A Star is Born

From this....

To this....

To this....

Then this....

To this....

A first birthday....

And now an 11th birthday....

We've come a long way, baby boy.

But you are worth every minute!

Happy Birthday, Stinkerpants!

The Name Game

There are 525,100 people in the U.S. with the first name Julie.

Statistically, Julie is the 101st most popular first name.

More than 99.9 percent of people with the first name Julie are female. (Gee, that's a surprise.)

There are 37 people in the U.S. who share my exact maiden name, but only 4 people who share my exact married name. (Wow. How special am I?)

Wanna play?

New Game

After a long, yet satisfying, day at Women's Conference, I was brought abruptly back to reality when I overheard S & T playing a new game tonight:

S: "Let's pretend the sleeping bags are worms. The worms will eat us and then we'll come out the other end like poop!"

T: "Oh-tay! We be POOP!"

Gender Confusion

I look like a boy. Or at least I once did. You could say that, up top, I still do. (Some of my brothers used to tease me by saying I had a hope chest because I was still hoping for one. Ha ha. So original, guys. I'm still not laughing. Wait a minute....um, no. Still not funny.)


I have been mistaken for a boy three times in my life. All three occasions happened during my 8th grade year. (Now you know why I hated that "Junior High phase.")


The summer after my 8th grade year, our Spanish teacher, Senor Urish, took our class to Mexico. For a shy, short-haired, backwards little girl from Happy Valley Utah, Mexico was a bit of a culture shock. (And we visited the touristy parts.) I was terrified that I would be kidnapped or at the very least fondled because of my blond hair. (We were told that the Mexican men were obsessed with light hair.) Of course, they were looking for blond girls.


While we were in Guadalajara, we went to the huge open market. I wanted to buy myself some huaraches, so we went to a leather shoe shop. I happened to be wearing a Venezuela T-shirt that my brother brought home for me from his mission. (Keep in mind, this shirt had a picture of a Toucan on it with the word "Venezuela" written on the top left part of the shirt.)


I was wandering the aisles, looking at sandals, when a man came up to me. I was immediately nervous. He didn't look Hispanic, but I didn't know for sure. Then, he spoke to me in English. He struck up a conversation and was very polite. All of a sudden, he takes a finger and jabs my then-budding chest just below the "Venezuela" printing. I was MORTIFIED! A stranger had just poked my breast! What should I do?

He was very nonchalant.

"Ah! Venezuela! Have you been there?" he asked.

"No, my brother went there on a mission for our church," I replied, blushing furiously.

"Oh. So how many brothers and sisters do you have?"

"I have five brothers. My sister and I are the only girls."





Dead silence.




"You're a girl?!?!? Oh! I am SO SORRY!"

He left rather quickly.




The second incident, also in Mexico, occurred at an airport. We had a layover of several hours. During that time, I had to visit the restroom. I had on a light blue sweater with a white, scalloped-edged, Peter Pan collar on it. I stepped into the inevitable line for the women’s toilet. I stood there quite a while before noticing the frequent looks I was receiving from one of the other women. Finally, she could take it no more. In heavily accented and halting English, she said, "Esscuse me. Thees is the ladies restroom. Not for boys."

"I’m a girl."




Again, dead silence followed by a profuse apology.




Later that summer, after Freshman Orientation at good old Provo High, my brother Nihao took me to Stevenette’s for a shake. I stood in front of the counter, waiting for someone to take my order. A middle-aged gentleman, who was doing repairs, noticed me and called out to the people in the back, "Hey! Could someone come out to the register? This nice young man here is waiting to order."

Unfortunately for me, I never got the chance to correct him. All I could do was mutter, bitterly,

"Young woman, mister, young woman!"



I don’t know what happened after that, but I was never mistaken for a boy again. And I even kept my short hair.



Sometimes I long for those days. I think it would be better to be mistaken for a male than have people ask me, "So….when are you due?"



I’m not. I’m just fat. Thanks for asking.

The Best Birthday Present EVER!

Thanks, all y'all, for the birthday wishes. I had a lovely, relaxing week in Texas. I got to eat at Texas Land and Cattle Steakhouse for my birthday and ordered a yummy smoked sirloin that was to die for. (Their spinach artichoke dip is the best I have ever tasted. Ever. End of story.) I also learned a new term for those little yappy lap dogs: hoers d' oeuvre dogs. In a neighborhood where there are still coyotes roaming around, it fits perfectly.

Anyway, when I got home, Phil presented me with the best birthday present ever.

That's right. Guess who's potty trained????

Way to go, T! And a Happy, Happy Birthday to me!

Guess Where I'm Going Tomorrow?

The stars at night, are big and bright...





(dum dum dum dum)

All by me-self! A whole week of goofing off with my brother, my sister-in-law, and their two kiddos. I can't wait! Have fun, all y'all.

Excuse me?

My son S- came home from school yesterday and shouted eagerly,

"Mom! Guess what? We grew weed at school!"



Um, WHAT?















"Yeah, you know. Wheat grass."

I'm Distracted

I know I'm getting too focused on stuff when my three-year-old starts calling, "Jooooo-weeeee! Jooo-wee! Hewwoh?" to get my attention.

Assorted Photos

You know you're a dedicated musician when...

See how hard he's focusing?

This is how I know that Lorien's youngest and my youngest are kindred spirits:

Ever wonder what my Irish twin, Lessel Peeper, looks like?

My budding electrical engineer/comedian:

My man worked so hard for me that he split out his pants.

Better that than his head.

My three sons

Cue the music, boys.

Can you tell which one I struggle most with?

I love this picture. It captures each of their personalities perfectly!

Because CJane gets whatever she asks for....

This is my self portrait at 10 pm.

Do you think I look tired?

Yes?

