Sunday, November 13, 2011

Weekend Randomness

I've decided that I’m going to become a TV weather girl just so that I can annoy the snot out of people by jumping up and down and getting all excited every time there’s snow in the forecast. 

Sometimes, you just have to tell big, fat lies to your kids.

I wonder if the guys who stand there in road construction holding the “SLOW” signs ever flip it around to “STOP” just to mess with people.  If they don’t, they should.  They look pretty bored.

Thanks to email and word processing software, I’ve pretty much lost all ability to write the old fashioned way.  I can barely sign my name anymore when I have to. 
Along those same lines, I really miss birthday cards and just-because notes, the kind that come in an envelope in your mailbox. 

I wish I were brave enough to talk to myself even when people are watching.  

John Cougar Mellencamp should not sing Christmas songs.  No, not ever.

When I’m a grandma, I want to have the house with the big back yard where all the families gather for cookouts and birthday parties.

I think talent should stand on its own.  It’s not fair that a college degree often trumps talent.  Of course, I might feel differently if I’d been smart enough to finish college back in the day. 

There’s no such thing as too much cilantro.

I really wish that smacking other people’s kids in the mouth wasn’t so frowned upon.

I hate these. 

Thursday, November 10, 2011

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

Post-Halloween Randomness

I may need to switch to a slightly darker make-up foundation.  This morning, instead of Nancy Grace, I saw Edward Cullen in the mirror.  No, really.

I love it when I send someone a heartfelt, personal email telling them how much I admire their hard work in accomplishing something and I go on for like eight sentences and I get the reply:  “Thanks.”

I have a gift for getting in the checkout line behind the 85 year old lady who’s using a debit card for the first time in her life.

My kids are officially addicted to the show, “I Shouldn’t Be Alive.”   Apparently I’m raising children who are fascinated by half ripped-off thighs and blood-filled abdominal cavities.  Thank you, Netflix streaming.

I’ve come to the conclusion that college girls use campus restrooms for primping more than for peeing.

I’ve probably taken thousands of showers in my lifetime.  So how come when I get in, the water temp is ALWAYS wrong?

If you've ever wondered if it's possible to experience withdrawal headaches just THINKING about giving up sugar and white flour, trust me:  IT IS.    

Thursday, October 27, 2011

Birthday Randomness

I’ve given up ever being able to work cellophane.  It’s just a mess every time.

I’m 40  41 years old. Shouldn’t I have more money?

I really can’t wrap my brain around the band Daughtry.  How many times can you take the same song and release it with a different title before the radio stations catch on?

I’m sorry, but I think it’s weird when married couples share email accounts.   Almost as weird as when they wear matching outfits.

At what point did I stop caring about my own birthdays?  I suspect, like everything else, it’s something I can blame on having children.

Why do pumpkin shirts at Halloween only look good on skinny people?  That makes no sense to me.

You know how people sometimes have weird, irrational fears?  Meet one of mine.  These local chicks just creep me out.  Zumba-teaching twins with corn rows.  Once, they did a promo where they stood on horse’s backs and did Zumba moves.  Zumba-teaching, horse-mounting twins with corn rows.  But why?   I couldn’t even stand to watch the video.  It scared me.


I really want to stop doing everything I do for like three whole days and see what happens.  No dishes, no laundry, no helping with homework.  Just sitting on the couch and watching things fall apart before my eyes.  Is it wrong that I'd be disappointed if the world didn't come to a screeching halt?

I hate it when I walk in the bathroom in my bare feet and step in something wet.

Way grateful for gal pals.  Mine are particularly amazing and awesome.

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

More random thoughts: toes, the Ingalls family, and narcissism

If I were a well-known public speaker, I would probably succumb to the temptation to quote myself on a regular basis.

I get a really big kick out of toes.  They’re funny.  Some people just have really funky looking feet.  Growing up, my parents always teased me by calling me "monkey toes."  I'll let you be the judge:  Were my parents mean ... or just honest?

When I see people roll through stop signs at intersections where school kids are running around on all sides of them, I want to ram them with my car.  Yes, bluish-green-minivan mom, I’m talking to YOU.

Earlier today I told a student at work that I rarely have an opinion about anything.  I could barely keep a straight face, but I think he bought it.

I don’t know if there’s anything more strikingly beautiful than snow on the mountains in autumn.  All of the colors come together like buttah.  The combination of greens, golds, reds, and the white of the snow against the backdrop of a crisp, blue sky and puffy white clouds is just candy for the eyes.   I will NEVER complain about fall snow. 

Doesn't it seem logical that eating foods with tons of preservatives would keep us young?

