Fashion Fil

About a week and a half ago, Phil (or Fil, as he refers to himself) came home from work all excited about something. He told me that one of the IT guys at work had announced that the next day was going to be Dress Like Fil Day, complete with contest, and would I be willing to come down and be the judge?


Of course, I said "yes."


How could I resist? You see, Phil would make a great candidate for TLC's What Not to Wear. Stacy and Clinton would have a heyday if they saw his side of the closet. His clothes take up more space than mine do. But his daily wardrobe consists of three main staples: cargo pants, rugby/polo shirts, or long sleeved sweaters with a single horizontal stripe across the chest. A button-up shirt? Only under duress or on Sundays with a tie. (Thankfully, he doesn't wear the cargo pants to church.) Argyle sweater? Not on your life. Scary (sorry honey) sweaters from the 80s? Definitely, but only to company parties or to a really "nice" function.

Ten years ago, one of our neighbors said Phil reminded her of Steve from Blues Clues. I had no idea who she was talking about. We didn't have cable, and A-- was too small to know about Blue, so I bought a video tape of Blues Clues just so I would know who "Steve" was and what he dressed like. Our neighbor was spot on: Phil dressed just like Steve. Ten years later, he still does.




Wanna see the pictures? Of course you do.



Notice the ziplock baggie duct taped to the middle guy's pants because he doesn't own a pair of cargo pants. That's creativity, friends.




Can you tell they're all a bunch of enginerds/computer geeks? Uh-huh.


Phil is the one in the front, kneeling. The other three were the winners for the three categories: Best Dressed (clothes matched most closely with what Fil would wear), Most Articulate (best Fil impression), and Next GQ Model (best Fil pose).


It was awesome. And Phil was a great sport. Actually, he was more like a very enthusiastic sport about making fun of himself...one of the things I love best about him. What a guy!

One of the BEST Santa letters...

This is S's letter to Santa for this year (written at school), errors and all:


Dear Santa,

Thank you for last years Skippyjon Jones book, How to draw dragons and other fantasie creatures, and the lego dumpster. I really liked the dumpster I could turn a knobs on it to make it dump, raise, and turn the machine. For this years presents I want a vulcan ebf-25 dart gun, a star wars plug'n play game, and a hypersonic operations aircraft legoset.

First, I want the vulcan eBF-25 because it can shoot very far and has a stand so you do'n't have to hold the heavy dart gun. It can shoot 3 darts per second! I can also hold it against my chest and shoot it It comes with like 60 darts.

Also, I want the star wars video game because I can bring it around to my friend's house and other houses like my relatives. The plun'n play video game would improve my eyesight and my relfexes.

In addition, I want the Mt61-hypersonic aircraft becauswe It has a quick-deployment platform, Flying ailien reserch center and twin-Attack cruisers. It would improve my building skill, imagination and my love of fiction.

I deserve all these things because they would improve my skill, eye-focus, imagination, building skill, reflexes, and self-defence. I also deserve these things because I would share these things with my family and friends.

To conclude, I would really like to have the vulcan ebf-25 The star wars the clone wars game and the Mt-61 hiper-sonic aircraft this year for christ-mas. can I have these three presents this year? Have a merry christmas!

Sincerely,
S

My Point Exactly!

Overheard tonight at my parents' house:

S to A: You contradict everything I say!

A to S (in a very snotty voice): No I don't!

Hubby Tag

Because I aim to please...

What is your husband’s name? Phil

How long did you date? 5 months dating, 4 and 1/2 months engaged. But my dad knew him longer than I did (Dad picked him out for me when I was in 8th grade. We didn't meet until I was 20. Long story.)

How old is he? 40

Who eats sweets? Both of us.

Who said I love you first? Um...I think I might have, but I can't remember. I do remember almost introducing him to my former seminary teacher as "my fiance" on our first date. Luckily, it came out as "my ffffriend." I knew before I met him that something was different about him and that it would be significant.