Well, maybe that's because my alarm woke me at 5:35 am so I could go exercise. Then we had the hassle of getting the boys off to school, followed by my attempts to catch up on some housework before showering. Those attempts were interrupted by a phone call from the school at 10:35. Ms. B told me I needed to come pick up S--. Want to know why? Take a look:

Apparently, he got in a fight with the "Big Toy."

He lost.

And ended up waiting with me in the doctor's office over an hour for this:

At the end of the day, he ended up happy with three stitches.

I ended up tired.

I'm Haute

Or at least I was for 24 hours last week.

I went in for a thyroid scan. That meant downing 3 capsules containing radioactive iodine and then returning 2 hours later and again 24 hours later to have a huge Geiger counter move up my thigh and over my neck.

Did you know that you can shoot up haute-ness? Yup, they did that to me too. Directly into one of my juicy veins. (Forget drugs--gimme some of that technetium.) I was too haute to touch for 24 hours. Seriously. My doc told me: no extended physical contact, no salivary contact (um, excuse me?), sleep alone, wash your sheets, towels, and the clothes you were wearing as soon as you finish with them, flush twice (because that's how your body rids itself of the radioactivity), and wash your hands frequently. All that haute-ness made for an interesting weekend with lots of jokes from my loving husband.

What were the results, you might ask? Well, not all of my haute-ness disappeared down the toilet. My friends, I, your own (I hope) beloved Sister Pottymouth, have a hot nodule. Not to worry, however. Previous biopsies show that the nodule is benign. I just have to wait for the doctor to look at the scan results before I decide the next step. I may hang on to that nodule for a while. It's not bothering me, and it is my one legitimate claim to "haute-ness."









My only disappointment was that my urine did not glow in the dark.

Where the Sun Don't Shine

In honor of Phil, who (at my request) went in willingly for a colonoscopy last week. He received a clean bill of health.

Quotes for the Week

These are a few of my favorite family quotes this week:



"Oh my soul and garters!" --my 74-year-old mother, commenting on S's Lego creation.


"I will never brake your heart!" --written by my 1st grader on the Valentine he brought home to me yesterday.


"I fart. No, you fart." --my 3-year-old son to S's violin teacher at violin lessons yesterday. [Sorry, ~j, I know you don't like that particular "f" word. I don't like it either, but the child gets "tutored" by his oldest brother.]




And finally, in honor of Valentine's Day:


"I do not want anything that's been printed on a 6-year-old's underwear." --my 10-year-old son, upon being questioned last night about why Superman Valentines were unacceptable.

Tag. I'm it.

My Life. My Card. Because Compulsive tagged me.

My name... almost went to my four older brothers, but they had the wrong equipment to be given a female moniker. And I'm the only child in the family whose name does not begin with "K."

Childhood ambition... (I'm ashamed to admit this one) to be a model. Not much later, thankfully, I decided I wanted to be an electrical engineer. I even took the prerequisite classes at BYU, but then I decided to switch to English.

Soundtrack... "Walkin' on Sunshine" (or whatever it's called)

Retreat... A really good book of fiction.

Wildest dream... which one? I have strange dreams a lot.

Proudest moment... becoming a mother.

Biggest challenge... being patient and keeping my cool with my oldest son.

Alarm clock... goes off at 5:35 am on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays so I can go exercise.

Perfect day... would include reading a good book and going to dinner with my husband.

First job... I did the computer backup for Provo School District for 6 years. It had to be done before 7 am every day.

Indulgence... homemade ice cream, chocolate

Last purchase... groceries.

Favorite movie(s)... Princess Bride, Shrek (1 & 2), Dead Poet's Society, The Emperor's New Groove, etc., etc.

Inspiration... really good music that lifts my heart and makes my spirit soar

My life... is busy.

My card(s)... get paid off every month and give me money back on each purchase. I refuse to be in debt, and I love the irony of my credit card companies paying me to use their cards.



Anyone else want to play? Consider yourself tagged.

As easy as...

In a recent comment on my friend's blog, I made reference to a particularly embarrassing experience I had not long after Phil and I were married. After much thought and consideration, I decided to post it. I'm sure it has nothing to do with the fact that I couldn't think of anything else to blog about. (ahem)

Our first apartment was quite small. We had a kitchen/living room area, a tiny bedroom, and an even smaller bathroom. There was enough room for our queen-size bed, but only just. We positioned the bed about 8 inches from the wall on my side so there was enough room (barely) to squeeze in to make the bed. There wasn't much space to move around in, but the arrangement worked.

Now, we all know that every married couple goes through a period of adjustment when it comes to sleep. After however many years of sleeping single in your own bed, you suddenly have to learn to sleep with another person. The first few weeks after the wedding are adventurous--even fun, I might say. But then reality hits. Ours hit during finals week.

After a grueling evening of studying for our finals, Phil and I headed for dreamland. I slept great that night. I assumed he had too. But he informed me the next morning that I was crowding him all night long, and he couldn't sleep. I felt horrible. (So much concern for one another when you are newlyweds....) I determined that I would make sure he slept really well the following night.

A long day of tests, work, and more studying left both of us tired. We headed off to bed and were soon asleep. My subconscious mind remembered my determination to not crowd Phil during the night. This meant that each time I would surface to consciousness, I would roll away from Phil. It worked well, until I rolled too far.

Remember how my side of the bed was 8 inches away from the wall? You can guess what happened. Not only did I roll off the bed, I was so twisted up in the sheets that only one foot was touching the floor. I was completely wedged and mummified.

Phil woke up to the WHUMP of me falling off the bed, but when he looked over to see what happened, I was gone. At that point, he turned on the lamp and saw one of my arms sticking up helplessly. Then he heard my pitiful cry of "Help me!" (Remember the part in "The Emperor's New Groove" when Kuzco sees the bug trapped in a spiderweb? That's how I sounded. "Help me! Heeeelp meeeeeeee!" But without the spider.)

