icecream and watched water marbling nail technics on Youtube.

Yeah...

If I get into heaven, it will be because of Jeremy.

But maybe Lily will put a good word in for me.

Girly

2011-07-14T13:21:00.006-06:00

So, I've been doing Jillian Michael's "30-Day Shred."

Yeah...what her shirt says...

It has made me think of what it means to be a girl.

Jillian puts on this tough-as-nails persona, and drives you through her workout like a...a...I don't know what, and you have as little chance of standing at the end of it as you would at the end of a landslide.

Anyway, that's not the point.

The point is, is that it has made me wonder.

Why is it that women want to be like men?

Men stink.

Men can't multi-task.

Men leave messes everywhere.

And we love them for it (except maybe for the last one...Oh, come on! You can't say you don't love snuggling up to your smelly, one-track minded man!), but why on earth would any woman want to be like a man?

Jillian is trying to be like a man, I think.

Which is sad, since she is a pretty girl, and underneath her rippling muscles is a little girl who just wants to curl up in a blanket with "Anne of Green Gables" and a big chocolate cupcake.

I think I know why she (and other women) try the manly-girl road.

I think it's because they want to be taken seriously.

I know that's why I do it sometimes.

If a man walks into a room and states something strongly, it's impassioned. If a woman does it, she's just emotional.

Of course, you have the occasional emotional man.

That's why I like Senator Boenher.

So, I've tried to change my ways.

God made me, and before he whipped everything up that made me, he pulled my elements out of a vast pool of intelligences, and I was a girl then.

And I'm a girl now.

And that's good.

Hello, I'm Dara, and I am a girl.

And my favorite color is pink.

I love "Anne of Green Gables."

And big chocolate cupcakes.

Grow Old Along With Me...

2011-07-12T15:44:00.006-06:00

Way back when, I was way too impatient to wait until July to get married, so I ~~demanded~~ politely requested that we move it to June (they say, you know, when you marry in June, you're a bride all your life...or some junk like that).

And, to top it all off, I thought it would be fan-diddly-tastic to have it two days before my birthday.

Yeah.

Brilliant.

So, needless to say (but I'm going to say it anyway, as always), it's been a challenge for ~~Jeremy~~ people to keep them straight.

But I'm not here to talk about that.

I'm here to talk about happy things.

Or, er...Happier things.

Thinking back over the last eight years, and really, the last thirty years, I have to say that things are pretty good.

I'm not saying perfect, because if they were, I wouldn't have anything to ~~gripe~~ ~~whine~~ blog about.

Some days are like chewing sand.

You know what I'm talking about...the days where you chew and chew and chew and your mouth is turned down, and your brow is furrowed, and your tongue is dry, and by golly, you really don't want to swallow, but you do, and you find out, gee, that was worse than I thought it would be, but when all that sand is gone, your teeth are probably really smooth.

Wow, that came out weird.

What I am trying to say is that all those rough experiences make us better people.

All my rough experiences have made me a better person.

And I am glad that I have someone like Jeremy to share it with.

Not every person can finish my sentences, read my mind, or make me hiccup...

Well...except Emily.

Who gave me this fantastic birthday card!

Fat As Butter

2011-07-06T13:51:00.007-06:00

Do you ever think about what it would be like if we had to chase down our food?

How much more satisfying it would be?

How much healthier we would be?

I was thinking about it last night (hence the drawing today) as I lay in my husband's arms and cried because those three candy bars and the two pieces of pie I ate didn't put up any sort of fight.

My good husband reassured me that I wasn't fat, and that I looked great.

My body disagrees.

Profoundly.

And proclaims my unfitness as it struggles to breath as I traipse up the stairs.

I have the opposite problem of the Tawny Scrawny Lion.

"Oh me, oh my I'm hungry, can't seem to get my fill...I'd be fat as a butterball...if you all would just stand still!"

Frankly, I would be glad if I had to catch my own food.

Makes me wish that candy bars had legs, for two reasons: One, I would have to chase them down, thus burning calories, and two, I wouldn't eat them because, really, if a candy bar had legs that would be highly disturbing.

I mean, would you eat a candy bar that had eight legs and spun a web? I don't think so.

So Sweet To Eat

2011-07-01T21:20:00.008-06:00

I don't know when it happened, but I became one of "those" moms...

You know, the mom who hides candy from their kids.

So they can eat it in peace.

Without having to hear this:

I wouldn't have made a very good witch who uses candy to lure children into their home. I just really don't like sharing my candy with little people who don't understand what it is to savor a piece of chocolate. Most of the time, they just smear it on their faces, the carpet, walls, clothes, me (although, I might just be desperate enough to lick it off myself)....