Who is taller? Definitely him.

Who can sing better? I do. But, thankfully, he can at least carry a tune. One of the best times I ever had was telling him that I had told the music person in our ward that we would sing a duet. He nearly keeled over until I told him I was joking. But I had him going for a while.

Who is smarter? We are both smart, but he remembers more of the fun math than I do, since he actually uses it every day. We were both Engineering majors, but then I switched to English, which is what I got my degree in. However, I was one class shy of a Math minor. Go figure. He's a damn good tech writer, though.

Who does the laundry? Me. All of it. If he ever decides to "help," he'll wash, dry, and put the whole mess in a mountain on the bed for me to fold later. He will not fold. So I'd rather do it all myself and fold as the clothes come out of the dryer.

Who pays the bills? Me

Who sleeps on the right side of the bed? He does. But I used to.

Who mows the lawn? He used to, but I took over so he could spend more time on the basement. (And in case you are wondering, no, it didn't mean more basement time for him. It meant more yardwork for me.)

Who cooks dinner? Me. In the old days, he would cook on Sunday to give me a break. Those days are long since gone. Kinda sad, now that I think about it.

Who drives? When we are in the same vehicle, usually he does, but not always.

Who is the first to admit they are wrong? I am...because I detest confrontation. He's more that willing to admit fault, however, when he's wrong. I just do it first because I want to get it over with.

Who kissed who first? He kissed me first. But he took his own sweet time about it.

Who asked who out first? Well, neither one, actually. My parents arranged our first date. (We doubled with them. Really. And it was fun.) After that, he asked me out.

Who wears the pants? We both do. I hate wearing dresses and skirts. Very butch of me, I know. Maybe that's why I also have super short hair? Dunno. I've never explored that part of my personality.

Friends who should do this: Anyone who wants to. No pressure.

Snort-Worthy Words

I went to parent-student-teacher conferences today with A--. He's an excellent student with a few predictable concerns. His math teacher said that although he's very smart, her only concern is that he never stops talking. And while A-- can talk and learn at the same time (how?), others around him cannot. In contrast, A--'s choir teacher praised his lack of conversation with a boy who constantly talks to A-- during class. I was, frankly, shocked to hear this. A-- is the child who never stops talking at home. Never. Taking him shopping is a mind-numbing experience because the questions come, literally, about twenty a minute. He can't even stop long enough to hear my answers.


On our way home, I quizzed A-- about his behavior. He assured me that he doesn't talk when his math teacher is talking, which is good because, as he said, "Even I have to listen to figure out how to do that stuff." When I asked him why he doesn't talk during choir, his response nearly caused me to bite my tongue off trying not to laugh out loud....


"Well, I have to use my mouth for other things during choir. It's too busy to talk."

Getting her land legs

"Hmmm....I wonder what's in here?"


"Maybe if I move my knees a bit closer..."


"And closer...."


"Whoah, now! That's different..."


And...she's UP!


And getting better every day.


I'm so not ready for this. (sniff)

Conversations at My House

Seriously folks, this just happened. I typed it as I witnessed it, so my apologies if it feels disjointed. I know I missed a couple of things because, hey, I can't type that fast anymore.



S: {sigh}........{siiiiigh}

Me: What's wrong?

S: A-- won't let me play with J--. {sigh}

Me: Why?

S: Because he says my jobs aren't done. That I can't play with her until my jobs are done.

T: Yeah, he's trying to be in charge, and he's not in charge. Mooooom, A-- is eating crackers on the chair!

[We don't allow food in the living room.]

Me: A--, no food in the living room. And you are not in charge. [He hears this phrase hundreds of times every day, literally.]

T: Mooooom, come and see. He's still doing it.

A: But look how I'm doing it. I'm not making a mess!

Me: [Seeing that he's holding the bowl of crackers clear up to his chin] Food stays in the kitchen. You get greasy fingers on the chairs when you do that.