With much effort on his part, Phil was able to pull me out of my predicament. He didn't even laugh at me. (Bless you, sweetie.) I explained what happened and why I was trying to move away from him as I slept. He felt so bad about it that he told me I could sleep as close to him as I wanted, just so I wouldn't fall off the bed again.

It didn't take long, however, for the cry "Help me!" with an accompanying feeble arm wave to become the family joke. Thanks, Phil.

Feeling Gloopy

Note to reader: Go get some cheese. You'll need some with the whine that follows. Or, perhaps, a raincoat would be helpful for the verbal vomit that will be spewing forth.


I just read CJane's latest post on Segullah. I love CJane, and I love reading her posts. Sadly, she is taking a one-month hiatus from her blog. And I completely understand.

You see, I, too, am feeling gloopy. I had a great weekend planned for the holiday, and then I had to cancel everything. This is what happened:

On Wednesday, while cleaning my sister's house in preparation for our book group on Thursday, I got a call from the school. My second son, S, whispered into the phone, "Mom, my teacher said that I'm coughing and that I have a high fever. Can you come get me?"

I hurried son number three into coat, socks, and shoes (which is a great feat, let me tell you) and headed over to rescue my sick child. I found S in the office looking very wilted. I was confused--he was perfectly fine when I sent him off to school that morning. But, at some point during the day, he experienced an immediate onset of violent chills and a high fever.

Sure enough, the thermometer confirmed that he had a fever. No coughing--just fever. We dosed him up on ibuprofen and catered to his needs. Later, during the middle of the night, S threw up. Lovely. At least he got all of it in the barf bowl that Phil sent to bed with him. Of course, I was the one who got up with him and cleaned everything up.

Thursday, Phil took S to the doctor. We worried about spinal meningitis because of his complaints of neck pain. Thankfully, it wasn't that. He was diagnosed with influenza. (sigh) So much for those flu shots we all got last fall. But then things got worse. He developed severe ear pain. You have to understand that all of my sons have a high tolerance for pain. So when S came into my room in the middle of the night sobbing uncontrollably because his ear hurt, I knew something was seriously wrong. Of course, I'm the one who got up to calm, comfort, and dose up.

Back to the doctor on Saturday. Sure enough--an ear infection. Likely a burst eardrum, given the nasty stuff oozing out of his ear. That started the weekend out nicely. (Have you ever tried to stay on top of ear pain with OTC pain meds? It doesn't work well.)

I went to bed Saturday night after staying up to prepare my Sunday lesson for the Young Women, still hoping that we might still make our plans to play with friends on Monday. Hah. I had to get up again with S to help him with his ear. He wanted to sleep in our bed. Normally, I'd say no, but it was easier to help him that way.

After a restless night, I woke up Sunday morning with a full-blown cold. So much for a fun weekend with friends. I made it through the day and slept soundly Sunday night. (Phil told S to come get him during the night if he needed something.) Lucky for Phil, there were no nighttime wakings.

I spent all day yesterday trying to keep peace between three bored boys, the oldest of which thinks making little brothers cry is an Olympic sport that he intends to qualify for. In between mediation attempts, I tried to nap and rest my weary body. (Have you ever tried to nap with a three-year-old child? They think poking their fingers up your nose every time your eyes close is great fun. He kept telling me, "You not tired, Mommy. I say no, you not tired!")

On top of all that, S went around all day with a tissue stuck in his ear to soak up all the drainage. Dis-gus-ting. Can't send him back to school like that, even if his fever is gone and he's racing around like a banshee.

Thankfully, my dear friend and neighbor, with whom we were supposed to play, called to tell me she was making me dinner. It was nourishing, both body and soul, and it lifted my spirits. Thanks, Katie! (You've never tasted caramel brownies like hers. They are to die for.) I felt loved and blessed.

However, after a mostly sleepless night last night, I am feeling gloopy today. Maybe I'll follow CJane's lead and take a month-long hiatus. Then again, maybe I just need a day or two off to recharge my batteries.

I think I'll start with a shower.

The Faith of a Child

My 7-year-old has set a goal to read the Book of Mormon this year before his 8th birthday.

I set up a simple reading schedule for him and started in on Monday night. On Tuesday night, as we were reading 1 Nephi 2:16-17, we got talking about how he can know if the Book of Mormon is true. I explained Moroni's promise and we discussed what it feels like when the Holy Ghost tells us that something is true. I told him that when the Spirit speaks to us, we feel warm and happy inside and we might even have "happy tears."

He got very concerned and asked, "But Mom, what if it's not true?"

I answered, "Well, then you'll feel confused and dark and cold inside. But I can tell you for myself that I know it's true."

I kissed him goodnight and tucked him in.

The following morning, he came into my room where I was reading my own scriptures. He snuggled up to me in bed with his Book of Mormon in hand and said, "Mom! Guess what?"

"What?"

"Guess what! I did just like you said last night, and guess what?"

"What?"

"Well, I prayed just like you said and I felt that warm touch inside!"








...and a little child shall lead them.

Tell Me A Story

We had a great Christmas this year. Phil and I requested unusual gifts from my dad. Here's what we got:



Yes, those are wooden canes. My dad makes them for people who need them. He loves it. We think they're awesome. So awesome, in fact, that we decided we needed some for us before Dad gets so old he can't make them any more. Who wouldn't love to have a cane their dad made for them?




