kareening

this, that and the other

2011-11-04T16:44:00.001-06:00

That's basically what has kept me away for a while... I'd get into more details, but what it boils down to is lots of boring every-day stuff, plus my new iPhone 4s.

{Me + Siri = TLA}

Let me try and catch up on the past several weeks through a few pictures:

Tyler earned his varsity letter on the golf team this year; banquet was a few weeks ago. He missed going to regionals and state by a hair (actually, by about two strokes!)... but to letter as a freshman is pretty awesome. Great job, Ty, we're proud of you!

More than ever, Dingo wants to go for rides in the car. None of us can leave the house anymore without him thinking he's hittin' the road, too... so when we can, we take him along. (See how happy he is? Seriously, how can you resist a face like that?)

I'm not the only one who has a crush on Siri... Dave finally made the leap from his BlackBerry to iP4s, so now he's a member of the Apple cult as well. Tyler got one, too... but that's another story, one that deserves a post all by itself here pretty soon.

Now that golf is over and Weather has decided to head into the crapper for the next six months (welcome to winter in Utah), Ty needed something to keep him occupied... so he's lifting weights. These days he spends a good portion of the evening in the basement pumping iron... truth be told, I think he spends a lot more time finding songs on the radio than he does lifting weights, but that's just me.

"Hey, are you going somewhere? Can I come?"

Going to U of U football games is our big family activity. This is the Utes' first year in the PAC12 conference, so the season has been a little sketchy... but the games are still lots of fun. Halloween weekend was the "blackout" game, where everyone dresses in black. Would ya get a load of these thugs? Good thing I was wearing neutral gang colors...

Halloween! I think we had just under 12,000 trick-or-treaters come to our house, which was AWESOME... nothing like pumping Spiderman, Mario and Lady Gaga (yep, she totally showed up on my doorstep) full of sugar and sending them home to their parents.

"You're driving four blocks to get gas? Sounds AWESOME! I'm ready."

Ok, ok, Dingo... let's go.

grey smatter

2011-09-20T13:06:00.006-06:00

There are days when my brain refuses to engage properly... when my grey matter can only manage spastic episodes of Complete Misfire before returning to its default state of Lame Idling. In honor of this phenomena, I affectionately call the mush in my skull "Grey Smatter."

Today, friends, is a Grey Smatter day.

So far today (btw, it's only lunchtime), this phenomena has caused me to:

Change clothes three times into what was essentially the exact same ensemble. Three pairs of black pants, three grey shirts and 30 minutes later, I realized what I was doing and just left the house wearing the last black/grey pairing I put on.
Almost leave the house in my slippers. I was backing out of the garage when I happened to look down at my feet and thought there were two baby skunks camped out on my floorboard... a split second later, I realized I still had on my black fuzzy slippers. I was so caught up in the epic battle of the Black Pants and Grey Shirts that, of course, putting on shoes completely escaped my attention.
Run a red light because, for some reason, it registered green. Let me qualify this by saying that I have been known to intentionally run "orange" lights from time to time... but this morning I actually rolled through an intersection (a sparsely-traveled one, thank goodness) thinking the light was green. Seriously, who does this?? People over the age of 80, people under the influence of alcohol... and people whose noggin is non-functioning.
Completely forget a prior conversation that is pertinent to a current conversation. All morning I was under the impression that we had to meet a noon deadline. When I asked my boss about it -- rather urgently, because a big part of my job is making sure we meet deadlines -- he reminded me that the deadline was moved to Wednesday. He also reminded me that I was in the room yesterday when we were informed that the deadline was moved to Wednesday. [Helpful Hint: When suffering from temporary stupidity caused by Grey Smatter, never ever tip off your boss, as he/she might mistake it for a permanent condition. Just spend the rest of the day sitting quietly at your desk, do the best you can to stay productive, and take deep cleansing breaths until it passes... or until it's time to go home.]

This is exactly what I will be doing for the entire afternoon so that, at worst, I am not a danger to myself or others... and at best, I get through the day without people thinking I'm a complete idiot.

Thanks to a head full of Grey Smatter, it's a long shot. Wish me luck.

go, fish

2011-08-26T12:05:00.012-06:00

Behold: A new little fish at a big pond called Stansbury High School.

Classes started Tuesday. That morning he was his usual calm, collected,

no-need-to-make-a-fuss-it's-no-big-deal self.

{Mostly.}

But the night before, he came to me and admitted to having a butterfly or two.

"They'll be all these older kids there... which will be freaky."

{Freaky = Scary}

I reminded him that he knows lots of those older kids, and they'll be cool to him. I also reminded him of all the other freshmen, many of them his friends, who would be swimming right along with him... and in no time, they'd all be going with the flow.

"It's going to be a lot more work than junior high... and, dude, that sucks."

Yep, it will be more work. And from now on, it counts. So, my darling child, get a handle on that concept today. Right now. Otherwise, the suck factor you speak of will be of EPIC PROPORTIONS.

{Note his brooding above, over the prospect of Epic Suckage.}

We quickly changed the subject and talked about all the cool stuff.

He made high school the golf team, which he is loving,

and so far has qualified to compete in every tournament... not too shabby for a minnow!

We discussed the various clubs and activities,

which are great opportunities for him to get involved.

We also chatted about the games, the assemblies, the dances...

and all the other epic grab-ass that is High School.

{Note his elation above, at the prospect of Epic Grab-ass.}

As Tyler's Retired Diaper-Changer/Nose-Wiper/Lullaby-Singer, I gotta tell ya... he seems awfully big to me. {I mean, are ya lookin' at these photos?!} But in this context he is, indeed, a little fish in a big new pond... so my final counsel was short and sweet:

Stay alert. Stay close to good friends. Pray. Stay true to yourself.

"You're gonna rock high school SO HARD!" I chirped, all excited and smiley. "Do these things, honey, and you'll be just fine." He smiled, hugged me and went to bed. And then I cried.

Not because I'm worried about him. Not because I'm afraid he won't succeed. The tears were flowing because I know what high school really is.

For Tyler, it's a thrilling new beginning. For me, it's the beginning of the end.

And I know it's as it should be.

{Go, fish... and know that I love you.}

Fam Photos Part I

2011-08-20T20:31:00.004-06:00

Last month my sister, Christine -- also known as The Darling of the Family, Vitamix Dynamo and Photography Wunderkind -- came to visit for a few weeks. The minute I knew she was coming I pounced on her, asserting whatever "I-Am-The-Oldest-You-Will-Do-What-I-Say" influence I might still possess and asked her to take our family pictures while she was here. She was happy and excited to oblige... and, in fact, was completely unaffected by my big-sister bullying. Which is precisely why she's The Darling of the Family.

Seriously, if you sat the Dirks down right now and asked us all to vote, she'd have it sewn up and IN. THE. BAG. Actually... the first round of voting would be thrown out because, being the self-absorbed narcissists that we are, we would all vote for ourselves... except for Christine, who would write down:

"In a million years I could never pick just one of you, because each of you are darlings to me. Please don't hate me for not picking, I love you guys so much! xoxoxoxo"

DIRK FAMILY: Do I not speak the truth? (Feel free to corroborate.) Which is why, when we voted again for real, Christine would take it in a landslide.

I digress. I meander. I tangent. Where was I? Oh, yeah... family photos.

The last time she took our photos was December 2009; they were taken in front of a totally cool barn that I'd driven past for years, and they turned out awesome. About a year ago I chose our next family photo location, another place I drive past all the time: An old abandoned railroad way station, sitting on the salt flats next to the Great Salt Lake, adorned with graffiti (the artful kind, not the ghetto subway station kind). Next to the building is a rusted out railroad car that's also bedecked with urban artwork. BINGO. The next time Chris was visiting in the summer, I knew that this was the place.

This first installment of photos features my faves of the Whole Fam Damily. Then I'll post my faves of Tyler, and then my faves of Dave and me. Actually, they're ALL my faves. I love this location, I absolutely LOVE how they turned out... and I LOVE LOVE LOVE my little sis for being so talented, so accommodating and... well, so damn darling. Thank you Chris!

{Thanks also to the Fam Damily for, once again, humoring your wife and mother... and for being so handsome and photogenic.}

fresh, man.

2011-08-10T20:53:00.002-06:00

High school registration was yesterday. So we went to the school and filled out the forms...

Paid the fees ($226 -- and, for the briefest of moments, homeschooling seemed appealing)...

Got his yearbook picture taken (thank goodness he'd showered; he was even wearing school colors!)...

Got a locker (on the end, so he's got a little elbow room)...

Found his classes ("Whoa, I didn't realize this place was so big!")...

Found his friends (waaaay easier than finding his classes)...

And, finally, humiliated him by making him stand next to the mascot statue so his sentimental mother could take his picture, plaster it on her blog and preserve this moment forever.

It's official: Tyler’s a Stallion!

{Also official: Mom's emotional! But we won't discuss that right now.}

pooh + keane = sniff

2011-07-13T11:13:00.003-06:00

Last night I was in the throes of about five different projects at once when this came on TV. It caught my attention because I love, love, love the song "Somewhere Only We Know" by Keane... but it was the music and the images that made me stop everything I was doing.

As crazy as it may seem, by the end I had full-on goosebumps and a honey pot in my throat! Listening to that song while watching my old friends -- friends I had all but forgotten as an adult, but cherished dearly as a child -- march over that bridge together brought tears to my eyes. In less than two minutes I went from a 41-year-old mom sorting bills to a four-year-old mophead sitting in front of her Fisher-Price record player, listening to Pooh's adventures while following along in her tattered-but-loved storybook.

"Oh simple thing... where have you gone?"

Back to the Hundred Acre Wood... where life is indeed simple, and sweet, and as wonderful as I remembered.

manners? yes, please.

2011-07-05T13:15:00.010-06:00

So I found this list called 25 Manners Kids Should Know, and thought I would pass it along... not as a hint -- I repeat, not as a hint -- to any of my peeps, but merely as an item of interest. I came across it over the lovely, long holiday weekend...during one of the many, many hours I sat on my patio with a cold drink, doing next to nothing.

I can feel some waves of jealousy crashing in -- particularly from those who had 17 places to get their families to over the course of three days. You're all, "Yeah, so, how the hell did you swing that one, sister?" How, you ask, did I score a grundle of leisure time during one of the least leisurely weekends of the entire year? I'll tell you how:

Because I made a deliberate decision to ignore the laundry
Because it didn't occur to us to make holiday plans with family and/or friends, mostly because:
Tyler is on a camping trip with his dad for a week and I had nobody to worry about, boss around or disappoint with my stupid Motherly Rules & Reasoning -- which resulted in a ridiculous, almost shameful, amount of free time

Quite frankly, that free time -- specifically, the copious amount I had in my son's absence, and what I did or did not do with it -- was surprising, unsettling... and may need to be explored in a future post. But in my defense, I did not say "absolutely" nothing. I said "next to" nothing because, HELLO, the list!

Speaking of the list... you'll find it below. The good news is my own kid has about half of these down pat. The bad news is my own kid has about half of these down pat.

Read 'em and weep -- or read 'em and cheer, and then march right over and give your Miss or Mr. Manners a big hug and kiss for being so polite and lovely!

I mean, please march right over... and thank you.

25 MANNERS KIDS SHOULD KNOW

#1: When asking for something, say "Please."

#2: When receiving something, say "Thank you."

#3: Do not interrupt grown-ups who are speaking with each other unless there is an emergency. They will notice you and respond when they are finished talking.

#4: If you do need to get somebody's attention right away, the phrase "excuse me" is the most polite way for you to enter the conversation.

#5: When you have any doubt about doing something, ask permission first. It can save you from many hours of grief later.

#6: The world is not interested in what you dislike. Keep negative opinions to yourself, or between you and your friends, and out of earshot of adults.

#7: Do not comment on other people's physical characteristics unless, of course, it's to compliment them, which is always welcome.

#8: When people ask you how you are, tell them and then ask them how they are.

#9: When you have spent time at your friend's house, remember to thank his or her parents for having you over and for the good time you had.

#10: Knock on closed doors -- and wait to see if there's a response -- before entering.

#11: When you make a phone call, introduce yourself first and then ask if you can speak with the person you are calling.

#12: Be appreciative and say "thank you" for any gift you receive. In the age of e-mail, a handwritten thank-you note can have a powerful effect.

#13: Never use foul language in front of adults. Grown-ups already know all those words, and they find them boring and unpleasant.

#14: Don't call people mean names.

#15: Do not make fun of anyone for any reason. Teasing shows others you are weak, and ganging up on someone else is cruel.

#16: Even if a play or an assembly {OR CHURCH} is boring, sit through it quietly and pretend that you are interested. The performers and presenters are doing their best… and you may actually learn something.

#17: If you bump into somebody, immediately say "Excuse me."

#18: Cover your mouth when you cough or sneeze, and don't pick your nose in public.

#19: As you walk through a door, look to see if you can hold it open for someone else.

#20: If you come across a parent, a teacher, or a neighbor working on something, ask if you can help. If they say "yes," do so -- again, you may learn something new.

#21: When an adult asks you for a favor, do it without grumbling and with a smile.

#22: When someone helps you, say "thank you." That person will likely want to help you again. This is especially true with teachers!

#23: Use eating utensils properly. If you are unsure how to do so, ask your parents to teach you or watch what adults do.

#24: Keep a napkin on your lap; use it to wipe your mouth when necessary.

#25: Don't reach for things at the table; ask to have them passed.

i see him

2011-06-06T11:33:00.013-06:00

Can you see him?

The young man who used to be my baby boy?

I swear.

I turn my back for FIVE MINUTES and there he is...

Looking suave and sophisticated in a purple shirt and tie,

moving easily among his fellow eighth-grade graduates.

He's got a LOTTA nerve, that one.

He and his friends complained about dressing up.

But secretly they didn't mind,

because the female demographic of this group

isn't shy about telling them they look hot in dress clothes.