[no response from A--]

T: I want to watch Curious George!

A: No. I picked this show.

T: But I want to watch Curious Geoooooooorge! [bursts into tears]

then....

T: I want to turn the TV this way.

A: No. I'm the one that chose the channel, I'm the one who's watching it, so I get to decide. I'm the only one who gets to watch because I chose the show.

Me: No, you don't. As long as you're eating, you have to stay in the kitchen, so the TV gets turned towards the kitchen. And everyone gets to watch.

S: [from the bathroom] So when it's movie night and you don't pick the show then you don't get to watch, A--.

A [yelling]: Guess what, S--? You're not in charge! So shush!!!

Me: [thinking, not saying] Now that's the kettle calling the pot black.

S-- comes back and he and A-- then engage in a viewing battle wherein both of them sway back and forth like pendulums, A-- in front of S-- and telling S-- that he can't watch because his jobs aren't done. Now who's trying to be in charge and play police?

A to S: I'm going to tell your friends that you watch Curious George.

S: [yelling] A--!!!! Please stop! Please don't tell them that I watch Curious George. It wouldn't be nice.

A: [in that snotty voice] So? I'm going to tell them anyway. Go get your jobs done.


Any wonder why I lose my patience by the end of the day?

The Cutest Spooks

Want to see some cute spooks?




Here's my virus-free E Male, A--. See those awesome braces? (No comments from the peanut section, please, about the condition of his shirt. I swear it was clean when he left the house this morning.)



And our resident Death Eater, S--, striking his most fearsome poses, complete with shop-made wand and staff:



We can't forget our traditional ghost, T--, who made sure everyone knew he was "a stary dhost" (scary ghost) as opposed to a nice one.



Little J-- charmed everyone, of course. (Who wouldn't be charmed by such a cute cat with that cheesy grin?)





And, last but not least....Where's Waldo?




See him? No? Hmmm. Look harder....







Why, he's hiding right there behind that cat. See the one whose ears are being forced straight out by her headband thingy? (Um...not my favorite look for her.)


Hope your Halloween was safe and happy!

One of these things is not like the other...

One of these things just isn't the same:



This van was in the parking lot at the fiddle contest.






Yeah, I thought so too.

Getting all misty over...

My twelve-year-old son reciting (from memory) this Robert Frost poem:

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.


I spent the rest of the drive back home (he recited it for me while I drove him to school) thinking about the roads he will have to choose between in the future, praying that his choice will make all the difference, and feeling blessed that I have such a great son.

Potty Training and Poetic Justice

Last night I was at my parents' house, hanging out with the girls and the kids. My sister came out of the bathroom, complaining about the mess that one of our nephews had left in there. The offender's mother rolled her eyes and apologized. "He has the job of cleaning the toilets at home for that very reason. His dad calls him 'The Rainbird.'"

So my sister mentioned that I had taught my sons to sit down from the moment they began potty-training. Yes, it's true. My sons belong to the Secret Sitter's Club, as does their father. And he was taught that very valuable skill by his mother, who would listen outside the bathroom door and tell her husband and sons to please sit down because she could hear that they were standing up. (She would also notice when someone had spent extra time in the bathroom and then serve peaches for dinner. I tell you, it was a long time after Phil told me about this before I could comfortably use the bathroom at my in-law's house.)

After explaining that background to my SIL, I told about the time my MIL, Gert, was watching A-- for me at her house. He was about 3 and 1/2 or so and was potty trained. I went to pick him up and had to wait longer than usual for Gert to open the door. When she finally did, she was wearing her yellow rubber gloves. She apologized profusely for making me wait.

"I'm sorry it took me so long. I was in the bathroom, cleaning."

Then she said something that shocked me, because she is such a prim and proper lady.



"I am so glad you have taught your son to go to the bathroom properly! I am sick and tired of cleaning pee off the walls and floor around the toilets!"