Once, JUST ONCE, why can’t Charles and Caroline Ingalls catch a break?  If I had a nickel for every time they ALMOST cashed in a big crop or ALMOST made a fortune off of a business venture, I’d have … well … WAY more nickels than the Ingalls family.

It really bugs me when people say that some relatively minor inconvenience in their lives is “the worst thing EVER.”  Really, locking your keys in your car or getting a bad haircut is the worst thing ever?  I hope nothing TRULY terrible ever happens to you.

Saturday, October 8, 2011

Short but Sweet Randomness

I have a calendar, an alarm, and a notepad on my smart phone, but I still prefer to write my reminder lists on my hand.

With all of the water and soap, how is it that my shower is the most disgustingly dirty place in my house?

Cancer scares the crap out of me.  I’ve known a few people who have fought it and won, and a few who have lost their battle.  All are amazingly courageous to me. 

I love The Biggest Loser.  I hate The Biggest Loser.  How can something be so wonderfully inspiring and so downright discouraging all at once?

I really love co-op stuff like carpooling, babysitting, and Bunco … except when it’s my turn.

I’m all for helping my children discover their talents, but if my daughter plucks out “Jingle Bells” on her viola one more time, I’m going to pluck my EYES out.

I'm a big fan of shopping the generics, but there are certain things you just don't skimp on, like toilet paper.  And cheese.  And hair products.

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Pole dancers need to eat, too ... I guess.

I love that when I look out my back door, I see this:

But as beautiful and majestic as it is, it just looks plain naked when its peaks aren’t blanketed in snow, like this:

  Ahh ... that's better.

-I get that there are older (55+) women out there who still have their young-ish figures and are eager to show them off.  But please, for the love, when you're out in public -- like say, for example, at my neighborhood grocery store--leave the pole dancer outfits at home, hanging from the POLE IN YOUR CLOSET.  The fact that you can still fit into it does not mean that it still goes with your face ... if it ever did.

-I get really happy inside when I see cute little elderly couples taking walks together, arm in arm.  I can't help but think that it's a preview of what Rick and I will be doing in a few ... er ... several years.  Forget about Brangelina or Bill and Hillary -- I think we all know who the REAL power couples are.

-I’m seriously considering taking Tuesdays off so I can stay in my pajamas and watch the “Law & Order: SVU” marathon that runs on the USA network every week.   Yes, I love it that much.  And I still want to be Detective Olivia Benson when I grow up.  Major girl crush.

-The other night, as I was frantically trying to do the dishes and cook dinner, my kids came running in the house, excitedly yelling, “There’s a rainbow!  There’s a rainbow!  Come see it!”  My inclination was to give them the standard mom line:  “Just a minute.   I need to finish this first.”  But I opted to stop what I was doing and go check out the rainbow.  It was a small thing that made them happy.  I’ve decided that however urgent the task, it’s always best to drop what I’m doing to “see the rainbow.”  Dishes and laundry and messes are perpetual .  Rainbows and kids are fleeting.

-I always hear people say that they can’t function before their morning cup of coffee.  Since I don’t drink coffee, does this mean that I shouldn’t be expected to do ANYTHING?  EVER?   I’m down with that.

-I don't think I'd make a very good man.  Whenever possible, I try to put at least one stall between me and the other women in a public restroom.  I have a thing about performing bodily functions with a stranger sitting so close to me.

-Nancy Grace was in my mirror again this morning and I am NOT happy about it.

Tuesday, October 4, 2011

Shocking Mirror Revelations and Other Random Thoughts

  • This morning, while getting ready for work, I looked in the mirror and was shocked to see Nancy Grace looking back at me.  I think I’m going to quit poofing my hair. 