*sigh*

Lord, help me.

The rate of maturity this year has been astounding. Alarming.

But not the four-inches-taller-and-20-pounds-heavier part... the

"you're-calmly-defending-yourself-and-I'll-be-damned-if-you-don't-have-a-good-point" part.

I have no idea where he picked that up... probably on the bus. (Honestly, the crap these kids learn on the cheesewagon...)

At any rate, his newfound ability to behave rationally and reasonably is FREAKING. ME. OUT.

But don't be fooled by the rare moments of clarity.

The hormones are still eating his brain like alien zombies

and he still visits the Land of Complete Boneheads nearly every day.

And there were PLENTY of shenanigans this year...

maddening and baffling and redundant to the point of total insanity.

In fact, rarely an afternoon would pass that

I wouldn't daydream about stopping by a liquor store after work,

because "taking the edge off" sounded very much like

Heaven wrapped in Nirvana sitting on a frothy cloud of Utopia.

Don't even get me started on the ground covered in the Cute Girl Department this year. This photo (and his goofball grin) should be explanation enough, right?

He learned a lot about girls this year, and some of that learning hurt. A lot. His heart got banged up and broken, and my heart broke for him.

"That's why they call them crushes. If they were easy,

they'd call 'em something else." (Name that movie!)

But we Recovering Adolescents know all too well there's usually

only one way to move through those lessons: The hard way.

As it turns out, Tyler wasn't the only one learning lessons the hard way this year... I learned a few myself.

In parenting a 14-year-old, I made a really big mistake: I forgot what it was like to be 14 years old. I lost sight of the fact that this year is fraught with hard lessons and harsh realities. I forgot how hard it can be to find acceptance without compromising your values or your individuality. And instead of remembering, I spent months and months lecturing and punishing.

For most of the year, I totally flunked Unconditional Support.

And then, in April, I became desperate and miserable enough

to get on my knees and beg for help. And I finally, finally, saw things differently. I saw that I was the one who needed to change.

Now I see that he will make mistakes - the same ones, in fact, over and over and over again - and it will still be frustrating and disappointing.

But I cannot take it personally. His choices are not a personal affront to me (although they seem like it). He does not make stupid decisions to drive me crazy (although they do).

He makes stupid decisions because making stupid decisions is how teenagers learn to make smart decisions.

Most of all, I see that this is only temporary.

I finally understand that adolescence is just the place he must pass through on his way to becoming the man I know he can be. This is only a pit stop, not the final destination... and understanding this crucial fact makes it SO much easier to accept him for the brain-dead, hormone-infested dork that he is.

I see him.

The young man who used to be my baby boy.

I see him immersed in his world, finding his own way.

And as I continue my retreat to the sidelines,

once in a while he glances my way... just to make sure I'm still nearby.

I see you, son.

And more than words can express, I love what I see.

grayhawk

2011-05-25T16:55:00.003-06:00

Is May gone already? Sorry. Lots going on this month... LOTS. I'll need to lose some sleep to catch up on a few posts that I need to write.

But until then, let's look at some vakay photos shall we?

Last month, while Dingo was locked up in the Petitentiary, we went to Arizona for a week. The guys played golf four times, and the pinnacle of the trip was their round at Grayhawk Golf Club. This was the first fancy schmancy golf course Tyler's ever played... and, of course, he loved every minute of it. He and Dave thought they had died and gone to Heaven. (In fact, they REALLY hope the track up there is as nice as Grayhawk.)

I dropped them off that day, because I wanted to see the course and take some pictures of them in action. When I went to pick them up, they weren't quite ready to say goodbye. So I sat on the patio, had some dinner and watched them on the practice greens for about an hour... and it was very easy to understand why they were lingering as long as they possibly could.

Grayhawk is a gorgeous, tranquil oasis in the Arizona desert... as you will see... and the highlight of our trip.

tails from the PETitentiary

2011-05-03T12:06:00.003-06:00

We've been back from our vacation for more than a week... but other activities (work, teenager shenanigans, laundry, more teenager shenanigans) have prevented me from getting back here to write about Dingo's stint in The Petitentiary.

There are a few sordid details I want to share at some point... but right now I only have time to post what was far and away the most comical side-effect Dingo suffered from serving time in the canine clink.

My friends, I give you:

KENNEL COMA

_______________________________________

SATURDAY NIGHT

We picked him up around 5 p.m., and he literally passed out in my arms before I shut my car door.

It was a 25-minute drive home from the kennel,

and he was unconscious every second of those 25 minutes.

Four hours later, he hadn't moved a muscle since I placed him on

our family room ottoman with his "blankie."

I kept checking him just to make sure he was still breathing.

SUNDAY AFTERNOON

This was taken around 5 p.m., about 24 hours after picking him up,

and he's still a goner.

I think he got up twice in that time period. Earlier that morning he followed me from the family room to our bedroom, probably 20 feet total... but as far as he was concerned, it was from sea to shining sea. He would hobble a few steps and then stop to rest...

and the tortured look on his face said:

"Lo there, Female Human! Must you traverse this ever-so-painful distance, knowing that it is my duty to follow you even in my most fragile state? Of all that I have endured, surely this will be

the cause of my death and demise."

[Yes, Dingo's face was speaking Shakespearean,

because it made the moment more dramatic and morose...

our very own shedding Othello who licks himself.]

After that endless sojourn,

the longest distance he could muster was getting to his pillow...

which is about four inches away from the ottoman.

He never got up again that day.

MONDAY EVENING

Forty-eight hours later there were a few more signs of life...

not that you'd know it from this photo.

He gingerly wandered around the house a few times,

mostly looking dazed and confused (Dude, where's my... uh...),

but before long he would just stop wherever he was and fall asleep.

Early in the evening he managed to walk far enough to find his bed,

which is in a corner in our bedroom.

Game over. Nite nite.

It was pretty damn funny, but a little scary... I admit, by Monday I was beginning to worry if he had irreparable damage from being in such a foreign environment. But I'm very happy to report that he made vast improvements after that... which is what 72 solid hours of sleep will do for ya... and today is back to normal.

Welcome home, Dingo.

dingo goes to the PETitentiary, part I

2011-04-15T11:45:00.015-06:00

On Saturday we're heading to Arizona for Spring Break... a glorious six-day vacation that began with me blurting out the following statement:

"Can we please get in the car and drive south until the car thermometer hits 85 degrees, and then stay there? Before I beat myself over the head with the ice scraper that I had to use JUST TWO DAYS AGO?!?! Thank you."

My guys become very accommodating when I start threatening self-induced concussions... So we booked a hotel a stone's throw from all that is glorious about Old Town Scottsdale (stores and restaurants galore, gleaming in the warm sunshine), and they have assembled a pretty little chorus line of tee times. And all in the land were happy and excited.

Except for... Dingo.

When we've gone on vacation in the past, Dingo has stayed at home and my wonderful sister-in-law, Deanna, has come over and looked after him while we are gone. Deanna is a TOTAL dog lover (she and Dave are cut from the same cloth) and, truth be told, she probably takes better care of him than we do! But after returning from a week-long trip to Mexico a couple of years ago, we found out that Dingo spends most of the day... and ALL NIGHT... barking. We knew this because, first and foremost, there was a raspy, seal-like croak where his bark used to be... and also, our neighbors had kindly informed us of the situation. (And they really were kind about it; my humblest apologies to our peeps on Fairway Drive!)

Since then, the new M.O. has been for Deanna to shut him inside the house at night, so he no longer keeps our neighbors up, and then she goes back over in the morning and lets him out. This has worked out just fine because, of course, the top priority was to make sure he wasn't a total nuisance to the neighborhood while we are away. But the last time we came back from a trip and listened to Dingo's croak for days on end, I decided this arrangement wasn't working out so well for his vocal chords... or for him in general! He's obviously lonely at home without us, and that makes me sad... and then I worry about him. So I told Dave the next time we go away for more than a couple of days, we had to have another plan.

For the first time ever, we're boarding Dingo at a kennel. For an entire week.

The kennel we chose comes highly recommended by several devoted pet lovers (including Deanna), so we feel good about that. The wild card is, of course, our Creature of Habit. We have absolutely no idea at all how he's going to react to the place... or, even worse, how he'll react to his humans leaving him in an unfamiliar place for an undetermined amount of time.

I have no idea how a dog's mind works. And frankly, I'm embarrassed to admit this... but the thought of Dingo thinking that we've finally kicked him out of our lives -- that he's been voted off Openshaw Island forever --makes me want to cry. For real. My eyes are full of tears right now as I type this!

As we're nearing the time of departure, I've told Dave that I just can't go with him to drop off Dingo on Saturday... because I don't want him to be mad at me for leaving him there. I admit it: I want him to blame Dave for the devastating, albeit temporary, abandonment.

I know. I know. I KNOW!! Apparently I've become one of those wackadoo pet lovers, dammit!!

Look... my brain knows this is best for him. And my heart is just hoping that he'll be so distracted by all the new sights and smells and goings-on that he could care less where we've gotten off to. I don't want Dingo to think that we've finally had enough of all his nonsense and naughtiness... because the truth is, we absolutely couldn't live without it. We couldn't live without him.

Which is why, with his 10th birthday approaching, Dave's looking for a reasonably priced time machine on eBay. NWOT preferred, EUC okay.

I'll be sure to post all the details about his time served in the PETitentiary... in the meantime, cross your fingers and pray that the Prodigal Dog will want to return home.

i do i do i do i do i do

2011-04-12T09:54:00.001-06:00

Two weeks ago Dave and I celebrated our five-year anniversary.

The traditional gift for five years is supposed to be made of wood.

As in, a 2x4...

that we can take turns beating ourselves over the head with,

because we are trying to raise a teenager

without turning him into a sociopath, or us into blithering idiots.

(Too late to avoid the latter... hence the 2x4.)

Or a gangplank...

which I will be more than happy to walk

if someone asks me to turn off my space heater one more time.

(It's snowing as I write this, btw... no end in sight for that thing. Sorry, hon.)

Or a guesthouse...

a charming little bungalow in our backyard

that my groom will build with his own two hands move into if I don't,

FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS GOOD AND HOLY,

"turn off the damn TV and go to sleep like a normal person."

(I promise to come visit you in your new digs.)

Only five years... it feels like a lot longer than that.

And that feels great.

Love you, hon.

The Happy Couple at Tuscany on March 25, 2011...
where we were married on March 25, 2006.

this is why my BFF is AAA

2011-04-08T12:23:00.006-06:00

I've had a slow leak in my tire for a few weeks. Dave has asked me more than once to stop on my way into work and have it fixed, which I have put off doing... until this morning, when I hit something on the road (nothing major, like a deer -- just a piece of cardboard, I think) and I could tell that the going-flat tire was in need of a little "roadside assistance."

So I stopped at the tire store, got it fixed and headed to the office. When I got there my boss, who is also my friend, said:

"So, what was wrong with your tire?"

"It was flat."

"Yeah, I know. So what was wrong with it?"

Someone's not listening today.

"Dude... it was flat."

[Cue the silence he reserves for stupid answers to his questions. I hear it more often than I'd like.]

I cross the hall and stand in his doorway, certain that proximity will make my answer plausible.

"Did you ask what was wrong with my tire?"

"Yes."

"I said it was flat."

"Yeah, I know. But why was it flat? Was it a nail?"

"I don't know. I didn't ask."

[Cue the silence again... but now I have to see the look that accompanies said silence, as I am standing in his doorway.]

All of a sudden I felt extremely... female. In fact, defensively so.

"What? All I know is it was flat when I got there, and now it's not flat anymore."

"It didn't occur to you to ask why it was flat?"

"Why do I care why it was flat? All I care about is that they fixed it. What more do I need to know?" Honestly, people... when you have AAA, why bother with these frivolous details?

Twenty minutes later, I e-mailed Dave and told him I finally got my tire fixed. His reply:

"That's great, hon. Was it a nail?"

Then it hit me: I was the leading lady in A FOUR-STAR, FULL-FLEDGED MARS/VENUS SCENARIO. Today's gift from the Universe, I guess.

I'd prefer a platinum upgrade on my AAA membership... but this will do.

mixed message

2011-03-08T09:58:00.001-07:00

Blue skies, balmy air... and six inches of snow?
Welcome to spring in Utah, where Mother Nature is Bipolar.

sleeping with the enemy

2011-02-11T18:20:00.008-07:00

I desire to share an irreconcilable difference between my husband and me... in honor of keeping it real for Valentines Day, and in honor of the fact that I am awake and writing this at 4:47 a.m. because of it.

Dave and I are incompatible sleepers.

You've heard of polar opposites? We are lunar opposites: Our paths to unconsciousness are paradoxical in every possible way.

This phenomenon is undetectable during daylight hours... I'm just me and he's just him, and we're your average couple who love each other and enjoy one another's company. But every evening between 9 and 10 o'clock, my sweet, mild-mannered man pulls a Jekyll-and-Hyde and becomes The Fascist Dictator of Forty Winks. The Hitler of Hibernation. The Mussolini of Zzzzzz's.

And the Epic Battle of Bedtime ensues.

I always retreat to our bedroom before he does, solely for the pleasure of basking in my preferred pre-sleep environment: Lights on (the more the better), TV on (the louder the better), me sprawled diagonally across our bed with my feet in front of a space heater, which sits on my nightstand and is running full blast. (I'm cold all the time. ALL THE TIME. End of story.) My goal is to enjoy these conditions in peace, for as long as as I possibly can... because my husband is diametrically opposed to ALL OF THESE THINGS. These are the conditions in which I sleep like a baby... and Dave fusses and carries on like a baby with a raging case of thrush and colic who's been sitting in a poopy diaper for five days.