Apparently, Phil's brother, who was visiting with his children (four of whom are boys), didn't pass along the Secret Sitter's Secret. He had brought along a fleet of his own "Rainbirds."




I have laughed long and hard at that story for many years, feeling pleased that my sons haven't created really horrendous messes in the bathroom for me to clean up.


Enter: Poetic Justice.




As I was finishing my story, I heard T-- calling from the bathroom: "MOOOoooooom, I needa WIIIiiiiipe!" My sister offered to help him, but he adamantly refused. I guess I was the only one he would allow into the inner sanctum.

I went into the bathroom, took one look at him, and thought (thought, not said, I'm careful around my kids), "Oh sh*#!" Literally. It was all over the seat, down into his underbunders, and all over one of his hands. He took one look at my face and started to cry. I reassured him that it was okay, just an accident, and we'd get it all cleaned up.



By the end of it, I'd thrown away said pair of underwear, put said child into the tub, disinfected said toilet, and run home and back for clean clothes and kid-friendly shampoo.






I feel humbled.

But if I cannot

A few weeks ago, I took my oldest two sons, A-- and S--, to watch my dear friend's daughter compete in the Special Olympics. It was an amazing experience for me. I spent most of the time we were there wiping away tears. Who knew you could feel the Spirit at a sporting event?

As we watched these incredible souls compete, S-- started to ask questions. "Why is that person so excited even though they didn't win? Why did that man keep swimming, even though everyone else was done a long time ago?" So I told him (or tried to, through my tears) about the Special Olympics Athlete Oath: Let me win. But if I cannot win, let me be brave in the attempt.

Fast forward to this past weekend. S-- and A-- both competed in the Utah State Fiddle Contest. S-- was one of maybe 15 children in the Small Fry division playing fiddle; A-- was one of three in the Junior Guitar division playing, well, guitar of course. I was proud of both of them for even getting up there--neither one has ever played in a contest, and only S-- has played in public before (once). In spite of a few relatively minor mistakes, they both played quite well. Nothing spectacular, but nothing horrible either.




When it came time to announce the winners for the Small Fry division, they had all the children come up on stage. They handed out Certificates of Participation to every child until they got to the last four. S-- was one of the last four. They handed out the 3rd place trophy (not to S--). the 2nd place trophy (again, not to S--), and finally the 1st place trophy (still, not to S--), and told the kids that was it. S-- stood there completely bewildered. I could read his thoughts (and his quickly crumpling face): "Do I stay up here because they didn't give me anything? Do I get something special? I don't know what to do." I watched him fight so hard not to cry and I felt helpless. Thankfully, someone in the audience yelled out, "HEY! You forgot one! The boy in the red shirt!" So the officiators checked their hands and, sure enough, there was S--'s certificate. All they said was, "Oh. Oops, I guess we forgot one."

I was livid.

S-- came back to his seat next to me and spent the next hour and a half (at least) sobbing quietly into my shoulder. This is the boy who came home crying from his very first Pack Meeting because not one person acknowledged him as being a brand new Cub Scout. Other boys were brought to the front and introduced as new Cubs, but not S--. He didn't want to ever go back. I couldn't blame him. It took a lot of gentle persuasion to get him to agree to even attend another Pack Meeting, let alone participate. Given that background, and after all he's been through in the last year or so, I just knew that S-- would never, ever want to compete in another contest again, no matter how good he gets.

We had to fill out a survey about our contest experience. The first question was, "What did you like about this experience?" S--'s answer was, "Nothing." Then, at the bottom of the survey, was the question, "Will you participate again next year?" I expected he'd say, "No, never again." But he didn't. My brave little boy bounced back. His answer? "Maybe." I was never so proud of him as I was in that moment. (Well, except for when he was standing alone on that stage, trying not to cry.)

I thought back to our experience just a few short weeks ago and remembered telling S-- about the Special Olympics Oath. I didn't think he got it. Or maybe he always had it in him. Because even though he didn't win, he was definitely brave in his attempt.