  • On Facebook, why do people comment on celebrities’ statuses?  Like the Pioneer Woman.  I’m a fan of her page, but when she posts something, she gets about 300,000 comments.   Do you think she’s reading them?  Do you think your comment is going to jump up and impress the daylights out of her?  Not gonna happen.  She is WAY above you.   You may as well be talking to yourself  … kind of like what I’m doing right now.
  • School carnivals are a racket.  I remember when my younger siblings went to charter school and my mom would just write a check at the beginning of the year.  That was it.  No fundraisers.   Why can’t they just do that in public schools instead of mugging us a couple times a year via bounce houses, fishing ponds,  and over-priced, cold pizza?  My neighbors and I decided that we’re going to hold our own carnival right in front of our houses at the park.  When people ask what we’re raising funds for, we’ll just tell them we were long overdue for a good pedicure and wardrobe upgrade.    
  • I know that drinking lots of water every day is really good for me, but I’m conflicted over the benefits vs. the pain in the butt of having to get up and go to the bathroom every 20 minutes. 
  • I’m really afraid of pressure cookers.  Always have been.  I don’t trust anything that hisses at me when I touch it, especially when extreme heat and potential combustion are involved.  When my ex insisted on taking it in the divorce, I didn’t fight him on it. 
  • I don’t get the popularity of most of the female singers and/or bands these days.    There seem to be two styles on the radio lately:  I’m-in-love-so-I’m-gonna-whine-and-then-kill-myself … or … talentless-oversexed-gonna-seduce-you-with-my-meat-dress.  If I had my way, Katy Perry, Pink, Lady Gag Me, Adele, the Band Perry, and that Bieber chick would all just disintegrate into a fine powder.
  • Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and can’t go back to sleep because I’m being haunted by some dumb and/or embarrassing thing I did 15 years ago, or in high school.  You’re probably wondering, “Like what?”  But I’m hesitant to provide examples.
  • I like comments. A lot.

Saturday, October 1, 2011

Happiness is ...

... being 40 years old and going on your first overnight camping trip ... ever.  Yes, I said "ever."  Rather ironic that I escaped my sheltered existence by moving to Utah, eh?

... being 40 years old and going on your first overnight camping trip with your "new" family.

... watching your boys discover the joy of covering themselves in soot and dirt from head to toe without mommy getting mad about it.

... nearly being set on fire twice by a five year old waving around a flaming, giant marshmallow on a stick.

... sitting by the campfire a few minutes later with that same five year old curled up in a ball and snoring on your lap.

 ... teaching two giggly little girls how to pee into cups so they don't pee all over themselves.

... carefully peeing into a cup and peeing all over yourself anyway.  Twice.  (Photos omitted for your eye safety. You're welcome.)

... seeing two little boys get uber excited over things like big sticks and looking at the side of the mountain through binoculars and whizzing all over trees.
Don't ask about the eyes.  It's his thing.

... having four little kids who are happy because they get to do simple things like cook hot dogs outside, roast marshmallows, drink hot chocolate, and sleep under the stars in a tent.

... having a wonderful husband who makes kids happy by cooking their hot dogs, building a fire for their marshmallows, heating up water for their hot chocolate, and setting up their tent.

...coming home to the world's softest mattress and hottest shower.

Tuesday, August 9, 2011

Manilow, Mayo, Mormons and the Mafia

Earlier today, I was sitting at an intersection waiting for the light to turn green.  As I waited, I felt that familiar rumbling in my chest and rattling of the rearview mirror that occur when one of those cars with the bass-thumping stereos pulls up alongside.  I was looking around me and in my mirrors trying to determine who the thoughtful fellow driver was so that I could decide which direction to point my special finger at them when the light finally changed. 

I saw the little silver Toyota with the two, white, grandma-ish women inside.  
Probably not them.

I saw the gas guzzling pickup with the big, burly, unshaven driver and the ladder and shovels in the back.  
Not so much him, either.

Then I saw the big, pimped-out, shiny SUV with the half-open sun roof.  The driver was a hispanic male with a mostly-shaved head donning some very black shades.   

As traffic started moving and said SUV drove past me, speakers a-thumpin',  I learned that my assumption was correct.  Shocker.

This got me thinking about a recent post I made on my Facebook wall where I was nervy enough to make note of the fact that our president, for the mere fact that he is a black person, would probably like stuff like watermelon, corn bread, and fried chicken.  


"What do these two seemingly unrelated events have to do with one another," one might ask?  Hmm.

I looked around at a group of drivers on the road and determined--based solely on what I observed--that the Mexican-looking guy in the SUV was most likely the one with the annoyingly loud speakers. YES, I just said "Mexican-looking."  "Mexican" is not a derogatory term, regardless of what the Left would try and make you believe.   It's a nationality.  If someone called me Canadian looking because my skin is a bright white hue that could only be the result of being raised in the Great White North (sadly, it's true), I'd likely correct them, but I wouldn't be offended.  My mother, whose soul is whiter than June Cleaver and Sarah Palin combined, is regularly mistaken for a Mexican due to her dark hair and slightly olive complexion.  And it's all OK.  Promise.  

So does my correct assumption about the stereo make me a racist?  Or does this simply mean that I've not yet fallen victim to the line of thinking that has made people terrified of acknowledging that there are REAL differences in races and cultures?   The liberal Left claims to have mastered diversity and tolerance, yet it is they who create division by making the rest of us feel as though the mere mention of our differences is some kind of hate crime worthy of the death penalty.   