Which is why, precisely at 10 p.m. every night, a personage resembling my husband comes barging through the bedroom doors, waving his arms around and barking rapid-fire orders:

"All right, that's it... 10 o' clock, time for bed, let's go."
"Turn that heater off!"
"Why are all these lights on? Is this really necessary?"
"Nobody can be that cold. Put some socks on... well, then, put two pairs on!"
"Your Grandma from Texas called... she wants to know if you could turn down the TV."
"Start telling your brain it's time to shut down. No more thinking."
"Can you hear that? It's the sound of our power meter going into hyperspeed because of that heater... thanks to you, they have to switch to a nuclear power source."

Behold: The Stalin of Slumber.

If you know me at all, you know that this foolishness doesn't sit well with me. There's no rolling over, no hiding under the covers... only full-scale retaliation using my own arsenal of rapid-fire responses, classified as Level One and Level Two.

Level One responses are warning shots across the bow... delivered politely and even playfully, but still meant to be taken seriously:

"Hon, I'm not tired."
"You're not the boss of me."
"It IS possible to be cold in Utah in February... a long shot, I know, but possible."
"Just because you're ready to go to sleep doesn't mean I am."
"Yes the lights need to be on so I can, you know, SEE WHERE I'M GOING."
"Leave the heater alone, please."
"I do have socks on! And pajamas, as you can see. It's not like I'm sitting here in a bathing suit with the window open."

When it's clear that he's not willing to surrender, he leaves me no choice but to launch some ammo from Level Two:

"I'm not putting on two pairs of socks. If someone has to wear two pairs of socks to stay warm indoors, it means it's time for me to turn up the heat and time for someone else to ZIP IT AND DEAL WITH IT."
"My Grandma would never say that because number one, she doesn't hear very well... and, number two, she loves me enough to want me to be comfortable in my own home. I wish everyone in my life loved me that much."
"Seriously... don't touch that heater, or I'll break your arm."

This exchange goes on for at least an hour, during which time several other tactics are attempted by both parties in an effort to prevail:

The Holdout:
K: "Hon, it's time to carry those boxes to the basement..."
D: "I'm not moving until that space heater is turned off."

The Ultimatum:
K: "Hey, on your way back in here would you bring me my phone?"
D: "Turn that TV down about 20 decibels and I'll think about it."

The Negotiation:
D: "Ok, it's 73 degrees in here... can we please turn the heater off now?!"
K: "Yes... but only if I get to leave the TV on for as long as I want. Otherwise, no deal."

In fact, we only agree on one thing... one GINORMOUSLY ironic thing:

SLEEPING WITH THE ENEMY IS EXHAUSTING.

Given that fact, you'd think one of us would be quick to throw in the towel, right? Except that, when compared to the Openshaws, mules are downright accommodating... so round and round we go. At some point somebody waves the white flag and we both eventually drift off to dreamland... one of us deliriously victorious, the other licking their wounds and plotting their strategy for the next battle.

If I had to guess, I would say the surrender rate is about 50-50. Well... maybe 60 (Dave) 40 (me).

FINE!... 65-35, but that's only because my husband was raised by a polite, peacekeeping people, and I... well, I wasn't.

When morning comes the entire incident is forgotten, and we're a normal, happy couple... for approximately 12 hours. And then, like Mad Max and Aunty Entity, we return to Thunderdome (aka: our bedroom).

Lock and load, baby.

floods, famines & follicles: a parable

2011-01-19T21:48:00.004-07:00

And it came to pass that The Mother sent out a decree,

that all the Firstborns in the land must cut -- not trim -- their hair.

As the shaggyness and poofiness was most displeasing unto her.

And The Firstborn was exceedingly sorrowful -- for, like Samson,

he believed in his heart that his unshorn tresses beheld mighty power.

Therefore, he believed the shearing was like unto

the floods and famines of old...

Yea, it was even as plagues and locusts and the quaking of the earth...

And The Firstborn was wont to curse (at) The Mother for compelling him to this lowly and powerless state.

But The Mother remained steadfast and,

as she documented the experience for posterity (and publishing),

she waxed philisophical with The Firstborn,

extolling the virtues of the transformation...

which included words like "healthy scalp" and "split ends"

and "seeing your face is a good thing."

And The Mother, possessing wisdom in these matters,

proclaimed the greatest blessing that could come from this adversity:

"Girls prefer guys whose hair is shaped and stylish,

not overgrown and nappy."

Upon hearing this,

The Firstborn chose to bear his burden more cheerfully.

And The Mother was pleased to behold his face,

as it had been an eternity since she had seen it in its fullness.

And peace was restored in the land once again.

For now.

album cover

2011-01-15T21:11:00.000-07:00

If our resident guitarist ever hit the big time,

this would make a cool album cover.

He could also afford to buy that $900 axe he was playing in the store.

Rock on, Ty!

2010 YIR

2011-01-10T13:51:00.008-07:00

I stumbled upon this year-in-review Q&A last month and, after some deliberating and some more procrastinating, I decided to fill it out... which seems like a really cliche and dorky thing to do at the beginning of a new year, but it actually was a good excercise. In the end, I was glad I'd done it.

Then I debated on whether or not to post it here... a lot of it is pretty mundane, but some of it is kinda personal stuff... but if I'm not sharing personal stuff, "kinda" or otherwise, here on my blog for all three of you (if that) to read, then what's the point? Right?

So, with that... here's my YIR for 2010:

1. What did you do in 2010 that you’d never done before?
I started going to Bikram Yoga ("hot" yoga)… which was intimidating at first and continues to be hard, but I truly enjoy the physical and mental challenge of doing it... and the way I feel after doing it!

2. Did you keep your 2010 New Year’s resolutions? Did you make any for 2011?
I don’t make New Year’s resolutions… too forced, too much pressure. Like everyone else, I plunge into a profound state of pondering and introspection every January 1. But instead of a hard-and-fast laundry list of Life To-Do’s, I come up with a few… possibilities. I mull them over, I kick them around… I leave them be and wander back to them… Sometimes they’re big and sometimes they’re small… and sometimes, somewhere along the way, the possibilities become decisions, and then they become actions. This all happens on my time frame and on my terms… which is why I don’t subscribe to the whole resolution-making exercise… and why, totally uncharacteristic of my personality, I keep the “possibilities” to myself.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
Not technically—but my BFF Suzanne, who lives in Vegas, gave birth to twins in December of ‘09, and it’s been a joy to watch her “diamonds” grow up this past year. In fact, I was lucky enough to attend their first birthday party last month… which, by the way, I’m going to be posting about very soon, because this party was OFF.THE.CHAIN!!! They are precious babies, little miracles… Elle and Liam, Auntie K-Fraud loves you tons!!!

4. Did anyone close to you die?
No… no, no, no, thank God!

5. What countries did you visit?
Sadly, none. In fact, it totally sucks to admit it, but I think I only left the state three times last year… twice to Las Vegas and once to Washington DC. LOOO.ZERRRRRR!

6. What would you like to have in 2011 that you didn’t have in 2010?
A 90-minute massage every month… that would be heaven on earth!

7. What was your biggest achievement of this year?
I am finally, FINALLY converted to eating clean, whole foods… processed foods and drinks have been officially kicked to the curb. This has been a huge lifestyle change for me… but so much for the better! I find myself liking foods I never liked before, and trying new foods (this month’s new food to cook at home: quinoa!)… I no longer crave junk food or soda (haven’t drunk anything other than natural soda in over a year!)… now I’m addicted to Greek yogurt with blueberries, honey crisp apples and cheese slices, steamed broccoli… these are things that I actually WANT to eat all the time, and I never feel like I’m missing out! This is a very significant milestone for me, one that has affected me for good in so many ways.

8. What was your biggest failure?
The company I work for did not have a good year in 2010, in terms of securing new projects to build… in fact, it was quite a disappointing year. I work for a large company so, obviously, this is not “all my fault”… but I work in marketing/ business development, so the responsibility of that initiative rests significantly on our department’s shoulders. We have a great team and we worked EXTREMELY HARD last year… and to get to the end of the year with far more losses than wins really, really stings and, no matter how you spin it, feels like failure. Hopefully we can turn that around in 2011!

9. Did you suffer illness or injury?
No… healthy and well all year, which I count as a HUGE blessing.

11. What was the best thing you bought?
Fresh blueberries... I bought bushels and bushels of them, even when they were out of season and they cost an ungodly amount of money... and every one of them was scrumptious.

12. Whose behavior merited celebration?
I’ll stick to celebrities for the next two questions, because to do otherwise would get too personal…

Celebrated behavior? Conan O’Brien and Sandra Bullock… both were handed a raw deal in their lives this past year, and yet handled their respective situations with graciousness and dignity (and, in Coco’s case, a little bit of humor). Both are great examples of the good that comes from taking the high road.

13. Whose behavior made you appalled?
Lindsay Lohan. She couldn’t find the high road if it was lit up like an O’Hare runway.

14. Where did most of your money go?
Mortgage, Tyler’s mouth (braces came into our lives in October), Money Market… and Macy’s.

15. What did you get really excited about?
Without a doubt, Tyler’s second season of tackle football… it was SO MUCH FUN to watch him hone his skills and become a more active member of his team! I’m a huge advocate of team sports, particularly for boys, so that was definitely an exciting time of year for me.

16. What song will always remind you of 2010?
Probably California Gurls by Katy Perry (ugh)… a number of songs from this season of Glee would be fitting, too.

17. Compared to this time last year, are you: a) happier or sadder? b) thinner or fatter? c) richer or poorer?
a) I don’t know if I can answer that… I would say I’m more anxious, so I don’t know if that makes me happier or sadder…????

b) THINNER!!!

c) Neither richer nor poorer… we continue to enjoy the same comfortable standard of living as last year, and for that I feel extremely blessed!

18. What do you wish you’d done more of?
Spent more time with good friends and family.

19. What do you wish you’d done less of?
Nitpicking and fussing at my kid.

21. Did you fall in love in 2010?
Indeed I did… with Greek yogurt.

22. What was your favorite TV program?
Mad Men (Don Draper, you handsome, tortured raconteur!)

23. What was the best book you read?
The Help by Kathryn Stockett

24. What was your greatest musical discovery?
The Weepies… LOVE THEM!

25. What did you want and get?
Blonde highlights back in my hair. I spent the summer without them and I didn’t feel like myself, so I had my stylist put them back in… where they belonged!

26. What did you want and not get?
New golf clubs, but maybe I'll get them this year… for, uh, Valentine’s Day? Mother’s Day?? Abror Day???

27. What was your favorite film of 2010?
Toy Story 3. Tyler was a preschooler when the first two Toy Story films came out and, of course, he was completely enamored with Buzz, Woody and the gang. So for old time’s sake it was just the two of us at TS3… needless to say, the sentimentality of that outing extended to infinity and beyond.

28. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
I turned 41 last month, and I spent my birthday eating grilled chicken (cooked by my hubby) on the couch in my bathrobe. Granted, it’s a far cry from cupcakes, cocktails and dueling pianos from my birthday bash the year before… it was low-key, relaxing and EXACTLY what I wanted.

29. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
I would have liked to travel more. I think if there’s one “resolution” I feel comfortable sharing, it’s that I want to trade “things” for “experiences” this year—particularly experiences with my family.

30. Describe your personal fashion concept for 2010.
Stylish but understated and age-appropriate is my goal. More specifically... black and grey… a little more bling… cute shoes and cute toenails… better effort with makeup… and, as always, a little zebra here and there for fun.

31. What kept you sane?
My husband. Prayer. A good night’s sleep. Yoga. Doing something nice for someone else. My husband. Singing my favorite songs in the car. Awesome coworkers. Greek yogurt. MY HUSBAND.

32. What political issue stirred you the most?
Without a doubt, the Tea Party... and beyond that, I plead The Fifth.

33. Share a valuable life lesson you learned in 2010.
Through a few interesting experiences, I learned that I only want to be involved in situations and relationships that bring me happiness and positivity... anything to the contrary is counterproductive, and I decided that there is just no place for that in my life anymore. Last year I finally gave myself permission to let go of those situations/relationships for good, and it’s brought me more peace than I could have imagined. NEVER AGAIN will I let myself be weighed down with someone or something that fosters negativity and discontent… I have better things to do with my time and energy.

34. Who did you miss?
My dear friends Alison and Kristi Thompson… my mom… my best girl Suzanne… all of whom I adore and think about all the time, but whom I rarely get to see. I’d like nothing more than to change that this year.

More than anyone else, I miss Tyler… when he was three. I miss the chubby toddler who thought the sun rose and set with me… who wanted me by his side every minute of every day… who needed me as much as I needed him. That once-chubby toddler turned 14 this month… and, as you would imagine, the situation has changed a bit.

It’s difficult to go from the center of your child’s universe to the periphery, where I landed very squarely and solidly in 2010… and as he gets older, I know that he will continue to nudge me to the outskirts of his life. I am learning to make peace with this transition, which I know is inevitable… but at times, it is as painful as it is unavoidable. I hope I can continue to move through the pain gracefully, with more love for who he’s becoming and less longing for who he used to be.

35. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.
Due solely to my previous answer, Fleetwood Mac says it all for me… and I mean it all:

Can I sail through the changing ocean tides…
Can I handle the seasons of my life… Oh… I don’t know…
Now I’ve been afraid of changin', cuz I’ve built my life around you…
But time makes you bolder…
Children get older…
And I’m getting older, too…

If you think Josh is a dreamboat and Kanye is an idiot...

2011-01-04T15:13:00.000-07:00

Then this is EXACTLY what you want to be watching right now. Enjoy!

Fourteen

2011-01-02T18:49:00.002-07:00

Behold: The Birthday Boy

It's kind of a drag to have your birthday fall on a Sunday...

(and a fast Sunday, no less!)

But it's great for taking pictures because he's already dressed up.

So handsome, so sophisticated, so grown-up

in a sportscoat and a somber gaze...

Until we find something gross in our mouth...

And then we're oh-so very fourteen again.