We spent a lot of time with my family over the weekend. Family gatherings for us usually involve lots of food. At Christmas, we have lots and lots of eggnog, mixed with Sprite to thin it out a bit, and cookies. This year, Mom made gumdrop bread (not fruitcake), which is not my favorite, gingerbread cookies, which I love, and my great grandmother's Scottish shortbread cookies, which are my favorite. I ate far too much, but that's the norm around these parts. (I call your attention to the matronly pooch protruding in my picture. So much for sucking in my gut. It scares me that I look so much like my brothers.)

I noticed something this weekend about my family. We love to tell stories. My whole life has been filled with stories. I thought it was normal--that every family did this. My future sister-in-law, who hasn't posted in over a year (ahem), informs me that this is not so. Her family gets together and picks on each other. She tells me that our storytelling is one of the things she noticed right off.

Does this mean I am a spinner of tales? A weaver of subtle yet complicated plots? Do I come from a long line of verbal magicians? Hardly. Our stories are probably not worth publishing. But we love to tell them. And we love to laugh. Because the stories are always funny--to us at least.


There's the one about my Grandma A., who beat up a boy several years older than she when he was teasing the little boy who lived with her and her family at the time. Years later, he still remembered her, although she had forgotten the incident.



There's the one about my mom, who, at a tender age, caught an entire bucketful of mice and brought them proudly into a houseful of Relief Society sisters to show her mother. She tripped on something and the bucket spilled. Amid the screams and squeals as the women jumped onto the furniture, the frightened mice ran back into the only thing familiar to them: the bucket. Mom returned the mice to the great outdoors, and Grandma B. eventually forgave her.



Another time, my mom poked a stick through a hole on the back of the outhouse. Grandpa B. got a bit of a surprise when his danglies got prodded. He came roaring out of the building and chased my mom all over the ranch until he caught her. She got a right good spanking.



And then there was the time my dad and his friends put a huge pile of autumn leaves on a neighbor's porch. They rang the doorbell and ran to hide in the ditch. Unfortunately for them, another young man saw what happened. When the neighbor opened the door and the leaves blew into the house, the young man said, "You'll find the boys who did that hiding in the ditch over there." The neighbor came after them. For the first time in his life, Dad ran faster than any of the other boys. He never got caught.



Dad's love for practical jokes is legendary. He once trapped some students, who had been sneaking into the Dixon Junior High gym to play during lunch, in the piano box that was their hiding place. He and the gym teacher nailed the box to the stage floor after the knew the kids were inside. (Don't worry--they drilled breathing holes.) The boys were let out after lunch was over.



One junior high student kept sneaking up into the school attic. So Dad and Max Mitchell nailed the attic door shut. When a very worried mother called about an hour or two after school had ended, she was informed that her son was trespassing in the school attic and would be let out as soon as she arrived to collect him. Now that's creative discipline. Of course, Dad couldn't do that now, even though he never laid a hand on the students.



Dad and his fellow teachers had lots of fun sending students around to each other looking for an umbilical cord for the "broken" projector. Conversations went something like this:

Gullible student: "Mr. Mitchell, Mr. A says he needs an umbilical cord. Do you have one he could borrow?"

Mr. Mitchell: "Hmmm. Well, I used to have one, but I don't have it any more. Why don't you go ask Mr. Stanley?"

After getting similar responses from other teachers, the student would return unsuccessful. They were told, "That's okay. We'll try to make do with this one instead," and out came the electrical cord. (These same teachers used to send kids to the nearby grocery store looking for Traffic Jam.)



Of course my sister has tons of good stories from all her years working as a nurse. There are the weird names she writes down (Permalua is one of my favorites), the clever comebacks to rude patients, and the hilarious stories of patients, physicians, and coworkers. (Her friend once told a doctor, who had recently permed his hair, "Hey, Dr. So-and so! Nice pubic hair transplant!")



And then there are my brothers. All five of them know how to tell a good tale. There's Lessel Peeper, who tells of his days in Primary and the time Dad taught him about feminine hygiene products. Then there's Nihao, who tells of life with braces and things of mystery. These are the only two who are "online." The other three could tell tales all night long and still not be finished: tales of things they did as kids that Mom never knew about; jokes they've heard; things their own kids have done.



As for me? Y'all can make your own judgements about my abilities as a storyteller. But even if I'm not that great, I still love to tell a good tale.

I can't wait to be seventy just so I can tell people how my dad made my cane. I can just see it:

"Oh, really? Could he make me one too?"

"What are you willing to do to get one?"

"I'll do anything. That's a really awesome cane."

"Then I guess you'll have to die."






Dad will get a kick out of that one, I'm sure. He loves that kind of stuff.

Pug Bowling

I don't know why I found this so funny, but I did.

Start 'em young!

My 3-year-old was digging around in his brothers' room and found something to play with. Wanna see what he found?

































































Isn't he cute?

Only 13 Days Left until Christmas!

And wouldn't this be perfect for the Pottymouth?



Not that I'm hinting or anything.



(hint hint hint hint)

Date Night Fun

Wanna see what we did for date night? No, it's nothing R-rated. Get your mind out of the gutter and check out the movie clips at this website.




And remember, kids. Don't try these at home. Not even if you are a professional engineer.

My Chemosensory Expert

I think my second son is going to grow up to be a chemosensory expert. His nose rivals Lorien's. This is what he told me the other day:

"Mom, sometimes when T has a stinky diaper it smells like chicken nuggets."

Perhaps someone should tell the makers of chicken nuggets that their food smells like sh**.

Shoes Baffle Me

Yes, you read that right. Shoes baffle me. Don't get me wrong--I love shoes. The more comfy, the better. And if I don't have to tie or buckle or lace them? Perfect. But there is one thing I don't understand.



Why do I see stray shoes on the road?



And it's never a pair of them. I realize that shoes can come off a person's feet in tragic auto-pedestrian accidents, but I'm pretty sure the officers on the scene clean those up. I'm talking about the single shoes you see in the middle of or off to the side of the road. Where do those come from?