I was in the kitchen, and starting to get a little frantic.

I wanted to eat the only treat my house afforded: vanilla ice cream, with chocolate chips sprinkled on top, and an overly ripe banana, potentially strewn about the ice cream like so much tropical fruit shrapnel.

But I knew, KNEW, that as soon as I got that combination in a bowl the kids would smell 1) the sugar, and 2) my fear.

But, Fate, my friends, smiled upon me.

At that moment, Joshua walked into the kitchen, (perhaps his sugar receptors could sense the ensuing treat...).

"Josh, would you please go play in the playroom?" I asked in a sweet, but strained, tone.

He huffed.

"I don't want to!"

"Josh, if you aren't going to be obedient..."

"I DON'T WANT TO!" His sugar receptors screamed, sure now of my intentions to eat something sweet.

"Okay, fine, it's quiet time. Go to your room." Yay!

Ah...

Let me tell you, nothing tastes so good as when you are eating something and KNOW you purposefully aren't sharing.

I'm just sayin'.

Onions + anything/anybody = yuck, and Happy Anniversary to Us!

2011-06-28T14:48:00.008-06:00

Today is my anniversary!

Eight years...Seems like forever, but seems like only a moment.

I'm really hoping I look cute today...not that my cuteness or lack thereof is a deterrent. Most of the time, our home is a mini Serengeti, and I'm the frantically running gazelle, hopping over furniture to escape the voracious appetite of the male cheetah that is Jeremy (visions of me being dragged up a tree in Jeremy's mouth...). But that's probably more information than you wanted...

Anyway...

So, because I am so learned in the things of marriage, I thought I would give some tips and tricks of the trade of keeping your marriage fun and exciting!

1. Spank* your spouse hard, and often.

*Note: You can substitute spanking with biting if you aren't the spanking type.

2. If you are going to eat onions, make sure your spouse has eaten some, too (see above illustration).

3. Keep things interesting by kissing your spouse lustily, then run away, and lock yourself in the bathroom.

4. Make sure you have dates. Mom and Dad always had dates, and they've been married a gazillion years.

5. That's about it.

I'm excited. I'm getting two cake stands for my anniversary (it's the pottery anniversary). I gave Jeremy this:

I put Dove Bliss in the cup (yes, cheesy, I know, but fitting).

They said on the website that the symbol means "love" or something, but I bet it probably says, "I eat boogers." But there's a heart on it, so...

Anywho...

*wanders off*

NEVER done...

2011-06-23T15:40:00.004-06:00

I hate chores (Well...I should say that I dislike a mess, and I enjoy establishing order).

And I hate some chores more than others (no hidden message within this parenthesis).

My ultimate favorite chore to hate is laundry.

Laundry is NEVER done.

You wash a load, and then more clothes magically appear in the hamper (no, I am not pointing fingers...at my husband...or...yeah...).

You fold the laundry, and put it away, somehow managing to keep the hamper empty, and then, wait, no, you are WEARING more laundry at the end of the day.

(Just a note on folding: What's the point of folding children's clothes? Hmmm??? All they do is shuffle everything in their drawers, "looking" for something to wear, and end up tossing their clothes into a giant wardrobe salad.)

The other problem with laundry is that it immediately makes you aware of your homemaker sins.

For example...

As you sort through the giant pile of stuff, you realize that your son only has one (1) dirty underwear. That means your son only had one (1) bath in the two (2) weeks it took you to getting around to actually washing laundry, because you discovered that your seemingly endless pile of undies actually has a bottom.

In that very same pile you discover one pair of little girl undies, and one onsie, yet another indication that you have not washed your children.

The same pile has no rags to speak of, which means you didn't clean the bathroom, or any room with a flat, sprayable surface, for two weeks, and that would probably explain why your 18-month-old daughter keeps walking through the kitchen and stopping periodically to sit down and pick the unknowns off the bottom of her feet.

As you make your way down the pile of soiled-ness, you discover a toothbrush, a fork, an encyclopedia, and a layer of flattened bugs, that died from a) suffocation, b) being crushed by the sheer volume and weight of the laundry, or c) a combination of both, and immediately guilt rains down upon your sorry head as you realize you'll be paying through the nose for dentist visits, new cutlery, tutors, and eventually an exterminator.

Yeah.

Not my favorite chore.

Makes me wish that we all just wore brown paper bags and could just burn them at the end of the day.