Oh wait.  That's not entirely true.  Non-whites have carte blanche (pun sort of intended) on poking fun at the white race and culture.  White people can't dance.  White people got no skeeeelz on the court.  White people love the light rock stations.    

What's so very puzzling to me is that the Left has deemed themselves judge and jury in terms of what's funny and what's not.  If it's funny to them, you're allowed to laugh.  If it's unfunny to them and they deem it offensive, you are a racist and a homophobe for even daring to say it or think it.   Oh, and you have no sense of humor. What are the rules for what's offensive and what's funny?  Don't ask me.  I'm a conservative.  I have no say in these matters. Furthermore, it seems I have no sense of humor, either.   So to all my friends who think I'm funny:  Quit that.  You're wrong.  

Now, please brace yourself (especially if you are a liberal), because I am about to type something that is going to turn your world upside down and get your panties in a painfully twisted bunch.   

There is nothing in the world wrong with stereotypes.

Stereotypes exist because groups--races, cultures, individuals--live up to them.  The notion that white people love light rock stations does not exist because someone made it up out of their hatred for white folk.  It exists because it is often, though not always, THE TRUTH.  Can all of you clearly-thinking people wrap your minds around this concept?   More panty-twisting shockers for you:

Gays like Barry Manilow.  (I learned that by watching Will and Grace, the foremost authority on what gays like)

Mexicans like to put mayonnaise on everything.  (Ask anyone who's spent any time there)

Chinese people mix up their R's and their L's.  (Dear liberal friends:  In one of my favorite movies of all time, A Christmas Story, this fact is hilariously portrayed by the Chinese waiters whose version of "Deck the Halls" comes out as "fa-ra-ra-ra-ra----ra-ra-ra-raaa."   Am I allowed to think that's funny or is that on the offensive list now?  I really can't keep up with the hourly changes to the rules).

Mormons love green Jell-o salad and parties with free food.  (I AM a Mormon.  Don't even try to argue this one with me)

Italians kill people. (Have you NEVER seen The Godfather?  Good Fellas?)

While these statements aren't necessarily true of every member of these groups, they certainly hold true for a major portion, with the exception of the Italians stereotype.  I'm pretty sure it's only the New York and Chicago Italians who go around killing people.  

To point out cultural differences is not racist.  To acknowledge stereotypes is not racist.   For one to believe that he is far superior to another simply because of his race is absolutely and without question racist.  There IS a difference.  

So please, people, get a grip on your politically correct, superduperhyper-sensitivities run amok.    Just crank some Barry Manilow on the Hi-Fi and relax with a bowl of green Jell-o salad.   I myself will be tuned in to the local light rock station and working on my moon walk.  

Sorry I'm not sorry.

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Wednesday, April 13, 2011

The Naked Truth About Doggy Fashions

Dear Otherwise Sane and Savvy People,

Why do you put clothes on your dogs?  It's not cute.  It's creepy.  

Dogs do not care about clothes.  They have practically no fashion sense.  What they DO have, however, is a head-to-toe fur coat that is NOT meant to be covered up by a Schnauzer-sized, beaded, ripped up, off-the-shoulder Flashdance t-shirt with four matching ballet slippers.

This is wrong.   Very wrong.   It's the equivalent of us humans wearing fur coats as underwear.

Dogs are not naked.  Not ever.  They do not need clothing.  They have no awareness of their "nudity," nor do they care.  

Ever seen a dog lift his leg to pee on...well...just about any stationary object, with his goods hanging out for everyone within eye-shot to see?   Of COURSE you have!  Did he seem embarrassed that you saw him that way?  Of COURSE he didn't!  Any creature who will get his jollies on your leg, poop in your front yard, then come inside and lick himself clean at your feet while you try to eat your dinner is not the least bit concerned with modesty or societal expectations.  Promise.

So, to you wonderful and perhaps slightly off balance ladies (or homosexual men) who love your pets:  If you REALLY love them,  please stop embarrassing them--and your poor husbands (or life partners) who are forced to parade them around the neighborhood on a diamond studded leash--by making them wear tutus and tiaras.  


Proud owner of a perfectly well-adjusted, naked hamster

p.s. Sorry I'm not sorry

Sunday, April 10, 2011

The Bread of Life

I've been on a weight loss journey for a while now.

Around 28 years or so.

So I'm an expert.