I've always assumed that those lonely shoes are the casualty of a move. You've seen the college students with their little hatchbacks stuffed to overflowing with all their belongings. They're bound to lose something on their way to independence, finals, and rent payments. Or maybe the shoe has been thrown out the window by a child having a tantrum. I could see that. It's even possible that someone intended to be the first to create one of these and had poor aim.

But don't people notice that something has fallen out of their car? What do they do when they unpack or arrive at their destination and realize they or their child no longer have a complete pair of shoes? Would it bother them enough that they'd retrace their route to find the errant shoe? I can see myself doing that.

Missing things bug the crap out of me. I can't stand it. The thought of losing a single shoe would be enough to put me in the funny farm. Losing a sock in the wash is cause for a near nervous breakdown. I will hunt feverishly to figure out where that sock has disappeared. I just like to have paired things in pairs. Call me compulsive or obsessive, but that's the way I am.

Enter my three sons. Fortunately for my sanity, I no longer count every Lego block as it goes back into its container to make sure all are accounted for. I gave that up when son #2 got past the Duplo stage. I still do it with the Duplo Primo container because hey--20 pieces of huge Legos aren't that hard to keep track of. I had to give up keeping track of all the Matchbox/Hotwheels cars, though. I swear those things multiply in the dark when left unattended.

When it comes to keeping track of stuff, my sons are horrible. This is annoying to me. I can tell them exactly where their stuff is. I can give them specific directions to find something that is in plain site on top of their dresser. They go to find it and come back in less than a minute, claiming that "it wasn't there." Drives me nuts. I walk them back in the exact location and, lo and behold, there it is. Exactly where I said it was. I would like to assume that it's a boy thing, since I have no experience yet with daughters. However, I'm forced to be realistic and admit that it's a personality thing.

I don't know why I am anal retentive in this way. I don't remember not being this way. I could find any one of my toys as a child because I knew exactly where they all were. And it wasn't because I was a particularly neat and organized child. My dad used to tease me about bringing in the garden tiller to clean my room because there were so many piles. But I knew what was in each pile and could find what I wanted when I wanted it. I'm weird that way.

So can anyone explain to me the mystery of roadside footwear? Has anyone actually lost a shoe this way? C'mon. Enlighten me. I really need to know.

In the meantime, if you'll excuse me, I need to find my husband's missing sock.

Which Sports Car Are You?

I'm a Mazda RX-8!

You're sporty, yet practical, and you have a style of your own. You like to have fun, and you like to bring friends along for the ride, but when it comes time for everyday chores, you're willing to do your part.

Take the Which Sports Car Are You? quiz.

Arrrgh!

This is stupid. I can pull up any blog except my own. I am so annoyed! And the only way I got to the dashboard to post this was through my husband's family blog. I can't tell if it's my computer or if it's Blogger, but it's driving me insane.


Hmmmmm....do you think maybe I have an addiction to blogging????? (gasp)

Things that made me smile

I've been sick with a cold this weekend. I hate being sick, but it was a good excuse to take lots of naps and stay in my pajamas for two days. In spite of the misery, I did find some things that made me smile yesterday.


1. My seven-year-old whispering forcefully in my ear, "You're the best mom in the whole world!"


2. A bonus nap yesterday, courtesy of Phil who took our food assignment and the kids over to my parents house while I had a quick snooze.


3. My ten-year-old volunteering to go to bed early because he felt like he was catching a cold. (This is a really big thing for him. He'll use any technique he can think of to postpone bedtime.)


4. My three-year-old snuggling into the crook of my arm to watch "The Restoration" video done by the church. It's his favorite thing to watch.


5. The belly rolling laughter of my sons, husband, and (gasp) 74-year-old mother that came as a result of my dad letting one rrrrrrip yesterday while standing at the desk. No one gets in touch with their "inner voice" quite like my dad.



Here's to a good week ahead.

Entitled: What I Want for Christmas

What I want for Christmas is a Red Ryder BB gun that has a thing that tells time ...






Just kidding.






This is what I want for Christmas. It would be perfect to wear to Girls' Camp.



This is what I would give Nihao for Christmas, if I could.



This is what I'd love to get Phil for Christmas, if he'd actually wear it.



Compulsive Writer needs this to go with her favorite book.



I think Lo Down needs this when she's having one of these moments. Or maybe this.



All mothers need this. Especially when children are teenagers.



Eating Paste definitely needs this. But, then, he also needs this after a meal at El Azteca. Or this.



This is a must-have for The Jolly Porter or Oh, Judy.



I could get this for certain members of my family.



My son needs this. The other day, my sister told him he had Dorothy Hamill hair.






Who'da thunk I'd like silly T-shirts with things written on them? I'm the poster child for "What Not to Wear."




At least I can't shoot my eye out with a shirt.

Wordsmithing

As requested by TMM, I will now attempt to write something insightful about the following words: incredible, printer, Mommy, and rose.

1. Incredible (adj.) Looking at the word parts, it should mean something not believable or credible. Most people choose to use it to mean something amazing or awe-inspiring. In my opinion, Bill Clinton fits the first definition. As for the second definition, well, I know lots of things/people/places that inspire awe and amazement. Music--really good music--can break through the darkness of depression and make me feel things that I haven't felt in months. That's incredible to me. My husband, who has to live with chronic pain, is an incredible person. My boys, who are way too smart for me, are incredible. The mountains, especially in the fall, are incredible. Catalina Island, specifically Avalon, is an incredible place for me.

2. Printer (n.) Mine sits to the right of my monitor. It is a black & white laser printer, which means I don't yet live in a modern world where I can print my own color photos. But it's a good little printer that has served me well. It's especially good for stacking papers that I mean to take care of eventually. It's so nice and warm up there that the papers stay for a long time. I would too, if I could.