I growed up

2011-06-21T16:13:00.004-06:00

We were walking out of Costco yesterday, our cart(s) full of children and bulk foods (can you beat $5 for a huge flat of strawberries? I think not...).

As we walked out past the customer service desk, I noticed the line of potential members (you know, I used to think you had to be special to be a Costco member. Like you had to work for a certain company or something to be able to buy 40-pound bags of Lays potato chips. Kind of like how I used to think that all dads who were in our church worked for the church like Dad did. Or like how if you moved to another state, you just traded houses with the person who's house you wanted.). A young couple stood in line, looking excited.

I knew how they felt.

Once you can buy a Costco membership, you have officially become an adult (you don't learn to stand in line in kindergarten for nothing. It's all planned out so that you can do it at Costco once you've reached the Adult Threshold).

I remember when Jeremy and I stood in that very same line years ago as pretty-much newly weds, and I felt like we were doing something magical (there is still a sort of thrill when I can buy a crate of cheddar cheese at cost).

Now, eight years and four kids later, fully immersed in adulthood-ness, I looked sort of wistfully at the couple, and back at my chaos on wheels.

A lot has happened on this crazy ride, and you know, even though there may be more glamorous things to do than watching Lily industriously pick her nose and offer me what she had found, I wouldn't trade it for anything.

PICK PICK PICK

2011-06-20T10:13:00.003-06:00

"Do you know what I like about you, Dara?" Emily said to me years ago.

I probably gave her a blank face, waiting for a punchline that would never come.

"You never say anything mean about people."

I was stunned, and immediately began to remedy the situation....

I woke up this morning full of guilty feelings (this seems to be happening a lot). I had dumped my woes (read juicy gossip-like drama) onto Mom and Dad during our Father's Day visit, and I recalled Emily's compliment with wretchedly stinging clarity.

It makes me think of "The Music Man." The clacking gossip-mongers descend upon Professor Hill and try to tear down Marian (the li-BRARRRRRIAN), little realizing that they are furthering his interest in her. But that's not the point. The point is that I felt like I was one of those women who, as they put it, "Pick a little, talk a little, pick a little, talk a little, pickpickpickpick..."

I don't know if it's the experiences I've had through life or what that has made me look at people through slanty-eyed scepticism. It certainly isn't conducive of charitable feelings, and it probably isn't attractive either (because all actions should be governed by the notion that you are attractive or not while doing them...or something).

I guess I need to repent.

OOO! PICK ME!

2011-06-16T09:49:00.004-06:00

Hey! I got added to "Mormon Mommy Blogger"!

It's like I finally got picked to be on a dodge ball team!

But, I'm probably the skinny kid with no coordination.

That got picked last.

But, at least I got picked!

And as they say...

Road Rage

2011-06-13T17:39:00.005-06:00

I took driver's ed when I was 16.

Scared the inner speed-demon out of me.

Which is why I didn't get a licence until I was 18, and didn't drive over 35 MPH (including on the freeway) for about a year.

And I've only been in one official car accident (the "unofficial" car incident had to do with Mom's car and my best friend's fence, but that only caused cosmetic front bumper damage, and is henceforth stricken from my record), and that was in a parking lot and did much to make me freakishly sensitive about driving.

Needless to say, the yokels who traverse I-15 don't help my OCD tendencies in any way, shape, or form.

And the fact that there is all sorts of construction doesn't help either, since the lanes are about as wide as my hips (but they don't have a layer of fat).

So, I go from this:

To this:

I don't know if it's my disdain of Utah drivers, or the fact that it's Utah drivers that are threatening my family with their Utah driver-ness, or if it's the fact that I drive a big ol' tank, but I seem to put my nice in the trunk when I hop in the driver's seat.

"HEY, RETARD!" is exclaimed a lot by yours truly (Yes, I know it isn't politically correct, but I grew up in a different era, when it was a standard part of speech...along with "rad" and "awesome," which I still use, because, it's, well...awesome.), as people swerve in front of my suburban in their wheeled Tic Tacs.

Jeremy often hunkers down in his chair (from fear or embarrassment, I'm not entirely sure) at these times, and tactfully tries to suggest that perhaps he drive, and then I give him the Ugly-Crusties, and he drops it.

It's at times like this that I remember what Dad said when I got my driver's licence:

"It's like millions of voices cried out in terror, and were suddenly silenced..."

Thank, Obi-Dad-Kenobi.

P.S. I found my pen! Somebody put it in my purse, along with another one just like it. But it couldn't have been me...