When it comes to dropping pounds, the concept is pretty basic:  Calories in-calories out.  Expend more than you consume.   How you eat those calories doesn't really matter so much, at least as it relates to weight loss.  Of course, eating 1,500 calories per day in orange cocaine (aka Cheetos) is not going to provide you with much in the way of nutrients, but a person CAN lose weight eating like that.

Armed with that solid bit of knowledge, I've decided that my newest fat busting endeavor is going to involve toast.  Lots of toast.  Maybe nothing BUT toast.

This guy speaks to me:

My comfort food bestie isn't ice cream or warm chocolate cake or pizza or Twinkies, though I fully admit that I like those things.  When the kids are all tucked in and it's time to self-medicate, I'm all about the bread, baby.

Yeah, toast!

Whole grain goodness, warmed to perfection and topped with melting butter.  Does it get any better?

I realize the OTHER health "experts" out there may take issue with my approach, but really, what do THEY know?  How can they even call themselves experts?  Have THEY been trying and failing at weight loss for 28 years?  I, on the other hand, have tons of experience in this area.

Literally. Tons.

This business of trying to eat a well-balanced diet hasn't worked out so well for me to this point.  If people--and I use that term loosely here--like Lindsey Lohan can survive on nothing but booze and...well...MORE booze, I'm wondering if all that junk about fruits and vegetables and protein isn't just a bunch of media hype.

Perhaps, like Miss Lohan,  I'll just pick one thing that I really, really like and stick with that.

Yeah, toast!

...and chocolate milk.  Oh all right, TWO things.

Sorry I'm not sorry.

Saturday, April 2, 2011

And the eyes have it

Day seven:  The lost boy

Day seven's post is essentially a continuation of day six.

My youngest son and I had an incident today while shopping which very nicely illustrates the point I was trying to make in my last post.

Parenting is painful.

Today's hurt brought to you by:  irresponsible mothering and a very naughty four year old who, by the way, is incredibly handsome with big blue eyes and even bigger eyelashes and is my baby and therefore can do just about anything he wants.

I may have sort of accidentally misplaced him at the store today.  But it was only for like 8 minutes. 

Like YOU have never done that.

When I realized he had disappeared, I sent his three older, more obedient siblings out on search party duty.  It quickly became apparent that it was time for mommy to panic.   And panic she did.  

Of course, it wasn't until I had combed every last inch of the store for several terrifying, stroke-inducing minutes that I found him, with one of the store clerks, near the front entrance.  Isn't that always the way it goes?  The lost kid is always in the last place you look.  The woman was obviously interrogating him, but for once he was minding his mother and refusing to talk to any stranger who endeavored to try and help him.  

Upon further investigation, I found out that he had first been spotted in the electronics section, crying and looking lost.  Keep in mind, this was the opposite end of the store from where the rest of his family was shopping.  The next sighting was...

...wait for it...

...wait for it...

...wait for it...

In. The. PARKING LOT!  A nice man (thank you, Lord, for letting that man NOT be a homicidal pedophile), had found him wandering around outside--on a SATURDAY--busiest day of the week--looking for his mommy.  He was kind enough to bring him inside and alert the store employees.  

This kid is like a foot tall, for crying out loud!  And weaving in and out of weekend shopper traffic like a midget with a death wish!  

Guardian angels saved him in the parking lot.  But once he got inside and his mommy got a hold of him, it was those big, blue eyes that saved him from a good neck wringing.  Mommy was more interested in hugging his neck at that point.  Score another one for the peepers.

Rest assured, the boy got a good talking-to about all of this when he got home.  When I finished my rant and ended it with the million dollar question, "GOT IT?" he promptly looked up at me with his baby blues and responded with a very timid, "got it."   

He's now sitting at the counter blissfully enjoying a bowl of homemade ice cream.  He deserves a treat.  He had a hard day after all.

Sorry I'm not sorry.  Scratch that.  For this one, I AM sorry.  I hope the little man won't need TOO much more therapy after the events of today.  Maybe we'll get the group rate.

Thursday, March 31, 2011

It hurts me more than it hurts them

Day six:  The pain of parenting

Parenting tests my limits as a human.

I love my children more than In 'n Out Burgers and Cadbury Eggs...combined.  I know.  That's pretty intense, right?  There are many things I do for them that I would never even CONSIDER doing for another living soul.  

Cleaning up vomit: no way.

Stopping every ten miles for potty breaks on a road trip:  I don't think so.

School science projects:  no way in ****.

Watching every last Harry Potter and Batman and Barbie movie:   Fuhgettabout it.

But for my kids, I endure, because I love them.

What I do not love about being a parent is parenting.  I'm not talking about hugs and kisses and story time.  I'm talking about threatening and ordering and arguing and negotiating and disciplining and whining (uh, my whining, not theirs).