3. Mommy (n.) That's what my kids call me until they are about 4 years old or so. Then I become "Mom." I work at home, but I don't get paid money for what I do. If I did get paid, I think I'd be rich. Anyone who has to expose themselves to raw sewage (albeit contained, hopefully) several times daily ought to be paid really well.

4. Rose (v., adj., n.) That's what the sun did this morning. When it sets, it turns the sky I can see outside my living room window that color. And it's one of my favorite flowers. I like the fire and ice variety. If you're into flowery names, I suppose you could go with Rose for a girl. I don't think a boy would appreciate it much. I'm fascinated by the meanings that people attach to the colors of the flower.


Okay, now it's your turn. Your words are creek (pronounced "crick" if you're from Utah), orange, nauseous (not nauseated--there is a difference), and server. And I tag compulsive, Lorien, Eating Paste, and anyone else who wants to play.

Slump Broken

As requested by Becks and the ladies at ~j's baby shower last Saturday, here is my embarrassing story. (Does it count if I wasn't actually present to witness the event?)




When I was younger, my older brothers used to say that my dad should make me a hope chest because I was still hoping for one. They also used to tease me about having mosquito bites and bee stings. My older sister K, on the other hand, is taller and heavier than I am, and, as such, is more "endowed" than I up top. This brings me to my story.




Several years ago, when my son A was probably 3 years old, he went on a sleepover to K's house. He walked in on her getting dressed. She covered herself up quickly, but not before A noticed her "giftedness." Conversation ensued:

A: "What are those?"

K: "Those are breasts."

A: "Oh."





. . . very long pause while the gears turn in A's head . . .










A: "My mom doesn't have any of those."

Thinking....

My brain has recently lost it's capacity to come up with a clever topic to blog about. Let's hope it's only temporary.

And so, in my hour of desperation, I turn to you, dear readers. What would you like to see me blog about? (Nothing skanky, mind you. This is a swearing-tolerant, family-friendly blog.) Please propose topic ideas. I shall pick my favorite and write away. Or something like that.

Who peed in your Cheerios?

http://www.ksl.com/?nid=333&sid=502919

"He would sit in the same room with people and watch them drink his sick little brew and think nothing of it."

Ewwwwwwwww!

Weekend Warrior

We're replacing part of the fence in our backyard. Phil and our next-door neighbor, Jerry, have been working together on this for a week or so. Last Friday, Jerry spent all day digging post holes. His wife wasn't too thrilled to have him using so much of his honey-do time, but so be it. Jerry was anxious to have it all done so Phil could set the posts on Saturday.

Saturday came and Phil started setting posts. He had two posts in, trying to get them exactly level and straight. The man is a perfectionist, so, in order to achieve fence post nirvana, Phil clamped his level to a third post and placed it horizontally across the tops of the other two posts. So far, so good. But one of the posts wasn't quite right, and Phil decided to bang it just a bit with his fist. Bad idea.

The horizontal post came crashing down on Phil's head. It hit hard enough that he nearly passed out. Instead, he lay down on the grass for a few minutes. The neighbor kids, who were playing right there at the time, saw the whole thing. The following conversation ensued:

Kids: "Are you okay?"

Phil: "Yes, I'm fine."

Kids: "Is it okay that I just told my mom what you did?"

Phil: "Uh, sure." (sits up at that point)

Kids: "Are you sure you're okay?"

Phil: "Yeah."

Kids: "So...why is there blood going down your neck?"

Phil: "Blood? What blood?" (reaches his hand to the back of his neck) "Oh."

Phil came over to our other neighbor's house to find me. He asked if I could come help him with something, so I followed him back home. Then I noticed the blood.

Me: "Why is there blood on your neck? What did you do?"

Phil: "A post fell on my head."

Me: "Do you need me to check it before I help you?"

Phil: "Uh, yeah. That's what I need your help with."

We went inside, he removed his baseball hat, and the blood started dripping. I grabbed some rags to clean up what I could so I could inspect the wound. The cut was at least an inch long and a quarter inch deep. I told him this, too.

Me: "I think you need stitches, dear."

Phil: "Are you sure?"

Me: "Yes."




He didn't believe me.




Instead, he put another rag under his hat so he could go outside and finish setting the fence posts. Not only that, he cleaned up his tools and ate some lunch. At that point, I figured he'd be ready to go get it checked and stitched up.



Nope.



He called the InstaCare to see if he really needed stitches. They asked if the wound was gaping. In the background, I nodded furiously. He told them he didn't know for sure, since he couldn't see it himself. (Oh, brother.) He was more worried about wasting his post-setting time waiting in the lobby only to have someone tell him he didn't need stitches, but I finally got him to agree to at least have it checked.

Before heading out, Phil asked me to call my nurse friend to have her check it. Melody kindly came over with her rubber gloves and took a look. Her conclusion was the same: "You need stitches, Phil."

We got ready to go. Phil took time to wash his hair--because heaven forbid a doctor should see a guy with a head wound and dirty hair. Then he decided he was going by himself. He didn't want me to waste my time driving out there and sitting and waiting for him. (sigh) Fine.

He returned some time later sporting this:



Count 'em, folks. There are s-e-v-e-n staples. Yes, staples. Apparently, they don't do stitches in hair anymore because they don't work as well.

The doctor told him, "Yes, you definitely need stitches. It's nearly an inch and a quarter long and a quarter of an inch deep."


Wait. Isn't that what Melody told him?






Hold the phone...isn't that what I told him?







Monday, Jerry came home from work with a gift for Phil. It was even personalized.


Thanks, Jerry. It's perfect!