Cardinal Sin

2011-06-07T11:30:00.004-06:00

So, this morning I pulled out my new stack of lined paper, and was planning on drawing something fantastically fantabulous for all y'all, but I couldn't find my blue pen, and I didn't want to draw with my now inferior black pen, and all I could find was my red pen, and I can't draw with my red pen because that's my angry pen, so, you'll just have to do without today.

Besides...

I couldn't think of anything to draw.

Last night, my cat got out. Normally, I would just say, "stupid cat," (and I did), but Pepper is now without any sort of defense whatsoever now that we had her pointies removed, and Jeremy went outside, flashlight in hand, to find the beast.

(On a side note, I have a really hard time believing that Jeremy hates cats like he says, since he is awfully concerned about Pepper when she goes missing. I mean, I was sort of heartless and thought to myself, "Hey! If she is gone, I can get that $1500 Bengal I wanted!" Maybe he just looks at her as a long-term investment, just in case we have a famine and we have to eat her.)

Jeremy found her curled up in a ball outside next to a pile of sticks.

It's like she can't help herself. She hates being outside, but she is drawn to it.

I can imagine her thought process:

"LOOK! The door is open, and I will go sniff, and then I will go outside in the dirt, but I don't want to go outside, but I must, but it scares me, and uh oh, here I go, stepping outside, what am I doing, I should stop, but I can't stop, and I want to sniff and eat grass, and throw up, but what is that scary thing, and holy crap, where am I, what if I can't find food, I should curl up in a ball next to this pile of sticks."

It reminds me of my thought process two days ago:

"LISTEN! My baby is crying, so I will hold her, but I have things I have to do, and the kids are eating shortening and throwing their poo at each other, but she won't stop crying, and if I hold her, I won't have enough arms to beat my children, and they tend to gang up on me, so I should put her down, but then she cries like she is being eaten by fire ants, and gosh, I hope there aren't any fire ants, I should check, and oops, I made too much noise and she knows I'm in the room, maybe if I just go down the hallway for a few minutes she will wear herself out, holy schmoly, she isn't stopping, what do I do? I should curl up in a ball next to this pile of sticks."

So, I gave her a pacifier.

I didn't plan on doing that.

I don't like pacifiers.

Now, before you go all Angry-Mama-Bear-Who-Is-Pro-Pacifier, know that I don't like them because the pacifier thing tends to get out of hand. Pacify your child with it, if you must, but please...they don't need to have them in their mouths all day long up until they enter kindergarten.

So, Eden's little brow furrowed for a minute while she thought about it, and then she slurped that puppy in. Happy as a clam.

I wasn't so happy.

But, what could I do? I have three other kids, and she wouldn't stop crying.

Maybe God makes her cry like that so I have to use a pacifier when I'm at my wit's end so that I will be humble and accept the fact that I am human and can't do everything.

Maybe that's why he only gave us two arms, too.

The Sound of No Hands Clapping

2011-06-05T15:40:00.003-06:00

So, I ran out of lined paper.

That's why I didn't post for almost a whole week (*GASP*).

And then I got sick. Thanks to Jeremy's wretched insistence that he kiss me. I mean, what, are we married or something?? Sheesh...I remember rolling over in the night and snuggling with Jeremy's pillow only to withdraw in horror as I recalled Jeremy used it to muffle his soul-racking coughs. I could feel the germs sliding off his pillow onto my face, and slinking their way up my nose and down my throat... *gag*

And I've had family in town, and have been throwing myself outdoors so that I can re-accustom my eyes to light (I was getting worried I might turn out like one of those cave fish that evolved to not have eyes anymore...I wonder if my eyes would move to the left side of my face if I lay on my right side long enough..?) and let my kids wear themselves out on the trampoline and with the obligatory cousin fighting-ness.

And then I got tired of the whole blog thing because I would obsess and check to see how many comments I would get after I posted, and then I would check the stats to see who visited, and then I would be all, "Hey, so-and-so visited...how come they didn't comment??? Wasn't I FUNNY ENOUGH????"

Imagine, if you will, a crowded hall. You are on stage, probably sitting on some sort of wooden stool. You are performing your little heart out, and then, you finish with a bang, and you sit with arms spread wide in "Ta-Da" fashion, and you know what happens?

Nothing.

Everybody just stares.

No cheers.

No boos.

Not even a random rotten vegetable is half-heartedly tossed in your direction.

You just get a bunch of glossy-eyed stares. No blinking even. Maybe somebody picks their nose, but that's it.