He'll be back.

Fun in Richfield?

And behold I do labor exceedingly today in preparation for our return to the land of my father. And I do take my husband and my children to the lands in the south for, behold, two of my children doth wish to participate in this:


And I do wonder at my juxtaposition of scriptural language and old time folk music....

And it's even for a good cause

So I decided to submit a post for this. (If the powers that be decide to include it, and you buy the book, you'll find out which one.)

I can't wait to read the book, whether I'm in it or not. It should be AWESOME. There's nothing better than making people laugh, especially if it's for a good cause.

Ain't Love Grand?

After reading c jane's update this morning about Nie Nie and Mr. Nielson, I thought another love story was worth linking to as well.

This is my brother and his wife.



Aren't they a great looking couple? (No, Kim, you are not allowed to argue that.) Here is Kim's latest post. I thought it was awesome, and I'm absolutely thrilled that he and Lesleigh are so happy together.

Wha?

This was the cover for the latest Scouting magazine that came to my house. I know many of you get it too, so it's not anything new. But is anyone else as disturbed by what my husband calls "The Pedophile of the Month Scout Master?" The catch headline says, "This man can fire up your guys." Are you kidding me? How many innuendos can be inferred by that line alone? Yikes.

By the way, the firing up is in reference to reading.

And none of my guys found the picture to be inspiring.

At all.

The Story Behind the Nickname

I know some of you have asked how I got the nickname of "Pottymouth," so I thought I'd share it with you. The tragic events chronicled by our dear c jane have put my thoughts back to the story, and I thought it was probably time to finally share.

The story began in March of 2004. Some of you remember me referring to it in this post, so I won't rewrite the details. (There were other details to the story that I didn't include and won't include for Phil's sake.) Suffice it to say that the experience was hell. There is no other way to describe it: pure and utter hell. It sent me into a deep depression that I couldn't get myself out of. Thankfully, I finally recognized what was happening and was able to get medical help. Phil got better and I got stronger.

The following summer (2005) was Girls' Camp, and I was a newly called advisor to the 14- and 15-year-old girls (the Mia Maids). I wasn't able to go up the whole week, but I went up for the last two nights, one of which included a testimony meeting. I'd had over a year to think about my experience and wrap my brain around what had happened and how I felt about it. When it came time to share my feelings, this is what came out of my mouth (essentially):

Sometimes life can be, well, shitty. There's no other word for it. But this is what I have learned to be true: the mists of darkness that Lehi talks about in his vision are real. I've felt them; I've experienced them in a very real way. I testify to you that the only way to get through these mists of darkness that life brings--the only way--is to hold fast to that iron rod. Hold on to it for dear life, literally, because you won't survive otherwise. I've been through hell this past year or so, and the only way I survived was to hold on tight to my faith in the Savior and in His restored gospel. Even when those mists separated me from my ability to feel the Holy Ghost, I knew that I would make it because I was clinging desperately to my faith that Heavenly Father is in charge, that He loves me, and that everything would work out the way it was supposed to.

I got a lot of flak about my choice of descriptive adjectives that night, but I stand by what I said. It's all true. Life is shitty sometimes. We feel overwhelmed. Why is this happening to me (or to him or to her)? I'm not a bad person, so why is this bad thing happening to me? I think these are natural questions to ask when we are facing hard times. But God never promised that the righteous would never be tried and tested. He did promise to stand by those who keep their faith and endure to the end.

I'm not a bad person, I don't think, but bad things have happened to me. Things I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. However, I know that God lives and that He loves me. Me. Imperfect me, with all my faults and foibles. I also know that that Jesus Christ lives, that He died and was resurrected, for me. Me. He wants me to be able to live with our Father in Heaven again. What an incredible gift! I know that the Holy Ghost is real because I have felt his influence in my life. Maybe I don't always feel it, but I know it's real. And because I have felt it, I know everything will be okay in the end. Maybe not now, maybe not next year, but it will be all right eventually. And whatever happens, I know that God will help me through it. It is this knowledge that got me through the events of the last year.