Fuming

I took my 6- and 2-year-old sons to ShopKo on Monday to do some browsing. I came home fuming. Here's what happened:

I wouldn't allow the 2-year-old to have something he wanted, so he launched into a screaming fit. He's loud and persistent, which means he yells at full volume for a good long time. I'm a good mom, or so I think, which means I ignored his little tirade. (I can be just as stubborn as my kids when it comes to ignoring their tantrums.) As I was standing calmly in one of the aisles, a woman came up to me and said in her sweet little Relief Society Sister voice, "Don't you think you should take him out now? He's awfully loud and is being very disruptive to the other shoppers."

I was expecting some sympathy from her, seeing as she was old enough to have had kids go through this stage and all. I wasn't expecting such a stinging (although delivered sweetly) rebuke. All I could say was, "Sorry."

But I did not leave. I refuse to allow my kids to control me that way. I don't hit them, but I don't give in to their demands. I simply wait it out. Their storms, although intense, are short-lived. And sure enough, within about 10 minutes, I had him calmed down enough to make our purchase and leave the store. Besides which, that lady just bugged. I certainly didn't want to do what she asked me to do.

I wish I'd said something clever, like, "We're training him for the local hog calling contest and ShopKo is his sponsor. They encourage his behavior here." Or even, "He's practicing for the opera." But noooooooo, all I can do is apologize for intruding on her precious "quiet time." Does she not remember having kids throw tantrums in public places? Maybe her kids were never like that. Maybe she never had kids. Who knows. I just resented her intrusion.

Did I do the right thing? What would you have done?

Thoughts on Labor Day

Nearly wet myself over this.

Finding myself feeling very sad this morning because of this.

Crikey, what a day.

Lookie at What I Made Today!

I couldn't resist showing ya'll what I made for my friend today. I'm so pleased with how it turned out! Hopefully the pictures will upload to Blogger. . .

Fortune Cookies

My sister-in-law made fortune cookies for dinner today. My 1st grader opened his and read, "You will seek advice from your mother." My brothers started laughing, but when he said, "Wow. That even makes me laugh!" they all just about fell on the floor.

Mothers are underappreciated. And brothers are overrated.







There. Happy now, Klay?

Yellow Water Falls, by I.P. Freely

As requested by Lorien and Dalene: the prequel to On Golden Pond.

When "Bob" was about 5 or so, he went somewhere with my sister in her minivan. She had given him numerous opportunities to take a bathroom break, none of which he took advantage. After all chances for potty breaks were past, he announced that he had to pee. My sister explained to him that stopping was no longer an option, but he insisted he had to go really bad.

"Well, honey, we just can't stop."

"But I have to go now!"

"Can't you wait?"

"NO!"

"All right. There's a cup back there. Just pee in the cup."

"Okay."

No problem. Except that "Bob" didn't hear "cup." He heard "cup holder."












He filled every one by which he was seated, almost to overflowing.

On Golden Pond, by I. P. Standing

Last year we had an interesting experience with one of our sons. For anonymity sake, let's call him "Bob." Here's what happened:

Phil was up on the roof fixing some electrical problems. He took "Bob" with him. "Bob" saw lots of pipes sticking up through the roof and wanted to know the function of each one. Phil explained the chimney, furnace vents, and sewer vents. "Bob" was very curious about the sewer vent. (Can you see it coming?)

Phil climbed off the roof to come inside for parts. When he got back on top of the roof, he caught "Bob" in the act of peeing down the sewer vent. (If any of this sounds familiar, it's because Lorien mentioned it briefly in her post about Treehouse Fun.) Pretty ingenious of "Bob," but we had to punish him simply because of the public nature of the pee.

"Son, it doesn't hurt anything to pee down the vent, but it's not a good idea to do it on the top of the roof with your pants down where any one of the neighbors could see."





All this has a point, to which I am coming.












Fast forward to yesterday. "Bob" is in the back yard with a squirt gun and a squirt bottle, shooting water at a swarm of dragonflies. No problem, I'm okay with this. Then Phil arrives home from work. Conversation ensues as follows:

Phil: "Do you realize 'Bob' is squirting dragonflies with the squirt bottle?"

Me: "Yes."

Phil: "So what is that yellow stuff in the squirt bottle?"

Me: (no reply, since I am racing out the door to find out)

I reach the back yard and call out, "Bob? What's that yellow stuff in the squirt bottle?"

(Of course, by the time his name has escaped my lips, "Bob" has made a hasty retreat to the far corner of the house and is madly twisting the sprayer off the bottle and dumping the yellow liquid into the grass.)

Conversation ensues as follows:

Me: "What's the yellow stuff, 'Bob'?"

Bob: "Just water, Mom."

Me: "Water isn't yellow."

Bob: "I poured it out of the squirt gun."

He then proceeds to pour water from the gun into the squirt bottle. The water was, inconveniently for him, clear.

Me: "I don't think so. Was it pee?"

Bob (acting appalled): "No way, Mom! Why would I do that?"

Me (thinking back to last summer): "Because you're you."

Bob: "That's just disgusting! I would never do that!"

Me: "MmmmHmmm. Well, 'Bob,' I can tell you're lying to me. I'm thinking that you peed into the squirt bottle."

His body language is screaming "Lying!!!" this whole time. I'm talking eye darting, avoiding eye contact, everything.

Bob (with a sigh): "Okay, Mom, I did it. But I just wanted to see if pee was toxic to dragonflies."

Me (trying not to snort): "All right, but don't do that again. It's just plain gross."

I wonder what adventures next summer will bring?

Happy Blog Birthday to Me

It's been exactly one year since I started this blog. My first post was about what I fed my youngest for breakfast. The last post was about zits. That's quite the spread of topics, if I do say so myself. Many thanks to Lorien and Dalene for introducing me to this wonderful new world of self expression. I've made a lot of new friends and had a lot of laughs reading everyone's blogs. Here's to many more blogs to come from me and from you.