That's what it feels like when nobody comments (Now, I am not saying nobody like NOBODY, but I mean, come on...I commented twice on my last blog. That's just sad. And then I kept checking to see if people responded to my comments. That's even sadder.).

So, I got tired of obsessing. Usually, in the morning, I hit my blog first and then go to Facebook, and then check my email, then the news...I totally just started skipping my blog (and my email and the news) in favor of stalking people on Facebook and then cooking imaginary food and chopping down fake trees. Yeah.

I forget sometimes that I really just like to read and reread what I write. It's like Dad, I suppose, with his love of hearing himself speak. He and I are tickled by our own wittiness, and by golly, there is nothing wrong with that.

So, I am going to try really hard just to enjoy myself here on my blog, and forget that people sometimes stop and stare at the freak show that goes on.

P.S. Rotten avocados are gross, no matter how much guacamole seasoning you put on them.

True Story

2011-05-30T15:40:00.006-06:00

So, Jeremy woke up to go to work, and was attacked by a mosquito eater. He quietly tried to shoo it out of our room without waking me up (he would have had to hit me with a hammer, but I digress...). He said he got it out, but I have a sneaking suspicion that after Jeremy left the mosquito eater probably landed on me and spent the duration of the early hours licking my forehead.

He told me later about the confrontation with the long-legged flying bug after I woke up, and told me it was probably in the living room somewhere. I searched, and didn't find it (I secretly hoped it had flown upstairs...).

A few days later, our fan was making funny noises, so I took the front cover off and fixed the blades, and put it back together. I looked at the base of the fan, and LO! Mosquito Eater Legs. Well... A leg and a half.

I couldn't feel bad about it. I mean...It's creepy.

Today, as I sat in our rocking chair with Eden, Pepper came to investigate what I was doing, and then detoured to the fan, where the legs were still lying pathetically on it's base. She sniffed around, and then, found what I hadn't seen in our multi-colored carpet: The Mosquito Eater Head. She licked it up, chewed for a minute, and then spat it out (insofar as a cat can spit...).

It made me think...

We all know spiders are BAD (concept courtesy of Eva):

And Butterflies are GOOD:

But where do Mosquito Eaters fit? I mean...They don't really eat mosquitoes, I was disappointed to find out. Are they predators? Do thy help pollinate anything?

I think they are pretty much useless...and creepy. I mean...even the cat wouldn't eat it. That's sayin' something.

Things are looking up!

2011-05-28T14:03:00.003-06:00

I am finally starting to get on top of things! It makes me feel like less of a broken human being.

And Jeremy, as always, is extremely supportive.

"Thank you for cleaning my underwear," he whispers into my ear.

And I always reply, "It's alright! I used your toothbrush to scrub them..."

And then we laugh, but Jeremy, I think, wonders a little...

But, fact is, I am too lazy to abuse my husband's toothbrush.

I mean, I feel like walking death when I drag our hamper down the hallway to the laundry room. Scrubbing underwear with a toothbrush is just not on my list of important-and-mean-things-to-do.

I don't even HAVE a list of important-and-mean-things-to-do.

But, I bet I could come up with one.

I'll have to do that when I'm not so tired.

BUT, I'm not as tired as I was.

It's nice.

P.S. So, do you guys like my drawings? Should I keep doing them? Would you rather I just write blogs? Should I do pictures AND have substantial blogs? Tell me what you think.

Ya win some, ya lose some...

2011-05-26T09:17:00.003-06:00

So, Eden has started sleeping in four-hour chunks at night which is MAGICALLY FANTASTIC!

BUT...

She's made up for it by being awake during the day at extremely inconvenient times, ie. when I am playing Farm Frenzy and trying to enjoy my graham crackers in peace.

She won't settle for sitting nicely in her bouncy seat. She has to be held. By ME.

I tried her on Josh (who thought it was great for about a minute and a half), and she wouldn't have it (possibly because he wasn't actually holding her, but was letting her slide down his lap while he asked repeatedly, "Am I done yet?").

That's the problem with being the Milk Lady. I'm the all-around comfort machine, and, by golly, nobody else can take my place. Not for at least another six or so months at any rate.

But that's okay.

She may be a miniature version of Jabba the Hutt (super fat, bald, and does the obligatory oozing-tongue waggling...she doesn't have a tail, though, just in case you were worried.), but she is definitely cuter.

As my mother-in-law says, you need to enjoy each minute they are tiny, because, just like kittens turn into cats, and caterpillars turn into butterflies, babies grow up to be obnoxious adults who cut you off on the freeway (she only said the first part, about them being tiny, though...).