Love you, my brown-eyed boy.

our christmas in a chestnutshell

2010-12-27T10:18:00.003-07:00

unexpected gifts

2010-12-23T09:59:00.016-07:00

I've been doing a lot of bellyaching lately -- and during the holidays no less, which has probably landed me on The Naughty List. (Santa, if you could just dump that semi-truck load of coal on the side of our house that would be great.) It's been a trying couple of months, to say the least... and I admit, it's been hard to set aside the trials and shift gears into "Merry and Bright."

But this week I've received some unexpected gifts that have rekindled my holiday spirit:

Sang Christmas carols for the opening and closing hymns at church Sunday, something I look forward to all year long. We even sang one for a rest hymn -- bonus!
Gathered at a neighborhood eatery to have lunch with girlfriends, something I rarely get to do these days.
Received a disco ball from a coworker for Christmas. It's multi-colored. It rotates. It's freaking awesome. Combined with my ever-running space heater, my office has now been officially declared a DISCO INFERNO. (Woot woot!)
Had a chance meeting with a dear friend I haven't seen in months, but whom I think about all the time. After 30 minutes of chatting, laughing and hugging, we set a lunch date for next week that, as far as I'm concerned, could only be postponed by Armageddon.
In spite of a small bite of this (ahem) and a tiny taste of that (ahem, ahem!)... the scale, for the most part, has been kind. Cue the Hallelujah Chorus!
I was able to sit down and read my two favorite magazines (Real Simple and O) from beginning to end. Enough down time to read two magazines in one week, one right after the other?! This also qualifies as a Bonafide Holiday Miracle.
Monday I took the day off and was home baking... around lunchtime there was a knock on my door. There stood the four little boys who live next door -- ages 3, 5, 7 & 9, all bundled up and cute as can be -- who quickly launched into Jingle Bells (the unabridged version), followed by We Wish You a Merry Christmas. I was so surprised but so happy to see them, and before long I was singing right along with them. I gave them each a fresh-baked cookie and off they went to the next house, smiling and waving goodbye.

On a Monday afternoon, right there on my doorstep.... herald angels singing. It simply DOES NOT get any merrier than that.

May we all find joy in the unexpected gifts this season has to offer... the ones that take us by surprise and, hopefully, take root in our hearts. Merry Christmas!

14 & 41

2010-12-14T03:15:00.007-07:00

Today I am 41. In a couple weeks Tyler will be 14. The chronological juxtaposition presents a number of interesting contrasts:

14: Lots of zit cream
41: Lots of neck cream

14: "That's what she said."
41: "Because I said so."

14: Ungodly hours spent on Facebook (chatting, posting, quiz-taking)
41: Ungodly hours spent on face (tweezing, smoothing, concealing)

14: 5,000 calories a day
41: 5,000 calories a month

14: Xbox
41: Botox

14: Irritable
41: Irritable Bowel Syndrome

14: Bieber hair
41: Bieber who?

14: Blows off homework to hang out with friends
41: Blows off friends because someone never does their homework

14: Crosses the line
41: Holds the line

14: Frequent sufferer of consequences
41: Frequent sufferer of heartburn

14: Girls: The Be All & End All
41: Girls: The Devil Incarnate

14: Tolerates and is tolerated
41: Tolerates and is tolerated

Whattaya know... something in common after all.

the pretty tree

2010-12-09T21:22:00.008-07:00

Like many people, every year we put up two Christmas trees in our house: The "family" tree, home to all macaroni sculptures, felt snowflakes and school pictures framed in green glitter, and

The Pretty Tree.

The beautiful, yet fragile, tree.

The tree with the delicate beaded snowflakes...

And the slender, vintage (which is French for very breakable) ornaments...

And the golden, glittered glass balls...

Neslted here and there among sprigs and sprigs of

...shimmering bronze berries.

Ah, yes. The Pretty Tree. The tree nobody but Mom gets to touch.

Not only because it would be reduced to shards and rubble in a matter of miliseconds...

But because The Pretty Tree is one of the most peaceful exercises
I engage in during the hustle and bustle of the holidays.

And every evening, even if it's only for a few minutes,
I sit in the living room and just take in The Pretty Tree.
The warm glow has a way of softening the tension from the day,
and reminding me of the beauty of the season...
which usually reminds me of the many beautiful blessings in my life.

The Pretty Tree is the Christmas gift I give myself.

threadbare

2010-12-06T15:38:00.015-07:00

I always imagine Patience as a ball of yarn...
a soft, powdery blue sphere.

On its best day, Patience sits neat and tidy in the center of the brain,

not a single tattered strand or a string out of place.

If Patience is tested... by traffic on I-15, a deadline at work,

or a mouthy, surly teenager at home...

the well-ordered little orb can begin to fray a little.

If it's tried some more... by, say, a vicious case of smallpox,

the current state of the economy,

OR A TEENAGER WHO CAN'T GET THROUGH ONE DAY

WITHOUT PISSING ME OFF,

it can also begin to unravel. Rapidly.

And before you know it, Patience... once neat-as-a-pin... can become:

A muddy, mottled mess.

Insanely misshapen and horribly out of sorts.

So frayed and strayed from its cozy cranial nest that one end is actually trailing out of your nostril by the end of the day.

I know it's supposed to be the Most Wonderful Time of the Year, with those holiday greetings and gay-happy meetings. But if I'm being honest (which is a prerequisite to avoiding the Naughty List)...

I am too threadbare to care.

I'm thankful... really I am.

2010-11-24T11:27:00.011-07:00

Thanksgiving is tomorrow and, you guys, I'll be honest: I'm finding it difficult to achieve the level of genuine appreciation suitable for the occasion. It's a combination of factors... not the least of which being the nasty sucker-punch I took this week from a punk-ass known more commonly as WINTER.

See what I mean? Not a whole lotta grateful up in here.

So, for the sake of the holiday... and my general disposition... I will now perform A Deliberate Exercise in Gratitude. Feel free to follow along... or if you'd rather go back to Googling "great recipes for stuffing," that's just fine, too.

I am thankful...

For a dog who:

Has selective hearing
Sheds
Smells
Disobeys
Sheds
Has the most wretched breath in canine existence
Did I mention the shedding?
Comes barreling out of the doggie door and into the garage, his entire ass wagging, to greet me every night... as if my triumphant return from the office is, paws down, the best part of his whole day (which doesn't say much for Dingo's day... but it's a nice shot in the ego for me)

For a husband who:

Has selective hearing
Fights me tooth and nail over two degrees on the thermostat
Bellyaches when he finds rotten food that I've thrown away "because some of that is still edible" (hon, are you referring to the Ziploc bag?)
Stalks me around the house and turns off every light that I turn on... in an effort to, you know, SEE WHERE I'M GOING
Gets Dingo worked up in a frenzy right before bedtime (which is the same effect as giving a toddler 16 cookies and a Red Bull chaser)
Holds down the fort, makes me laugh and reminds me that everything will be ok... someday

For a kid who:

Has selective hearing
Can never, ever, never, ever... NEVER EVER... hang up his wet towel in the morning
Is quick to take out his many adolescent frustrations on his parents
Prefers that his grades this term resemble a roller coaster, but not in a good way... more in a this-isn't-fun-at-all-my-head-is-killing-me-and-I-think-I'm-gonna-vomit kind of way... and then ignores it until confronted and yelled at by the nearest grown-up
Inspires his mother to read online articles about how wine "takes the edge off"... and then daydreams about hitting the nearest liquor store after work
Takes a (very short) break from shredding the last vestiges of my sanity and makes me laugh... which reminds me that everything will be ok... someday

This concludes my Deliberate Exercise in Gratitude... or, as Tom Turkey might say:

THE END

Happy Thanksgiving, y'all.

what happens when there's a smattering of down time at the office...

2010-11-09T11:41:00.011-07:00

"Someone at the ribbon-cutting used an unusual word in their speech today."

"Oh yeah? What was it?"

"Bevy."

"Really? Yeah, that isn't a word you hear very often."

"I know... I think I'm going to try and work that into a sentence today."

"My word of choice in that particular area is grundle."

"Oh, yeah... that's a good one, too."

"Do you think a bevy is technically more than a grundle?"

"Hm... I'm not sure..."

"I think a grundle is more than a bevy... no evidence to support that, just a gut feeling..."

"I'll buy that... but here's the real question: Is a grundle more than a plethora?"

"Ooooh... good question... I think in order of quantity, highest to lowest, it goes plethora, then grundle, then bevy."

"Yeah, that sounds right..."

"But here's another question: Do you know what's less than a bevy?"

"Tell me..."

Triumphant grin, and then: "A smattering."

Smiling and nodding. "Whooaaa... great word. And definitely less than a bevy. Nice work."

Moral of the story: It's a grundle of fun to work with a bevy of word nerds like me.

how I am

2010-11-01T22:16:00.034-06:00

"Hi, how are you?"

"I'm fine... and you?"

"Just fine, thanks."

Most of us have this exchange every day, several times a day. Most of us also understand that this exchange is only meant to be a general pleasantry, rather than an invitation to regurgitate the minutia of our lives all over the poor soul who was trying to be polite. We all know people who do not understand this, do we not? You know, the folks who have no problem launching into a 45-minute blow-by-blow of their border collie's recent bowel obstruction surgery... or the altercation they had with the Costco cashier over a pallet of toilet paper.

ANYWAY... to the actual point of my post.

I understand that when people inquire as to my well being, the appropriate response is to smile, stifle the gory details, say "fine" and go on my merry way. However, until further notice, I would like to respond by saying:

"I have a son in eighth grade. How are you?"

This is the most accurate summary of my general state of mind at this point in my life... so it seems to be the most appropriate response.

This new response is not based on a desire to expound... I'm not interested in broadsiding my family, friends and the lady who waters the plant in my office once a month by prattling on about the particulars. And I don't need to, do I? Think about it. If this is what I actually said to people, they would either:

Say "Oh... yeah... eighth grade..." and then blankly stare off into space
Cringe and back away as if I just pinched them with a pair of hot pliers
Offer their condolences and, two days later, bring me a casserole

You know why? Because everyone has an eighth-grader, had an eighth-grader or has been an eighth-grader. We all know. We all remember. And we all would throw ourselves into the nearest active volcano if we ever had to do it over again. Right?

Wrong.

I've decided that trudging through the eighth grade myself was a hell of a lot easier than watching it dump all over the person I love most in the world.

Now... before his grandmothers start panicking and calling our house, let me just say that Tyler is doing fantastic under the circumstances (the circumstances being the hormone-saturated, drama-infested psychotic Land of Adolescence). He's got all A's and B's in school, he's playing football, he has lots of friends, and he is serving as the Deacon's Quorum president. He is a handsome young man with a cute sense of humor and a good heart... and I. AM. SUPER. LUCKY. Luckier than I deserve to be.

However.

We do have our moments... and when we do, the reality of the situation slams me upside the head... and the blood rushes to the surface, and... well... dammit, it just hurts.

I'm sad that I am no longer the primary influence in my child's life... and sometimes I'm scared about who has taken my place.

I'm forever curious about what he's thinking... what makes him happy, what makes him sad, what makes him worry... but I stifle my urge to interrogate, because I remember how much I hated it when my mom did that to me.

I'm always unsure about whether I'm giving him too much space and privacy... I am always, ALWAYS questioning whether or not we're balancing that correctly.

I hate that we go through times when I can't trust him completely, and not because he's evil or manipulative -- but because he's a 14-year-old Human of The Male Persuasion. This model comes complete with a deluxe set of perils and pitfalls, which means there are times when I have to step in and exercise good judgment when he has misplaced his own. ("Ty, did you leave your Good Judgment in your locker again?!") He doesn't like that at all, which I totally understand. And I totally don't care. When I have to choose between loving him and trusting him, I will choose loving him EVERY. SINGLE. TIME.

I'm always worried that he won't emerge on the other side unscathed... because I know he won't. We've all taken our share of beatings in the Land of Adolescence, and Tyler will be no exception -- and I'm more or less relegated to a spectator in the crowd, watching the brawls as they come along.

I know that if he is ever going to learn to stand on his own he has to do it on his own steam, armed with his God-given abilities and the principles and values we've taught him. This realization makes me anxious, but not because I doubt his inherent knight-in-shining-armorness. It's because, on any given day, I honestly don't know if I've done everything I can to ensure that his armor will hold. Some days I smile and pat myself on the back. Some days I cry and know that I have failed him. Every day I pray that the best I can do will be enough.

So... if it's been a while since we've chatted or we haven't run into each other lately, and you're wondering how I am?

I'm just fine, thanks. :)

rainy day + football game =

2010-10-12T13:30:00.000-06:00

A double wash cycle.

(Taken this past weekend.)

game pics

2010-10-10T20:11:00.007-06:00

I'm a little behind in posting game photos... but here are a few from last weekend's game, which marked the Stallions first WIN!

Ty played well... in fact, he had an amazing interception. He jumped up in the air with the opponent, snatched the ball out from the air -- out of the other kid's fingertips, in fact -- and fought him for the ball all the way down. When they both landed on the ground we still didn't know who had the ball... and then, flat on his back, Tyler held the ball up in the air. His team went NUTS! The sidelines went NUTS!

His mother's reaction? Well... Full-Tilt Gonzo is about as good a description as there is.

Out of the 367 photos taken that day by the team photographer... also Tyler's mother... did she happen to get any photos of this amazing interception? That would be a big fat bummer of a NO, WE SURE DIDN'T... And we can thank the Full-Tilt Gonzo for that.

But here are few I did manage to get. (And by the way, I really did take 367 photos that day.)

Below: As the reformed soccer player, Tyler is the team kicker.
In this shot he kind of looks like a reformed ballet dancer, too.

Very nice toe stand, son.

The next two photos are right after the interception. I recovered in time to at least get his teammates' mad props... but I know I'm still a total loser.

Above: Heading in after the game's over... WE WON!

Below: Celebrating with Dad... proof that teenagers are never too old for a hug.

post-bath pandemonium

2010-10-03T20:30:00.002-06:00

We gave Dingo a bath today, and afterwards there's always a frenzy.