When my parents would use the old "this is going to hurt me more than it hurts you" line on me, little did I know that the pain to which they were referring had more to do with the rising of their blood pressure (they don't call it the silent killer for nothin') than with the stinging of their palms brought on by a swift smack to my bare tushie.

Now, thirty something years and four childbirths later, I get it.  I really do.  Loving my children is a piece of cake.  Parenting them is overwhelming and exhausting on the best of days.  Being a single parent adds a whole new set of challenges to the mix.

From the time I get home in the afternoons until they go to bed at night, it's them against me.  Their four against my one.  And before I know it--like next week--those four will all be taller than I am.  Smarter, too.  A couple of them already are.

I don't like those odds.  Please pass me my blood pressure medication...and a Cadbury egg.

Sorry I'm not sorry.

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Frogs are people, too

Day five:   Looking both ways

Anyone remember that old video game called "Frogger," the one where the idea was to move your little frog across the road without him getting smashed by cars?

Side note:  Typing that just made me think of growing up a country girl in the middle of the blazing hot Arizona desert.  I'm suddenly remembering walking down the dirt road in front of our house during the summer months and finding the crispy, paper-thin carcasses of frogs who hadn't quite made it to the other side.  You wouldn't believe what an afternoon in the Arizona sun will do to the slimy remains of a recently mowed-down amphibian.  I would even pick them up.  It's true. You do NOT want to know the kinds of stuff these hands touched during my childhood years.  I could go daaaaays without bathing.

But I digress.

Working at a major university, there are days (like Monday through Friday), when I feel like somebody has plunked me down in the middle of a game of Frogger.  I'm the car.  College students are the frogs.  Suicidal frogs.

January.  Dead of winter. Sheets of ice and sludge on the roads.  I'm driving through an intersection as a seemingly intelligent student meanders along the sidewalk to my right.  Suddenly, without even turning her head one way or the other to check for traffic, she's in the crosswalk in the middle of the street.

How did she--?  Why would she--?  Is she mentally--?

These are the thoughts racing through my head (throw in some four-letter words if you want the full effect) just as I'm getting my money's worth out of my anti-lock brakes.  Picture a screaming, swearing, panic-stricken woman in a mini-van swerving and sliding all over the street in an attempt to avoid hitting one not-so-innocent pedestrian.  Also imagine said pedestrian being completely oblivious to the five car pile-up she has just caused.  Onward she toward her lily

Hey, she's late for driver's ed.  No time for such trivial matters as safety or being aware of her surroundings.

Though the incident I refer to here happened in winter, this is not merely a seasonal problem. Class is in session year round.  And when class is in session, students are everywhere.  EVERYWHERE, I tell you!   Darting into the street like frogs in a video game.

Stupid, blind, suicidal frogs.

Hey, don't mind all of us insignificant people driving the cars.  After all, we've got brakes and we know how to use 'em, right?

I wonder what an afternoon in the Utah sun does to the remains of freshly mowed-down college students.  Something tells me it won't be long before I find out.

Sorry I'm not sorry.

Monday, March 28, 2011

Don't be a hater. Embrace the love.

Day four:  Mushy junk

Enough with the PDA's.

Oh, you're one of THOSE couples.

Get a room already!

These are just a few of the phrases I've been hearing and reading lately as I explore this new world of public adoration and affection on Facebook and in real life.

I've got myself a new man.  Well, he's ten years older than I am--50--so maybe he's not THAT new.  But he's new to ME.  This new-ish man of mine likes to make sure that the world knows exactly how he feels about me.  I'm learning that this makes some people slightly uncomfortable...or jealous.  Probably jealous.

Hey, it's okay.  I am totally with you on this.  I've been both--the uncomfortable one AND the jealous one--at one point or another in my life.  Sometimes I was one or the other.  Sometimes I was both all at once.  Yes, I'm a mess.  No need to restate the obvious.

Even as a child, I can remember that whenever I would see my parents hugging or kissing, I would get really upset and order them to stop immediately.  Come to think of it, they got divorced when I was in my 20's.  I hope that wasn't my fault.  Oopsie.

Back to my point.

I've just never been comfortable with others' outward displays of affection.  I tend to be somewhat private about these things, so I'd be perfectly happy if everyone else would just keep all that mushy junk to themselves as well.