A Question for You, Dear Readers

What is the worst place to get a zit?

Please discuss.

Entitled "Um...no thanks" or "These PR people need to get a clue"

I got this in the mail the other day from my credit card company. This was the first thing I saw on it:

Favor? What favor are they talking about? And since when do I go around embracing cards? So I open it up to see this:

"The right card to have, to hold and to use."

What is this? Do they think I married a credit card or something?

And then, "You chose the Citi Dividend Card. So we think you deserve a big hug!"

A hug from whom? From Citi Card? I don't think so. That would be like kissing a rattlesnake. (No comments from the peanut gallery about my affection for legless, scaly animals, please.)

I open it further to reveal this:

In case you can't read the fuzzy print, it says, "Make your Citi Card your main squeeze."

"Instructions: 1. Wrap around torso. 2. Feel warm and cozy."

I got a "hug" in the mail from my credit card company?!?!?!? This is the kind of thing that kids make as gifts for their parents or that lovestruck Freshman girlfriends send their missionaries. What kind of message am I supposed to infer? Let's see..."We are so happy to be the means of increasing your chances for bankruptcy that we'd like to make you feel 'warm and cozy' about it." Hmmm. I don't think that works for me. How about another? "We love your credit score so much we couldn't resist sending you this love note in hopes that we might further lower it!" Mmmm, not a keeper either.

And what is it with the model in the picture? She looks like she couldn't be happier about receiving a paper embrace from a non-person. Should I feel that joyful about this unexpected "gift"? Those hands look a bit suspicious to me. And the background looks like a pinstriped suit that a mafia godfather would wear. Do I want those kinds of hands wrapped around my torso? I could end up feeding the fish at the bottom of the Provo River.

But as long as I have my Citi Card, I'll have the assurance that a paper arm will reach down and pull me out. How comforting. Makes me all warm and cozy just thinking about it.

No Regrets

More lip curling for The Smiling Infidel.

Three years ago, my husband had surgery to fix a blocked tear duct. The procedure involved breaking a hole in the bone near his eye and, essentially, creating a new duct. As part of the process, the doc inserted a tiny tube into the new tear duct to hold it open while it healed. The tube went up through Phil's nose, out one duct and into the other, and then back down into his nose, creating a loop. It was quite irritating and really gross to look at. Of course the grossness factor inspired Phil to have me take this picture of the atrocity. If you look closely, you can see the tube in the corner of his eye going into the tear ducts of each eye lid. It still creeps me out to look at.

Phil's favorite part of the operation was finding out that the dressing they used to pack his nose after surgery was loaded with cocaine. (Awwww, my little druggie gets his first--and only--fix!)

Strange Regrets

I've been thinking about Dalene's blog from the other day. It brought to mind my own gross wound story from last summer and the ensuing regret.

Here's how it all happened: I was doing some mending on my ancient sewing machine. I needed to rethread the bobbin (or the Golden Snitch, as my second son once called it). Meanwhile, son number three, who was almost 2 at the time, was pitching a screaming fit about something. Unfortunately for me, the two activities combined in a most painful manner. I was reaching for the thread as it came up from the bottom at the same moment that my son stomped his little foot forcefully on the foot pedal. Needle met index finger and created a stitch in time--right through my fingernail and out the bottom of my finger.

I yelled and pulled my finger away from the machine, only to be shocked to see the thread pulling away as well. T-- had literally sewn a stitch in my finger. I cut the thread and walked outside to find my husband. His main concern was whether or not I was going to pass out. My main concern was getting that thread out of my finger and making sure the needle hadn't broken off inside. We debated for a while whether or not I should head out to the InstaCare.

In the end, we came inside, soaked my finger (and the thread) in rubbing alcohol, and got out the pliers. Phil pulled that alcohol-soaked thread through my finger and I tried really hard not to cry from the pain. Eventually, it healed just fine. I had to take out some parts of my nail to pull out more thread there about a week after it happened, but after that was out it only took another week to heal.

My only regret?

Not taking a picture of my finger with thread coming out both the top and bottom.

Happy Anniversary, baby. Got you on my mind...

Yes, just a short 14 years ago today, I married the man of my dreams. He even knew how to do that sea food joke. Only in this case, it was "See? Cake!"




As a side note, I didn't start swearing until after I got married. And kudos to those who know which song I'm referring to in my title.

Snort

I don't know if this is a legitimate story, but I really don't care. It's too funny not to post, especially after our "self-smarted" friend's diatribe.

When Nathan Radlich's house was burgled, thieves left his TV, his VCR, and even left his watch. What they did take was "small, generic, white, cardboard box filled with greyish-white powder." (That at least is the way the police described it.) A spokesman for the Fort Lauderdale police said, "that it looked similar to cocaine and they'd probably thought they'd hit the big time."

Then Nathan stood in front of the TV cameras and pleaded with the burglars: "Please return the cremated remains of my sister, Gertrude. She died three years ago."

Well, the next morning, the bullet-riddled corpse of a drug dealer known as Hoochie Pevens was found on Nathan's doorstep. The cardboard box was there too; about half of Gertrude's ashes remained. And there was this note. It said: "Hoochie sold us the bogus blow, so we wasted Hoochie. Sorry we snorted your sister. No hard feelings. Have a nice day."

Sure, buddy . . . no hard feelings.

Woo-HOOOOOOOOO!!!!

My BUDget is DOne! My BUDget is DOne! (can you picture me singing?)

Yes, I've finally caught up. I know, I know...I'm confirming your suspicions that I'm not completely normal--anal retentive, even. But I can't help but celebrate. I've had that budget hanging over my head like Pooh's black cloud since February, and I got everything done through June. Yippeeee! Now I can blog without guilt!






Until July 31, that is.