In his furious attempt to get the water off his fur as soon as possible, he used to go around the house rubbing himself on the carpets, the walls, the furniture... leaving a wake of white dog hair as he tore through the house. (Which is one of those super naughty things he's always doing. Naughty, Dingo, NAUGHTY!)

We quickly solved this problem by coralling him in the bathtub. Not only does he stay put, but this way we can also take the blow dryer to him to speed up the drying process (the dryer is set on warm, not hot, so all those PETA folks can relax). Thing is, he's not crazy about the dryer either... so in addition to trying to get rid of the water, he's also trying to escape the wind coming from that loud white thing the humans are pointing at him.

All of which makes for an endearingly schizophrenic performance... which we've captured on video for your enjoyment.

We hope you're as amused and exhausted by it as we are.

social (networking) outcast

2010-10-01T15:15:00.006-06:00

I came across this article today: 10 reasons not to join Facebook

All I can say is amen, amen and A-freaking-MEN!!

I'm not trying to stage a coup against social networking. Like television, the Internet and, well, technology in general, good things can come from it. But unfortunately, humans are wont to take a thing and contort, twist and mangle it into something that ends up being unhealthy on some level. Enter Facebook, which singlehandedly makes 500 million people unproductive at least, and self-destructive at worst.

And honestly, what the hell is up with people submitting themselves to the foolishness that is Facebook "friending?" I mean, didn't we all endure enough of that in junior high and high school??? Oh, dear. I can't get started... Suffice it to say that I just think it would be great if folks would read an article or two like this one and, God willing, come to their senses a little bit.

I realize my opinion on the matter makes me a social (networking) outcast, but that doesn't bother me. And you know what? It doesn't make these 10 reasons any less valid.

Just somethin' to chew on between all that friending and farming and quiz-taking.

kickass piggies

2010-09-29T21:22:00.011-06:00

So, after a rough afternoon (part of which involved a certain teenager and the dentist, which I will expound on tomorrow), I decided to treat myself to a pedicure. And since I knew it might be the last pedi before my little piggies are tucked away for the winter, I decided to go full tilt gonzo.

Behold:

MY METALLIC ZEBRA TOES.

The photo doesn't do them justice.

The sheer awesomeness of them has enveloped my entire being.

I am now invincible.

follicular intensity

2010-09-28T16:34:00.003-06:00

My hair is VERY big today. I washed it today and, as is customary with Day One of my Hair Cycle, the result is RIDICULOUS volume... but not the kind of volume you see in a Pantene Pro-V television commercial.

More like the kind of volume you'd see if Peter Frampton and Rosanne Roseannadanna had a baby.

Or if you combined a 1984 Poison music video with the Jersey Turnpike.

Or if I stuck my head into a cotton-candy making machine for an hour.

Or a poodle on meth.

Day Two of the Hair Cycle -- clean, but slept on and significantly less voluminous -- is always better, so tomorrow I won't be nearly as self-conscious.

I better run... I'm due to straddle a Trans-Am in acid washed cut-offs in an hour.

#11

2010-09-27T08:03:00.013-06:00

He kicked...

And chased...

And charged...

And wrestled...

And wrangled...

And it just wasn't enough.

But it's a new day, a new week... And a new opportunity for victory.
GO STALLIONS!

reeeach!

2010-09-26T22:07:00.008-06:00

Tyler's working very hard at football this year, and it's starting to pay off in increased playing time. (And increased scrapes, cuts and bruises... he could probably be mistaken for someone who got hit by a car while riding his bike. But hey, it's good for him!)

Saturday his team lost, but they played great... Ty had more playing time than he's ever had, which was fun for us to watch. I was able to snag this photo of him during the second half, when he was playing left tight end (which, according to Ty, is like a lineman/receiver hybrid) and was thrown a long pass:

I know! Awesome, right?

It would've been even more awesome if he had caught it.

But hey, it's still a cool picture.

Next time, son! You're doing great.

my FEYvorite

2010-09-24T09:35:00.001-06:00

I'm not particularly starstruck by celebrities. I think it's a function of age, combined with the fact that I'm really too busy to care about who the Kardashians are tripping into bed with or that Lohan has failed a drug test and violated her parole. Again. (Would anyone be surprised by that at this point? I mean really, aren't we just expecting it every 28 days or so?)

Sometimes at the beauty salon I pick up one of those gossip mags and, as I flip through it, I realize that I don't know who ANYBODY is anymore, unless they're a major pop culture icon (like, say, Jennifer Aniston) or they're close to my age (like... uh... Jennifer Aniston). Except for the gentle reminder that I am no longer all that young and apparently not very hip or cool, this does not bother me. I don't have any hopes, dreams or fantasies about being BFF's with Megan Fox or hooking up with Josh Hartnett. (And yes, I had to Google "hot twentysomethings" to find names to plug in here. I'm pathetic!)

But I must admit: I often think it would be super cool to have a slice of pizza with Tina Fey.

I'm not enamored with her in a president-of-the-fan-club-who-bought-an-old-pair-of-her-socks-on-ebay kind of way. I just think she's incredibly clever and smart; she's a talented writer who has worked very hard and channeled her abilities into a pretty amazing existence. She's done everything I would have done if I'd chosen a different path... and, frankly, if I'd had enough guts... and for that, she rocks. (I guess, technically, she 30 Rocks.)

I watched her interview with Matt Lauer on Today yesterday, and I thought the same thing I think every time I watch a Tina Fey interview: She and I could totally be friends. Yes, I'm serious! I think we have a lot in common... she's a writer, she's funny, she's not afraid to be exactly who she is... she's even avoided hopping on the Facebook and Twitter bandwagons for the same reasons I have (finally, someone who would relate to my resistance!).

And also, there's this little gem of a comment she once made about herself:

"I like to crack the jokes now and again, but it's only because I struggle with math."

This statement actually makes me wonder if we're twins who were separated at birth... so because of all that, I'm just gonna put this out there:

Tina: If you decide you're in the market for a smart-ass writer-friend from Utah who's willing to fly to NYC for lunch on a moment's notice, just tell me when and where.

And if Amy Poehler is available, bring her along.

k-vid

2010-09-23T18:42:00.002-06:00

three rings outta nowhere

2010-09-22T14:26:00.014-06:00

Today I had to run to The Gateway (a plaza-like mall in SLC) to return something. I was already downtown because I had just submitted a proposal for work, and we had another proposal we were working on today that I needed to help with... so I gave myself about 13 minutes to get there, park, return my item and hurry back to the office.

When I got to the Gateway, they had completely blocked off the "main drag" -- a road down the middle of the shops where once in a while, if Karma is smiling on you, find can a parking spot. And finding parking anywhere else was proving to be a small nightmare because there were also cars EVERYWHERE. I couldn't imagine what all the fuss was about on a Wednesday afternoon. By the time I parked in the bowels of the underground garage and come up on the elevator, I had already wasted eight of my 13 minutes... so naturally, I was feeling annoyed and more rushed with each passing second.

The elevator doors opened, and I was hit by a barrage of kids... preschoolers, toddlers and babies... all accompanied by their moms, and a sprinkling of dads and grandmas. (It was the largest fleet of strollers I think I've ever seen.) My first thought was that Gymboree and Old Navy were going out of business and giving away their remaining inventory for free... I couldn't imagine another reason why this many Utah moms would be here at the same time.

But there was, in fact, another reason: They were all there to see the Ringling Bros. "officially" come to town in the form of a parade. Balloons and acrobats, clowns and stiltwalkers, miniature horses with feathery headdresses -- "and elephants, elephants even!!" a little girl told me, her big blue eyes all happy and sparkling -- all making their grand entrance down The Gateway ANY. MINUTE. NOW.

I was well past my 13 minutes, but I was no longer annoyed and rushed. In fact, I felt just the opposite. After all...

The circus has come to town!

option #2

2010-09-20T07:32:00.005-06:00

There are times when my job has an adverse... dare I say devastating... impact on my family. That time was at 6:12 this morning.

"Ty... I have to leave, honey. I need to be at work by 7 today."

His eyes shoot open. "What??? You're leaving right now?"

"Yes. I have a noon deadline so I've got to get a jump on things."

"Why didn't you tell me last night?? Who's going to do my hair???"

Hm... the Follicular Ecosystem is endangered. Definitely a crisis.

In an effort to avoid future catastrophies like this one, the options are:

1. Mom quits her job, which guarantees her presence at RIDICULOUS o'clock in the morning for any and all teenage grooming emergencies.

2. Someone needs to learn how to use the flat iron by themselves.

I'm thinking Option #2 is the ticket.

push-ups

2010-09-19T17:06:00.005-06:00

Last night we had our friends over for the U of U's first away game against New Mexico. In an effort to be entertained by watching our offspring do something strenuous (isn't that one of the perks of having kids?), the parents decided that the kids had to do push-ups for every point scored, just like the cheerleaders do at the home games.

Some kids are in fine form. Others might need some upper body work. You be the judge.

After they're done, two-year-old Taylor -- sporting a crimson tutu for the big occasion -- decides that she wants to do some "push-ups" like the big kids... which, as you will see, is hysterical. (Please ignore my counting of Tay Tay's push-ups, I got a little distracted by the cuteness.)

Final score of the game: Utes 56, Lobos 14.

Final outcome at the party: Tired kids with aching arms, Grown-ups openly pleased by the discomfort.

giddyup!

2010-09-17T10:25:00.004-06:00

I'm pretty sure our tailgating shindig tomorrow won't look anything like this...

and it's totally unfair that all these boys have nicer legs than me.

Here's to a toe-tappin', knee-slappin', high-falootin' weekend!

molar dilemma

2010-09-16T10:47:00.011-06:00

I went to the dentist this morning, and two of my teeth have been assigned an "Official Watch."

Is that like a tornado watch? Or a tordando warning? (What's the difference between those two, anyway?) I guess it means that these two teeth are looking sketchy and, if I'm not uber-brushing and hyper-flossing, are in danger of succumbing to The Black Hole... you know, the one that involves a drill and some filling.

The teeth in question are #12 and #20. I have no idea which teeth these are... I think #20 is a molar. #12 might be a bicuspid... or is it a bicarbonate? A biathalon? (I'm not especially dialed in to dental vernacular.)

At any rate, it was made very clear to me that this is not casual observation. As of today, the entire staff at Genesis Dental is on high alert regarding my #12 and #20.

Maybe in a couple months I'll get a voice mail:

"Hello, Kareen... this is Genesis Dental calling. Just wanted to let you know that we're still watching your teeth with avid interest. Please let us know immediately if there's something we need to be concerned about; otherwise, we'll continue to hold vigil over #12 and #20 until your return in March. Until then... be safe, brush regularly, and know that we're watching."

That would totally make me feel like Jason Bourne. Or James Bond. Or that dude from The Fugitive.

Or... maybe it would just make me feel like a chick with a couple of schlocky choppers and a semi-creepy dentist.

P.S. Attention Tooele County: Flouride is not... I repeat, IS NOT... a communist plot to undermine public health, so could you consider throwing a splash or two into our water? Of course, to take such a measure might mark the beginning of the end of the Hillbilly Nation out there... but believe me, that would not break my city-slicker heart in the least. Seriously, GET WITH THE FLOURIDE PROGRAM!!

ELLE. oh. vee. ee.

2010-09-15T10:55:00.017-06:00

Today's blurb is dedicated to one of the most captivating cherubs I know.

Everyone, this is Elle.

Elle Kennedy Johnson.

Elle lives in Las Vegas with her

equally captivating twin brother, Liam, her super cool daddy, Jeff,

and her most awesome mommy, Suzanne, who is one of my dearest BFFs.

Yesterday I was having one of the crappiest days ever. As in

Mr.-President-please-take-us-to-DEFCON-ONE-because-the-whole-earth-is-imploding-right-here-in-my-office

kind of crappy... so I went to Suz's blog for some relief.

This is the photo that turned it around for me:

Her chubby arms. Her chipmunk cheeks.

(Suz, is that a dimple in her chin? Or drool?)

Her funny little grin as she makes herself at home

in a pile of clean blankies and burp cloths.

ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?

How can I possibly stay at DEFCON ONE

with this level of cuteness smacking me between the eyes??

It's preposterous.

It's reedeekyoulaaahs.
It cannot be done, I tell you.

So I relaxed, took some deep breaths...

Took in a little more Elle-ness...

and I felt better.

I mean, seriously. How could I not?

Elle Belle, you charmed me right out of my funk...

and for that, baby girl, you rock!

I owe you big hugs and kisses...

And that pony I promised you when you were still in the womb.

Lots of lovesies,

Auntie K-Fraud

17 blurbs

2010-09-14T10:06:00.005-06:00

On my way to work this morning I decided I needed a goal. So here it is: I'm going to blog about something EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. for the rest of the month.

This is an exercise in motivation and discipline... my attempt to keep the creative juices flowing a little better than they have been of late. I can't guarantee that every post will runneth over with awesomeness, but for some reason I'm thinking I need to give it a shot.

Heaven knows I need something else to fill my day.

So, this counts for today. One (boring and benign) blurb down, 16 to go.

eighth grade

2010-08-24T09:12:00.016-06:00

So... this is what eighth grade looks like:

Three inches taller, ten pounds heavier and much longer hair than seventh grade.

(Here's the photo comparison from last year to this year.)

Very handsome. Very grown up.

First-day ensemble: Hollister skinny jeans, plaid oxford, black Pumas (size 9).

He was pretty stoked about finally fitting in men's jeans this year...

For me, it's just another red flag: Time's passing too fast.

The hair is a careful, tenuous process.

These days the top of Tyler's head is like a delicate ecosystem. A single uncooperative strand -- like the one we dealt with this morning -- puts the entire system in danger of complete collapse and, in turn, triggers a catastrophe the likes of which are known only to Old Testament folks.