But my new-ish guy is broadening my horizons (AND my thighs with all of his baking and dessert-making).  He thinks I'm freaking awesome (my words, not his) and he is NOT afraid to shout it from the rooftops.  At first I didn't think I was going to like that so much, but I'm finding that it's nice to feel loved and adored and to be able to do a little neener neener dance from behind the keyboard as all of the peeps in my virtual community read post after post about the most amazing girl in the world (that'd be me, according to Mr. New-ish).  I won't lie.  I'm kind of digging it.

Something to keep in mind:  This totally awesome girl came from a life--not so long ago--where her "loving companion" could barely muster up the desire to look her in the face or carry on a three-minute conversation.  After being privately starved for emotion and attention for so many years, this girl is going to sit back and enjoy being publicly adored for as long as she possibly can.  

Sorry she's not sorry.

Sunday, March 27, 2011

Is this seat saved?

Day three:  The sin of seat saving

I love the people I go to church with.

Side note:  I know the correct way to write that would be, "with whom I go to church," but that sounds so uber proper and stuffy, so I'm sticking with the illiterate's version this time.  I'm throwing that out there as a preemptive strike against anyone who wants to call me on it.

Where was I?  Oh yes, church love.

I believe the people in my church and neighborhood are some of the finest people I've ever had the pleasure of knowing.  I would never dream of pointing out any flaws in their character.


If I HAD to...

I wouldn't, of course, but if I HAD to...

I'd be forced to bring up the issue of seat-saving.  You know, holding a place on a bench or in a row for people who are not yet there but who will be eventually (like probably WELL AFTER the meeting actually starts)?  It's often done at movie theaters or concerts or sporting events.

I'm not referring here to the use of humans as placeholders.  I have no problem with that.  If a few of one's family members arrive early or on time and want to save a few seats, I'm all for it.

What I must protest is the use of inanimate objects--NON-PEOPLE--as a means of saving numerous seats (like an entire row) for friends or family just so that said friends and family don't have to make the bothersome effort to get there in time to get a good seat  (good=cushioned pews as opposed to folding metal chairs).

I have three words for the perpetrators of such a transgression:  Tisk, tisk, tisk.

This hasn't been a problem until recently.

I'm one of those on-time kinda gals.  For the most part, I'm typically early to most events.  I might add that, with four kids to wrangle, this is no small task, especially when it comes to getting us all to church in a timely manner.  But, with a few exceptions, we manage it.  I might also point out that those "few exceptions" are almost ALWAYS my kids' fault.  No really, it's true.  They're mega cute, but they have little regard for punctuality.

Sunday mornings at my house are often laden with much blood, sweat and tears.  Just ask any mom who's ever had to get multiple kids cleaned and pressed and out the door by herself in a matter of a couple of hours.

I need a nap just typing about it.

So imagine my deep discouragement when I show up to church ten minutes early, only to find that the comfy seats are already occupied.  I don't realize this, however, until I have walked right up to the end of the row, ready to sit down, and discover to my horror that the bench is lined with one or more of the following:

Ziploc bag of Lucky Charms
ABC gum

I'm not kidding you.  People get pretty creative with this seat saving business.  And it's serious.  If I were to carefully move that ABC gum out of the way so that my family, who are ACTUALLY PRESENT IN THE BUILDING, could sit down, I'd have a fight on my hands.  I'd be considered...well...rude.

I've tried arriving earlier.  Quarter 'til:  saved.  Twenty 'til:  saved.  Sun-up:  saved.

I give up.

When I lived in Arizona, seat-saving got to be such a problem that our local leaders came out with a formal policy on it.  It went something like:  "Knock that off.  If you want a place to sit, get yourself here and sit your righteous tushy in the seat."

I'm paraphrasing slightly for dramatic effect, but that was the gist.

As a mom, I get annoyed with my kids when they use the "that's not fair" line on me.  Life isn't fair.  I remind them of this on quite the regular basis.  But on the subject of seat-saving, I have to say that using items from your diaper bag to save numerous spots on a pew just isn't FAIR to the rest of us who get up extra early and work extra hard to get to church on time and get a good seat for our loved ones' righteous tushies.

I figure if it's important enough for our leaders to mention it, it's important enough for a worn-out, cushy-seat-lovin' mommy to bring it up, too.

Sorry I'm not sorry.

Saturday, March 26, 2011

Take THAT, Miss Itty Bitty!

Day two:  Working out with skinny people

I've been hanging out with a personal trainer for a few months now. Despite the cosmetic evidence to the contrary, I love to work out.  If I ate properly as diligently as I worked out, I'd look more like Jillian Michaels and less like Chris Farley right about now.  I'm workin' on it.