I listened to my beautiful little girl squealing happily yesterday morning and smiled when my husband said she sounded like a happy bird, because birds (and darling babies) make me think of Stephanie. But as sick as I am about what has happened to Stephanie and Christian, and as heartbroken as I am imagining what their sweet children are feeling and thinking right now, I know that whatever happens is part of God's plan. He will make it right, somehow, someday. Stephanie's birds will fly again.

Because I know you want it

Here's a picture my brother took on Sunday of me and little J--. For some reason, he thinks she looks like me as a baby, but I'm not so sure. Below is my baby picture for comparison.

What was that again?

True story:


A relatively new nurse was taking care of a man who had to have an oxygen mask. While she was in his room, he asked her, "Could you please check to see if my testicles are black?"

She thought, "What???" but said, "I'm sure they are fine."

He persisted. "I really need you to check and see if my testicles are black."

She reassured him, "No, that's not what you're in here for. I'm sure they are fine." (Thinking: "I do not want to see this man's testicles.")

Still. "No, really. Could you please check to see if my testicles are black."

"Okay, I can see that this is really important to you." So she pulls back the blanket, lifts the man's gown, and checks.

"Sir, everything looks just fine."

He gives her a scathing look, pulls his oxygen mask off, and says, "Listen very carefully. I said, 'Could you please check to see if my test results are back.'"



"Oh."

Favorite Toys

As a mother of four, I've watched my children latch onto favorite toys. Each one so far has had definite preferences from the time they were very tiny.

Naive mom that I was, I assumed that because A-- was a boy, he would like cars. Not so. He ignored every car and truck I put in front of him. A-- loved fans. I mean he really loved fans. And extension cords. He was the only 2-year-old I knew who had his own fan and his own extension cord. One of his favorite games to play was to hook together as many extension cords as possible, plug his fan into the very last one, and then plug into the wall. For some reason, he found it fascinating to get the fan as far as he possibly could from the outlet and then turn it on. He would do this at my parents house for hours. (They have a huge lawn and lots of power cords, so he could get the fan pretty far away.) He also had a baby doll ("Baby Gus") that he played with a lot. Unusual toys for an unusual kid.

S-- was the Matchbox/Hot Wheels car kid. He would spend hours when he was just tiny "parking" every tiny car he could lay his hands on. At first I was worried that he might try to put the cars in his mouth (choking hazard), but he was too consumed with lining them up. We found some books that came with little cars that quickly became his favorites, especially the "Wash Me" book. It came with a tiny VW bug car. In our house, to this day, VW bugs are referred to as "Wash Me Cars." S-- was obsessed with Wash Me Cars. Eventually, he outgrew little cars and moved on to Legos. Good for him, not so good for my bare feet. Have you ever stepped on one of those pieces with your bare feet? Ouchymama, that hurts.

T-- came along and picked up S--'s cars, but his preferences were on a slightly larger scale. We found Little Tykes to be a good resource for him, until he decided that forklifts (pronounced "fork-fifts") were where it's at. (Have you ever tried to find a toy forklift? Yikes.) Luckily, I found a really nice wood one last year for Christmas that he absolutely loves.

As for little J--, who knows? Will it be cars? dolls? power tools? I can't wait to find out.

So why blog about favorite toys? Well, because I, too, have a favorite toy. I've had it for as long as I can remember, and I still have it. And it's still my favorite.


I have a thing with marbles and marble runs. I remember being fascinated by them when I was very tiny. There's a picture somewhere of me and my younger brother at Christmas with these marble toys (his was blue, mine was pink). They were plastic columns with sections that had marbles inside. You could move the marbles from compartment to compartment, as I recall. I loved it. Sadly, it no longer exists. But I still have my Tumble Tower. I still play with it.


So how about you? What was your favorite toy as a kid?