Thanks to Mom's arsenal of styling tools and products, we managed to get his coiffure under control and avoid Armageddon.

Bella, our neighbor across the street and one of Tyler's BFFs,
shows up at 7:15 for the walk to the bus stop.

The fact that they are totally adorable together is not lost on me.
Nor is it lost on my friend Kristi, Bella's mom.
We have already arranged their marriage.
I'm sure this photo will be in the collage we put together for their reception.

"Bye, Mom. You can stop taking pictures now."

Bye, son. Love you. Have a great year.

the a team

2010-08-12T10:32:00.009-06:00

Since Saturday we've been immersed in football tryouts: Four sweaty, grueling days that have thus far resulted in a busted lip, massive body bruising (what the hell are those pads for, anyway?) and a skinned knee that could use a large sterile dressing -- or possibly some epidermic grafting. (Tyler continues to believe that his knee is oozing pus... I continue to reassure him that it's simply the layer of fluid that, under normal circumstances, is contained by skin.)

Anyway, the beating and the bruising and the busting-his-butt has paid off: Last night at 10 o'clock we got a phone call from the head coach, and Tyler has made the A Team. He's over the moon... and I'm off to the drugstore to buy more gauze and bandages.

I'm proud of you, son! Play great, have fun... and, for my sake, try and steer clear of the offensive line.

yoga poser

2010-08-10T13:59:00.017-06:00

For most of my life I have classified yoga in the same category as changing the air filters in my house and taking vitamins: The "Probably-A-Good-Thing-To-Do-But-Pretty-Much-Not-Interested" category. This is largely due to my (fairly reasonable) assumption that in order to enjoy yoga, you must be extremely flexible and have an acute sense of balance.

I'm 0 for 2.

I played sports growing up, and every year we were given a flexibility test... you know, where you sit on the floor with your legs stretched out in front of you, and then you attempt to lean forward and touch your toes with your fingertips. (Notice I said attempt.) Year after year, coaches and trainers would give me the bad news: According to their Very Official Flexibility Chart, I was as limber as a 76-year-old man with advanced rheumatoid arthritis. (Something every 15-year-old girl longs to hear.) Since then I've been convinced that my hamstrings aren't actually made of the muscular fiber found in humans, but rather some kind of unyielding polymer composite only found in petrified forests and X-Men, a mutating alloy that calcifies with each passing hour.

I also have equilibrium issues... to put it simply, balance is not my thing. [Right now my husband is turning to The Dingo and making smart-ass remarks about how "unbalanced" I am. Very funny, hon. And by the way, don't talk about me like that in front of the dog.] Anyway... the truth is, if a doctor poked around my inner ear and discovered a few parts missing, it wouldn't surprise me. In fact, it would explain the annoying tipping-over-for-no-apparent-reason thing that I have.

So... you can understand my hesitation to try something that I'm clearly predisposed to suck at.

But after reading some stuff and talking to a couple friends who are cuckoo for chakras, I decided to start going to the yoga classes at my gym. After five months, here are some of my suspicions confirmed:

I'm still as agile as a 76-year-old man.
My inner ear function is, for the most part, dysfunctional.
My favorite pose is Child's Pose... the one you go to when you're "resting" between other poses. (Big surprise.)
My favorite part of yoga overall: Yoga pants. Super comfy.

However, I've also made a few surprising discoveries:

It's ok if you're rigid and rickety, because yoga actually increases your flexibility and balance as you do it. Which means maybe five years from now I'll be as nimble as, say, a 68-year-old man.
Even if you can't hold a posture perfectly... or even decently... you can still reap the benefits from the pose if you hold it as correctly and as best you can.
Yoga is about control and stillness, and I happen to be a huge fan of both these things... so this is a good fit for me.
The most shocking of all: You can suck at yoga and still enjoy it.

My hamstrings remain fossilized and I'm tipsy enough to suggest that a breathalizer test might be in order... but the truth is, I've felt really good these past few months. So yoga has officially been reclassified to the "Make-Time-For-This-Because-It's-Actually-Pretty-Great" category.

In other words... I'm down, dawg.

prodigal son

2010-07-10T13:53:00.005-06:00

Today Tyler came home after a camping trip with his dad... 10 days of four-wheelers and fishing, campfires and pine needles. Last night he called me to let me know they were back in town... and also tell me how much he loved me, and that he was counting the minutes until we were reunited once again.

Fine. I made up that last part.

I suspect Ty called because his dad told him it would be a good idea to check in... which probably hadn't occurred to him at all. In fact, I'm almost positive it hadn't occured to him, because our conversation went like this:

Mom: "I'm so glad you're back, honey!"

Ty: "Yeah... me, too."

"On a scale of 1 to 10, how ready are you to come home?"

"About an 8." Promising.

"On the same scale, how ready are you to play golf again?"

"Probably a 9 1/2."

That one was easy... he's played golf every day this summer, and I knew he'd be chomping at the bit to come home and swing the wrenches. But the next question was a toss-up:

"And how much have you missed me while you've been gone?"

(Slight pause while he decides if he should be honest.)

"Uh... maybe a 7." Honesty prevails.

Seven's pretty respectable, considering that he's almost 14... but I figure I'll try negotiating a better number.

"So... does 'maybe a 7' mean possibly an 8?"

"No. I just couldn't decide between 6 and 7, so I rounded up."

I gasp... he chuckles. (I know, right? What a punk.) He loves messing with me. I love it, too.

But part of me--the part that always wants him to need me just a little bit--would have loved an 8 even more.

Welcome home, happy camper.

so... where was I?

2010-07-08T17:49:00.003-06:00

The last time I posted a blog entry, the world looked like this:

And now, it looks like this:

I decided to boycott blogging until Mother Nature stopped being a tempermental bee-yatch and the daily forecast began consistently using words like "sunny" and "hot" and "no rain in sight."

For the record, if I happened upon a crowd staging a protest against an Unseasonably Chilly June, I'd join them in a second. If people were picketing in support of the right to assume that spring would actually be pleasant... well, hand me a sign, sister, cuz that's one line I'd be happy to stand in.

Make no mistake: I am the Norma Rae of crappy weather.

Actually, I'm kidding... not about the Norma Rae thing, that's all true... but that's not why I haven't blogged. I've just been busier than any human has any business being with things like: Attending my brother's college graduation... visiting my niece in the hospital (she's fine now, thank goodness)... going out of town for work... going out of town for fun... coordinating my company's annual breakfast (700 people over to the office for pancakes)... and on top of it all, just putting in long hours on other projects. I do come home occassionally and reintroduce myself to my family... thankfully, there's still a spark of familiarity there.

Even more thankfully, things have slowed down... just a little, and not for long... so I thought I'd reconnect while I have a couple minutes to breathe. I have some fun stories from the past several weeks... hopefully I can get around to sharing a couple before I'm caught in the undertow again.

In the meantime, there's a perfectly good summer evening going to waste as I type (see second photo)... and since Mother Nature finally threw me a bone, I think I'll go out and enjoy what's left of it.

The Best Singer Gets the Finger

2010-04-18T18:05:00.005-06:00

My calling at church is the Primary Chorister. For those of you who are, say, Catholic (and, therefore, have the luxury of sitting through Mass in relative peace and relaxation), this means that I'm in charge of teaching music to the children in our congregation every Sunday. The Primary organization is for all children ages three through 11.. and remember, Mormons take the "multiply and replenish the earth" mandate pretty seriously... so that means I teach music to about 27,000 kids every week, give or take a few.

Ok... maybe slightly less than that. But not by much.

I've been the chorister for two years now, and I love it so much that I've formally requested that my tenure in this post become similar to a Supreme Court Justice appointment... or like being inducted into the Mafia, minus the racketeering and the body in the trunk. You know... a called-for-life-don't-even-think-about-going-anywhere-because-this-is-it-for-you kind of situation.

We have all kinds of fun learning new songs and singing old favorites... and because we're having so much fun, I've been known to stick my foot in my mouth a time or two over the years... but nothing like what happened today.

For the new song we're learning this month, I came up with a TEAM theme. To help teach the song in an interactive way, I have several team-theme props that the kids are using: Little pennants, pom-poms... I even bought a couple of foam fingers, like this one:

Today I was choosing certain kids... those who were singing the best... to come up and select a prop from my bag. Then they got to be part of the "pep squad" that stayed up in front and cheered the other kids on to sing great. One by one, the props were pulled from the bag and we'd sing our song... until there was only one prop left in the bag: A green foam finger.

The kids knew it was the last prop in the bag... they were totally pumped to sing great and, therefore, have a chance at being chosen for the "pep squad"... so they were all excitedly chattering away. Remember, there's 27,000 kids (give or take) in the room, so it's getting louder by the second... and the wheels are starting to come off the truck.

This motley crue of Mormon kids can go from Hallowed Angels to Animal House in about six seconds flat. I've seen it with my own two eyes, and it's not pretty. I wasn't about to let that happen... so, hollering over the chatter, I reminded the kids that they ONLY had a chance to be on the pep squad if they were singing... not talking.

And then, being the clever girl that I am, a catchy phrase popped into my head. The phrase rhymed... it was perfectly suited to the occassion... and frankly, I couldn't have been more proud of myself for thinking of it so quickly. So without hesitating I let it fly, loudly and proudly:

"THE BEST SINGER GETS THE FINGER!"

I'll just let it hang there for you... just like it did in the Primary room for about three seconds.

The longest.
Three.
Seconds.
Of.
My.
Life.

The kids got quiet... and then they suddenly felt weird and awkward, but you could tell they weren't exactly sure why. The adults got big eyes, and then their hands immediately covered their mouths as they tried stifling smiles and laughter.

The Primary Chorister was horrified by the realization that she just, in effect, told 27,000 Primary children that she'd be firing off a lewd gesture for their efforts. She was aghast that she'd fallen victim to that horrible thing: The thing where something sounds AWESOME in your head and then, as soon as you give voice to it, it's a huge mistake that makes you want to jump into an active volcano.

Thankfully, we were able to move forward rather quickly. The song was beautiful, and nobody... I repeat, NOBODY... got the finger.

Nevertheless, I'm half expecting the Bishop to call me tonight... after all, his three kids are part of the 27,000... but with any luck, they've forgotten all about the incident.

I'll cross my... uh... fingers.

Punked by Mother Nature

2010-04-01T09:11:00.002-06:00

Is it really April 1st today?

REALLY??

Of course it is.

You're HILARIOUS, Mother Nature. A total riot.

FOUR Better or Worse

2010-03-21T17:01:00.007-06:00

This week Dave and I are celebrating four years of blissful matrimony.

Four years of: "You don't have to talk so loud... I'm standing right here."

Four years of: "Speak up, I can't hear a word you're saying!!"

I'll let you decide which quote belongs to whom.

Four years of quibbling over toothpaste (whether or not the tube is truly empty) and the proper way to load a dishwasher ("Cereal bowls go up here, like this... hellooo!"). Four years of discussing how many lights need to be on at any given time. (Dave says one light at the most, and only if it's absolutely necessary... which, incidentally, is also up for debate.)

Not to mention four years of what I affectionately call GlobalTHERMOSTATnuclear War. I've been working on a post about this on and off for months, and very soon I'll be hitting you between the eyes with our ongoing... uh, heated... exchange about the temperature in our home. (And after you read it, you'll be amazed that we've stayed married this long.)

For four years we've been meeting in the middle about money (Frugal McDougal married Spendy Wendy)... supporting one another's career paths (long hours and weird schedules)... and above all, chaperoning our kid from childhood into adolescence, which is a constant tag-teaming effort to ensure that he comes out on the other side a normal, happy human being and not a sociopath.

Through all of this, Dave holds down the fort and lifts up my spirits. He's smart as hell and wickedly funny, though most people don't know that about him. He listens and listens and listens AND LISTENS to all my boisterous blathering—and then, when he finally gets a word in edgewise, he's always diplomatic (whether or not I deserve it), and he always says what I need to hear (whether or not I like it).

He supports everything I do—especially my writing—but he hates being the center of attention... which means he's reading this and can't decide whether he's moved or mortified. (My money's on mortified.) He's the most patient person I know... and he never, ever expects me to be anyone other than exactly who I am. To paraphase the song by Blessid Union of Souls: He loves me for me.

This is where I should post one of our wedding pictures—but I can't bring myself to do it because, while Dave looks dashing and handsome, I look like Shamu in a beaded jacket. So instead, here are a few pictures of my groom about 40 years before we fell in love:

Seriously, those rubber pants are HOT...

Look at that face and tell me that's not Dave... he looks exactly the same!

Sorry, hon... I couldn't resist.

Four years ago we said I do... and even though he unplugs my space heater 10 times a day, I still do.

Love you, hon.

Just BROWsing

2010-03-05T11:46:00.022-07:00

Last night before bedtime, Tyler—peering critically at my face—wrinkled his nose and said:

"Mom... you have gray hairs in your eyebrows."

Daily reminder from a Teenager that I am the Aging Mother of a Teenager: Check.

Because I'm so mature, I reply:

"At least I have TWO eyebrows... unlike some people in this room." We're the only humans around for miles.

"Whattaya mean?" he protests. "I have two eyebrows!"

Actually, he's right. No son of mine would leave the house rockin' a uni, especially considering the epic (harrowing? cautionary?) tale of my own eyebrows.

Oh, the stories I could tell. The hours I spent sitting on the floor in front of my mother, who had three different pairs of tweezers and the intensity of a renegade paratrooper... the pictures of me in college when I rebelled and refused to pluck them for two solid years.

HOR. IF. ICK.

Anyway, T's brows are indeed still plural—but lately I have noticed a general increase in their volume. Based on personal experience, my instinct was to think "growing together." But that's not the case at all.

Now it's my turn to peer at him, wrinkle my nose, and say:

"Wow... actually, Ty, your eyebrows are getting pretty... uh... tall."