My awesome (by "awesome", I mean "skinny") friend Jen and I have been sharing personal training sessions for a while.  She texted me the other day and asked if I'd mind if she brought along her ALSO SKINNY sister-in-law (by "ALSO SKINNY", I mean "cheerleading, Zumba dancing, teeny tiny size two wearing").  I admit I was slightly intimidated at the thought.  I was sure that Miss Itty Bitty was going to come in there and wipe the floor with the both of us (by "the both of us", I mean "me").  I imagined her standing over me with her foot in my back, flexing her miniature-but-chiseled bicep, laughing in that sinister way that skinny blonde girls do. 

As we got into the workout, I became less and less worried and...well...okay...mildly ecstatic.  Itty Bitty huffed.  She puffed.  She struggled.  She groaned.  She grunted.  She got nauseous.  

I laughed--to myself, of course.

I'm not completely heartless.

Poor Itty Bitty.  She didn't know that when she met me this morning, she would become the personification of all the skinny girls from high school who ever made me feel bad about myself.  I was secretly out to defeat her, though the battle really wasn't with her.  So I guess I owe her some thanks.  By letting me show her up, Itty Bitty helped me gain a small personal victory.  Don't get me wrong.  I like her.  I just needed to beat her.  

Sorry I'm not sorry.

Friday, March 25, 2011

Spring snow? Yes, please.

Anyone remember that Pollyanna thing I did a while back, where I wrote every day for 30 days about something I'm thankful for, or something that makes me happy?  I've decided it's time for a repeat.  Sort of.  I started a series of "Sorry I'm not sorry" posts and never really kept them going.  I was flooded with letters and emails from fans who were mourning the death of that series.  Yeah, that's so not true, but at least a couple of people mentioned that they missed reading those posts.  I've missed writing them.  I've let trivial matters like motherhood and romance and a paycheck and bills and sleep and sanity keep me from my passion in life:  snark as an art form.

So, for at least the next 30 days, I'm back at it.

Today's topic:  the weather.  

I have a love affair with Utah's weather.  I simply do not understand all the complaining I hear from long-time residents of this beautiful state.  It usually starts some time in February:

"Enough with the snow already!"

"Why does it have to be so cold?"

"Will I ever see the sun again? If I don't see the sun, I just know I'm going to DIE!"

Granted, I've only lived here through three winters now, but so far it's been the same experience every year:

Winter comes.  The temperatures drop.  Snow falls.  Snow stays for a while.  We all enjoy a white Christmas.   We sled.  We ski.  We build snowmen.  We throw snowballs and laugh.  We make snow angels.  Little boys pee their names in freshly-fallen powder.  Holidays are over.  Everyone wants the snow to go away.  March comes and snow and rain continue to fall.

Side note:  March is known as Utah's wettest month.  People probably assume that it's because of the amount of precipitation that falls from the sky.  But I believe March is known as the wettest month because of the FLOOD of complaints that come POURING on to Facebook and out of people's mouths about our "miserable" weather.

April comes along.  Tulips bloom.  Everything blooms.  I had never seen so much color until I moved to this beautiful state.  May...June...July...warm days and gorgeous nights.  Summer ends.  Fall comes and all of the colors that come with it.  Crisp temps, shorter days, orange and gold leaves, pumpkins, scarecrows, Halloween.  Then winter returns and the cycle repeats itself.

So how is it that, after only living here for three years, I seem to be the only one who sees that there really, truly is hope for the end of winter and the beginning of balmy weather?  Yes, we will see the sun again.  Yes, the temperatures will warm up.  Yes, the snow will stop and it will all melt and bring us those rivers we love to picnic by and those blossoms we love to smell.

In other words, it will all be okay.  Winter is not the end of the world as we know it.  Everybody take a deep breath.

It's snowing today.  My kids are out playing in it.  I LOVE spring snow.  It coats everything in white for a few hours, then the temps warm up and it's gone as quickly as it got here.

Having come from the hell on earth known as the southwest desert, I can tell you that all of this variety makes me do a happy dance.  I no longer need to keep oven mitts in my car to avoid having my fingerprints permanently melted off into the steering wheel.  I get to hear weather reports with words OTHER THAN "hot," "unseasonably hot," "record drought," and "spontaneous human combustion warning in effect until midnight."

Variety is the spice of life.  If the weather was what some call "perfect" all of the time, something tells me we'd still find ways to be unhappy about it.

I love the spring, summer, and fall weather just as much as the next person, but I love the snow, too.  I know that I annoy the snot out of the locals when I get all giddy about the snow...yes, even the spring snow.  I do it on purpose.  Some people scrapbook for fun. I enjoy annoying people.

Sorry I'm not sorry.