And it's true—those eyebrows are gaining some serious altitude on that forehead of his. In fact, upon closer inspection it would be more accurate to use the term "bushy-to-the-point-of-resembling-fur"—but I love my kid to pieces, and Lord knows adolescence is hard enough without your mother sucker-punching you in the Self Esteem. So I stick with tall. (And pray, daily and fervently, that he never never EVER reads my blog.)

"Did you know your eyebrows had gotten that... tall?"

"Yeah, I guess. I don't know. Did you know your eyebrows had so many gray hairs?"

Silly boy. "Oh, yeah. I color over them every day with an eyebrow pencil."

"You do?"

"Yep." Glancing at his forehead, I add: "I'm an expert at eyebrows. I can fix any problem that has to do with eyebrows."

We both stand there. I'm half hoping he takes me up on my offer. He doesn't.

I want to push the issue... I want to thin those suckers out right there on the spot... but while I know exactly what to do with bushy eyebrows on a 13-year-old girl (thank you, Renegade Paratrooper), I'm not sure the same protocol applies to a 13-year-old boy. So I drop it.

And then I finish shaving his upper lip with the electric razor—which is what we've been doing the whole time.

"There ya go, bud. You're all set."

Once a week he asks me to shave his moustache (don't get me started)... because he's not ready to do it himself. I'm happy to oblige, because I know it's one of the few "Mom-I-need-you" things left between us. And because I know it won't last much longer.

And because I know those things, I'd never ruin a perfectly good shave (moment) with talk of tall eyebrows.

"Thanks, Mom... you did a good job."

I sure hope so.

The Rebate Debate

2010-02-19T19:24:00.045-07:00

My work peeps and I go out to lunch together, as work peeps are known to do. More times than not, our lunchtime conversations go off on funny tangents... which can make for some good stories.

Or blog posts.

Several weeks ago Matt, Aaron and I went to Costa Vida. As we were chatting, I mentioned that I had a rebate form at home that I had to fill out and mail in. And that I didn't really want to fill it out, but I had to because Dave was making me. And it sucked that Dave was making me, because filling out rebates is HARD and DUMB and I don't want to be bothered with them.

The whole time I'm talking, Matt and Aaron are looking at me with an expression they probably use when their wives are saying something they think is completely ridiculous (although I'm positive that Amy and Michelle, whom I adore, would never ever say anything ridiculous).

"How much is the rebate?" Matt asked.

I roll my eyes, inconvenienced even by questions about rebates. "It's for $50."

Incredulous pause.

In general, Matt and Aaron are both extremely polite and diplomatic, but they both enjoy a friendly debate amongst friends (especially Matt). So, after I tell them how much the rebate is, Aaron starts in on his burrito... and Matt starts in on me.

"Let me get this straight," Matt says. "All you have to do to get $50 back is fill out the form, attach a couple of things to it, put it in an envelope and mail it... and you're not interested?"

"Nope," I said. "I just don't want to bother with it."

More incredulous pausing.

I realize that Matt said exactly the same thing Dave said when we discussed it the night before... and then it dawns on me: I'm trying to curry sympathy from two people who share my husband's passion for value and frugality! I'm attempting to convince my cost-conscious colleagues to sympathize with my blatant and unapologetic fiscal apathy... and failing miserably.

I'm horrified... but I'm steadfast.

"Dude," I say, my chin stuck out in protest, "I won't get my money for... like... three months! Maybe even longer!"

Non-plussed pausing.

"So what? You'll get it eventually, right?"

"Probably... but that's too long to wait! And filling out those forms and enclosing all that crap is too time-consuming!"

Even more pausing.

Aaron is silently smiling at me and getting comfortable... he's more than happy to sit back, relax and watch the train wreck in progress. Meanwhile, Matt has come up with a new angle to test my commitment to the Too-Damn-Lazy-to-Claim-Free-Cash platform.

"What if you were outside and, all of a sudden, a $5 bill blows past you down the street. Would you chase it down?"

Without skipping a beat, in an effort to clarify the scenario I ask the most obvious question:

"What season is it?"

Surprise-attacked pause.

Matt doesn't get it. I've thrown him off... which is hard to do, because he's a smarty-pants. "Uh... what season is it?" he repeats.

"Yeah... Is it winter, spring, summer or fall?" I'm silently high-fiving myself for discombobulating him.

"Uh, ok... it's winter. But what does the season have to do with it?"

I'm actually hurt that he doesn't see the connection. Any friend of mine knows I believe with all my heart that if Satan was a season, he would be WINTER. (A bit ironic, I know, considering he's reported to live in a fairly warm climate.) Point is, Matt should know exactly where I'm going with this.

"Because if it's cold outside, you know there's NO WAY I would chase down a $5 bill because... uh, it's cold outside."

It finally registers. "Ah, yes, of course," he says. "Winter is evil. Sorry, I forgot. Ok, so let's say it's 75 degrees outside. Would you go after the money then?"

"Probably not."

Bonus round of incredulous pausing. I start to wonder if these guys are going to give me a ride back to the office.

"WHY NOT?"

"Because! I'm not going to look like a fool chasing money blowing in the wind... that's just silly! Besides, you've seen the shoes I wear to work. Do you honestly think I would trot down the street in eighty-dollar high heels for five measley bucks?"

Now they're thinking many things about me... things featuring words like "diva" and "hoity-toity" and "sucks to be Dave"... but mostly they can't believe that, if a perfectly good finsky meandered past me in a breeze, I would turn on my (high) heel and walk the other way.

In fact, Matt refuses to accept this. He's determined to find my threshold, the point at which I am willing to concede this cockamamie platform.

"So how much money would it have to be for you to chase it down the street? Ten dollars?"

I wrinkle my nose. He rolls his eyes.

"Ok, ten dollars in 75-degree weather. And you're wearing flats." (Like I said, a smarty-pants.)

I think it over... and shrug my shoulders.

His eyes widen. "You wouldn't chase down TEN DOLLARS?"

I shrug again, picking at my tortilla. Any second his corneas are going to pop out of their sockets and land in his refried beans.

And then they'd be refreyed beans!! Ha ha ha, hee hee hee, ha ha ha ha ha...

Sorry.

Dumbfounded by my obvious aversion to rational thought, Matt blurts: "Twenty?! Would you chase down a twenty-dollar bill?!"

The threshold at last! "Yes, I would definitely chase down a twenty-dollar bill."

Matt's smelling victory, but he knows he's not quite there. "Would you really?" He asks, his eyes
narrowing. "Even in winter?"

"Yes!" I insist.

And then, because it's the absolute truth and I can't help myself, I add:

"Unless it's actually snowing, and the money blows across the street. I wouldn't want to cross the street in the snow... especially if I'm wearing those cute red pumps that I love."

Threshold destroyed. Victory in tatters. Work peeps chalk me up as a total wackadoo.

As we headed back to work, I'm sure Matt and Aaron were silently thanking their lucky stars that they only have to put up with my nonsense from 9 to 5.

I was silently thanking my lucky stars it wasn't snowing.

P.S. It's been 30 days since I mailed that rebate to the Godforsaken Black Hole of Rebate Redemption and, of course, I haven't heard a peep. Only seven more months to wait.

P.S.S. Is anyone else with me on this, or am I the only one with a "No-thanks, I'm good" policy on rebates? If so please give me a shout out... it might help chip away at the huge complex this conversation gave me...

Cupid Pops

2010-02-15T15:00:00.018-07:00

For Valentine's Day this year I made cake pops. Cake pops are a signature confection of Bakerella, who has a fabulous blog about all things baked and beautiful. Her creations are adorable in a holy-crap-she-must-never-ever-sleep kind of way... and because I prefer shut-eye to pretty much everything else, I mostly just peruse and admire her mad baking skills and insane cuteness.

However... because I'm feeling brave in the kitchen these days, I decided to give her cake pops a whirl in Cupid's honor. (And because I decided that I had FIVE HOURS to spare on a Thursday evening after Zumba class.)

This is actually the second time I've made cake pops. The first time was a couple of weeks ago, just to see if I could pull them off. It was definitely a learning curve: I made some mistakes, then made some adjustments... and below is my second, more confident attempt:

This photo makes me think of the game Candy Land.

If the Milton Bradley gang were so inclined,

they could easily add Cake Pop Grove to the board.

Oooh... sparkly and glittery... and when you bite it, it's RED VELVETY!

Once they were chocolate-dipped and candy-coated,

of course I had to put them in pretty packages...

I mean... go big or go home, right?

Since I was already home, I had no choice but to go big.

And then, at 12:56 a.m., I went to bed.

My Cupid Pops aren't as cute as Bakerella's creations... her shoes are big ones to fill, as you can see here, and I'm just taking baby steps! But I think they turned out pretty cute... and yummy. In fact, Dave and Ty ate one and it was like the Diapered Cherub himself had hit the bullseye on my guys... they instantly began to swoon and profess their undying love for me!

Or, maybe they said: "Hey, these are pretty tasty. But do we have to call them cake pops? That's kinda girly."

Personally, I prefer the swooning-and-professing version.

Channeling Betty

2010-02-12T13:53:00.018-07:00

I have heretofore mentioned my general aversion to cooking... most recently in this post where I confessed, among other culinary shortcomings, that I did not know the difference between a garlic press and a carburetor. (Which is why both items are clearly labeled at my house. Still.)

But my friends, thanks in large part to Jillian Michaels' book called Master Your Metabolism, I have a new aversion: Food that is chemically bastardized beyond all nurtitional recognition. It's been interesting to learn about hormonal functions and the metabolic process—and even more unsettling to learn what we put our bodies through when they try and make sense of all the processed junk we eat, stuff that our bodies are not at all designed to process.

[MID-POST DISCLAIMER: Relax... I'm not going to lecture anyone about their Cheetos and Diet Coke. And I still fantasize about eating a giant bowl of Cocoa Puffs while I'm watching Project Runway; therefore, I have no high horse to ride, nor am I in a position to tell anyone what they should or shouldn't eat. I'm simply sharing this little epiphany I've had... so by all means, have another Twinkie and continue reading.]

When it comes to food, Jillian's general rule is: If it didn't grow from the ground or if it doesn't have a mother, don't eat it. These days I'm pretty much following that rule and eating "clean" food—meaning whole, real food minus the preservatives and chemical yuckiness. But, because I love food too much and couldn't have it any other way, my clean food has to be tasty, too.

All of this to say that... hope my parents and siblings are sitting down... I've started cooking. Real food. FROM SCRATCH. Not every single day... but at this point, more days than not.

In the past few weeks I have purchased new mixing and prep bowls, a few other pieces of cookware and a couple new knives, along with two kinds of cooking wine and at least 10 bottles of spices I'd never heard of before. (So is Cumin pronounced KOO'-min, or Q-min?? Somebody please give me a ruling on this.)

I've also been holding nightly seances to channel Betty Crocker. I made a Ouiga board out of a cookie sheet, using a tiny spatula as a pointer... and I sit in front of it chanting recipes out loud, wearing an apron and oven mitts. And let me tell ya, Bets has been... uh, rising... to the ocassion.

Don't believe me? Here's proof: Wednesday night I made the most amazing Chicken Parmigiana, recipe courtesy of Ree Drummond, The Pioneer Woman. (She's wonderful... for the love of all that is good and holy, you MUST check her out.)

Here I am sprinkling fresh parsley onto my masterpiece. (Candie, I didn't see fresh thyme in the produce section... so, alas, I still can't find the thyme.)

No, I did NOT sneak into the kitchen at the Olive Garden with my camera...

This was made by ME on MY OWN STOVE!

Look at that succulent piece of chicken, simmering in scrumptious marinara sauce and blanketed with freshly shaved parmesan cheese...
does it get better than that? No, I'm afraid not.

I wish I had prettier plates because, holy cannoli, that's a fine-looking meal!

How are the guys responding to my culinary awakening?
They are absolutely beside themselves with joy.
(Dave looks ready to come at me with that knife if I don't stop taking pictures and let him eat.)

Come to mama!

Even Dingo slurped up a little bit of sauce!
(And then proceeded to emit clouds of noxious gas all night long... so that turned out to be a bad idea.)

This recipe was five-star FABULOUS! We all fought over the leftovers the next day. The guys want me to make it again for Valentine's Day... and frankly, I'm wondering why we have to wait that long...

So as it turns out, after all these years I'm actually capable of following a recipe that involves more than "microwave on high for 3-6 minutes." A shout out goes to The Pioneer Woman for the great recipe, and to my always-willing taste testers at home... now affectionately known as The Dishwashing Staff. (Dude, cooking is MESSY!)

And thanks to Betty, my homegirl from the beyond, who comes to my kitchen when summoned and makes sure that I never overdo it with the KOO'-min.

Science Fair Nightmare

2010-01-22T13:01:00.019-07:00

Research Question: Can Tyler successfully conduct a Science Fair experiment with a partner who allegedly has ADHD? (In the absence of a confirmed formal diagnosis, Tyler's mother informally refers to the boy's condition as "Wouldn't-Remember-To-Bring-My-Head-If-It-Weren't-Attached-Because-I-Am-A-Spazmatic-Scatterbrained-Doofus.")

Hypothesis: Given our prior knowledge of Tyler, the aforementioned Doofus, and the tortuous purgatory that is the Science Fair in general... our educated guess is that Tyler will be shouldering most of the work involved—and by Tyler, we mean his parents—in an effort to avoid a dreadful score on his project and, in turn, an abysmal grade in Honors Integrated Science.

The Experiment commences:

Controlled Variables: Tyler, Doofus and Dave, who assumed the role of Supervisor in the Depths of Hell during the course of this project. [Clinical sidenote: At no time were Doofus' parents involved in any phase of this project.]

Manipulated Variables: Pretty much everything else. (Up until five days before the project was due, any number of things changed from day to day: The experiment they were going to perform, the action plan to conduct said experiment, the liquids they were using, the metals they were using... you name it. Finally, Supervisor in the Depths of Hell put a stop to their meandering and made them start their project.)

Observation & Data Collection: We observed two scenarios that played out, in some form or fashion, every single day during the experiment:

Scenario #1

Tyler calls Doofus to remind him of what he's supposed to be doing.
Doofus asks Tyler what he's supposed to be doing.
Tyler explains (AGAIN) what Doofus is supposed to be doing.
Tyler's mother overhears the conversation, rolls her eyes, and starts hollering about the inherent value of choosing a Science Fair partner whose head isn't simply an oversized knick-knack propped on top of their shoulders.
Tyler looks at his hollering mother with contempt and misery, finishes talking to Doofus, then skulks off to his room to see if he can find a new place to live for the next five days.

Scenario #2

Tyler and Doofus are meeting at our house to compare data at 4 p.m.
Doofus arrives at 4:30 p.m.
Doofus has forgotten his data notebook.
Since Doofus has forgotten his notebook (along with the reason why he is at our house), Doofus suggests playing Wii instead.
Supervisor in the Depths of Hell assesses the situation, puts the kibosh on Wii, and drives them back over to Doofus' house to get his notebook.
Supervisor in the Depths of Hell proceeds to watch Tyler's and Doofus' every move to ensure that they're proceeding with the experiment as outlined.
Doofus leaves at 5:30 p.m.
Supervisor in the Depths of Hell skulks off to his room to see if he can find a new place to live for the next five days.

I wish I could say the data fascinated me... but it only gave me an overwhelming desire to purchase Xanax. A lot of it. IMMEDIATELY.

Results: After repeated rounds of Scenarios 1 and 2, and with Supervisor in the Depths of Hell hovering over them every minute, Tyler and Doofus managed to collate their data, write summaries, create a table, and select the photos of their progress (which Doofus forgot to take until the very last day of the experiment). They arranged everything on their display board... quite nicely, I'll admit...

And then... Doofus asked us if we could take the board to school, because his parents wouldn't be able to.

[Clinical sidenote: Even if they had offered, did Doofus honestly think—after all the man-hours and angst and self-medicating—that I would let the finished product out of my sight, much less send it home with HIM??? Not a snowball's chance in Science Fair Hell, my friends.]

Final Conclusions:

Conclusion #1: Out of a possible 100%, the data collected from this experiment proved that our hypothesis was 387.6% correct. Tyler did, in fact, do much of the work—his evil parents riding him like Seabiscuit the whole way—because there was a big lesson to learn about choosing wisely.

Conclusion #2: Tyler is no longer allowed to randomly choose a Science Fair partner on his own. From now on we will conduct thorough screenings and background checks, as well as formal interviews, of any and all potential candidates and their parents before making a final decision on a partner. (Why? Because after ALL OF THAT, Tyler actually said that, if he had to do it over, he would probably choose Doofus again because they're good friends. Lesson learned about choosing wisely? Uh... not so much.)

Conclusion #3: If you want your corroded pennies to be nice and shiny again, orange juice really does the trick.

Out with The Chin, keep The Hair in!!

2010-01-13T10:15:00.006-07:00

I know there are a grundle of more important things going on in the world right now (everyone pray for Haiti!!)... but my undies have been in a bunch over this Jay/Conan issue for days now, and I would be remiss if I didn't take a moment to pledge my allegiance to a talented guy who worked his goofy ass off to get where he is... and now, after only a few months, is being forced out by a prima donna who apparently has never heard of Move Your Feet, Lost Your Seat.

Whether his brand of humor is or isn't your cup of tea, right is right... and Conan is being handed a giant, sloshing bucket of THE SHAFT.

It'd be great if NBC grew a pair and did thing right thing—which would be to send JAY WALKIN' and keep Conan right where he is—but it seems unlikely. So, once the Olympics end and until Conan resurfaces on Fox, I'll be tuning in to David Letterman... after all, this is a DREAM. COME. TRUE. for him... I'm sure he and his writers are giddy as schoolgirls with all the material they'll have to work with over the next couple of months. And if Letterman is smart, he's working like CRAZY right this minute to lock in a very special guest for his show on March 1: Conan O'Brien.

The pooch has officially been screwed. Way to go, Jay and NBC. Rock on, Conan!

The fam. The barn. The photos.

2010-01-08T12:24:00.021-07:00

Instead of a post where I'm taking shots at my family, I thought I'd post some great shots of my family instead, taken by my sister last month.

My family will be so relieved.

On the state road between my neighborhood and the town with the nearest grocery store (don't get me started), there's an old barn by the side of the road. As a bona-fide City Girl who's been displaced on the prairie for a while now, I've always made it a point to ignore the abject ruralness of my surroundings... however, since I'M NOT ABLE TO PURCHASE TOILET PAPER WITHOUT DRIVING TO ANOTHER TOWN (in case you haven't caught on, this is an open, festering wound that has pained me every day for five and a half years)... I drive on this road, and by this barn, quite a bit.

A couple years ago I finally noticed the barn—really looked at it—and was immediately taken in by the peeling red paint on the old planks, the tattered window inset with a rusty piece of tin… I guess I was channeling Laura Ingalls, because then and there I decided that the barn would be an awesome background for family pictures.

It took some time for the planets to align (sister in town with her camera... a quiet Sunday afternoon... two boys willing to humor me for 20 minutes between football games), but align they did—and these were the result.

I. HEART. THESE. PHOTOS. Hope you do, too. :)

The Christmas card photo (sorry if you didn't get one, I didn't order enough).

Here's my teenager—who, much to my dismay, is routinely mistaken for a member of the Wolf Pack by every 13-year-old girl within 20 miles.

Coincidentally, I'm looking into several all-male schools out of state...

Love this photo. LOVE. THIS. BOY.

Here we are, snuggling together.
Only one of us was really up for getting cozy... I'll let you decide who.

Isn't my hubby cute, too?

I'm SO happy that we'll be growing old and incontinent together.

There's that window I was talking about... cool, huh?

(Is it weird to be obsessed by a window for two years?)

I have no idea why Tyler stays in his room a lot...

It's not like I smother him or anything.

(Dave is desperately hoping we'll be done soon, because the Chargers are playing the Cowboys and he doesn't want to miss the kickoff.)

If I ever get my act together enough to write and publish a book, this is the photo I'll be using on my book jacket.

(Unless it doesn't happen for 20 more years and my hairstyle is completely outdated.)

13

2010-01-01T06:46:00.012-07:00

Dear Tyler,

It 6:47 a.m. on New Year's Day... the dawning of a new day and a squeaky clean new year. Today is a clean slate, poised and ready to record all the good things we hope for--and the people we hope to be--in the coming year. Today, most people feel hopeful and optimistic and ready to make changes for the better. As a Neat and Tidy Gal, I love clean slates... so, the first day of the year is pretty great.

But it pales in comparison to the second day of the year.

The second day of the year is the day you were born... so every year, on January 2, I gather all the hope and optimism I feel the day before and I zero in on YOU... like a giant Laser Beam of Promise and Aspiration. (Remember in Independence Day, when the mother ship hovering over the earth shoots out that huge tractor beam and sucks up the crazy crop-duster guy in the fighter jet? A laser beam like that.)

But this year is a little different... this year, along with the usual joy and gratitude I feel on the day you came into the world, I feel a sense of sadness and loss as well.

Tomorrow, you're turning 13 and entering the Land of Teenager... a bizarre country complete with its own language, customs, and a few weird smells.

For a couple of years you've been a resident of Pre-Teen, an equally wackadoo land that in many ways prepares you for your next stop... so I think you'll be fine.

But I think you'll be fine for a lot of other, bigger reasons.

You're as sensitive as you are smart, which means you can use both your head AND your heart to make good decisions... I hope, I pray, that you'll do just that.

You're becoming more assertive... you're not afraid to stand up to someone (including me) and set the record straight, either for yourself or on behalf of someone else. And while that assertiveness may get you in a bit of trouble with your mom from time to time, she wouldn't have it any other way.

You're more emotional, courtesy of that steady stream of hormone cocktails served up by Puberty. You FEEL things more than you did when you were younger, and those feelings affect you more deeply... which makes you more invested in what happens to you, and around you. As a kid whose always been on a pretty even keel emotionally--the kid whose reaction to his first trip to Disneyland was the same reaction he had to having his tonsils removed--I think the heightened emotional state has been a good thing for you... so far. Managing those feelings can be easier said than done in the Land of Teenager... all we can do now is hope for the best.

From day one, your approach to new experiences has always been one of caution... not because you're afraid, but because you're a quiet deliberator. Whether it's going to a new school or getting on a roller coaster, you've never been one to jump into anything with wild abandon, both feet first, arms flailing, eyes closed... You've always been the kid who hangs out on the side for a while, watching and observing, deciding if getting in is the right thing for you... and if it is, you ease in, get used to it... and then the fun begins. But there's been a few times in your life when you've watched, and you've decided it's not the right thing for you... so you pass, and move on to something else.

Of all the inherent qualities you possess, this one will serve you best in this phase of your life... and as your mom, I can't express how grateful I am that you possess it.

Last but not least, the true indicator of your impending teenagerness: You're becoming more independent and social every day, which makes me so happy... and SO incredibly sad.

I don't know if you've noticed this or not, but you're the only kid in the house. (And no, The Dingo does not count as a kid.) You're the one and only child I've ever had to focus my time and attention and love and passion and hopes and dreams on, and when my one and only child is confident and self-assured enough to do his own thing and, in turn, not need me as much... well, it's wonderful and painful at the same time.

Just when you're starting to get really interesting, you pretty much want nothing to do with me... which is ironic, and completely understandable. I was 13 once, too... so I know what it's like to want to spend all your time with your friends. When I was your age and I had a choice between hanging out with Grandma and ANYTHING ELSE... yeah, anything else sounded pretty good. Believe me, I get it.

But, as Hannah Montana's dad once said, my heart is still all achy and breaky.

The trade-off is SO worth it, though... because while I'm busy trying to make peace with my new role in your life, you're busy becoming an amazing young man right before my eyes. I couldn't be more proud... and I couldn't love anyone more fiercely, or completely, or unconditionally than I love you.

Happy Birthday, Pookie.

Love always,
Mom

Welcome to Cougartown

2009-12-28T15:27:00.048-07:00

Birthday, Christmas prep, more Christmas prep, FINAL Christmas prep, Christmas, post-Christmas decompress—and, uh, throw in a few hundred thousand calories for good measure—and here I am.

Currently I'm holed up in my home office with The Dingo and my space heater, taking a breather before I think about gearing up for New Year's Eve, New Year's Day... and, GOD HELP US, Saturday's arrival of a card-carrying, hormone-raging, could-I-care-any-less-or-piss-you-off-any-more-today-Mom TEENAGER. (Wipe that smile off your face and pray for me.)

And, since I'm too anal-retentive to do anything out of order, there can be no posts about our lovely Christmas holiday until I dish about one of the most fantastic things I've ever done for myself: My 40th birthday bash at Salt Lake City's swanky Hotel Monaco, complete with cocktails, cupcakes, frosting "shots," 25 of the most amazing chicks I know... and one lone Cougar, shaking her moneymaker (clad in $178 jeans) on top of a piano to Def Leppard's Pour Some Sugar on Me.

Before anyone strokes out or calls my bishop, said Cougar remained FULLY and MODESTLY CLOTHED, did not attempt any hyper-gyrating... and no animals were harmed during the performance.

And no, we will NOT be cueing up the video of that performance here, or anywhere... right Candie? :)

All right, all right... without further delay, here's a run-down of the extravaganza:

THE PREPARATION

I made nametags for every girl; I wrote something special about each girl as well, not only as an ice-breaker among those who didn't know one another, but also as a small gesture of affection for each of these amazing women I am privileged to call my friends!

I guess it's the writer in me, but I had some other little placards around for kicks and giggles... along with naming every cupcake and frosting shot (which I'll explain more in a bit), I made one that explained my choice of party favor (above), and another poking fun at the persnickety postage problems I had with the invitations (below).

Here's a shot of the side table with the nametags, along with a collection of cheeky napkins that I loved... my favorite said: "Enough with the DAMN juice boxes, Mommy needs a COCKTAIL." I think that sums it up quite nicely, don't you?

The view from my fabulous 15th-floor suite at the Hotel Monaco... seriously, can it get any better than this? (BTW, the answer is NO, NO IT CANNOT.) It was hard not to get distracted by the view while we were hustling and bustling to get ready for the evening...

The food and beverage tables, all ready for the guests to arrive. Ta-da!

My sisters, Christine and Candie, worked their little fannies off to make sure everything was perfect... they're the hottest domestic goddesses you'll ever meet! Christine is also a super-talented photographer, and she took all the photos you're seeing (except this one)... and YES, it's utterly exhausting to try and keep up with such overacheiving kinfolk.

THE MENU

Speaking of hot domestic goddesses, here's the one who made all my confectionary dreams come true that night: Confectionista Alison Bent prepared a collection of cupcakes and frosting shots fit for a 40-year-old princess and all her princess friends! Love ya girl!

So, I have to include photos of Alison's sweet creations! I gave each cupcake flavor a girl's name, because it seemed like a cute idea... and, you know, I didn't have enough to do. :) Here are some of the luscious "ladies" who made an appearance:

Summer (strawberry)

Scarlett (vanilla/cranberry)

Coco (self-explanatory, right?)

Wendy (peanut butter & marshmallow)

Clementine (vanilla/orange)

Violet (purple velvet)

As if the cupcakes themselves aren't gorgeous enough...

even the cupcake liners make a fashion statement!

The frosting shots had names as well...

Patti (peppermint)

Ella (nutella)

Rita (raspberry margarita)

AND TO DRINK...

I didn't want to upstage the decadent cuppies, so I kept the cocktails simple:

1969 La Grande Dame Champagne mocktail,

featuring flutes with white chocolate-dipped, gold-sugared rims

Zebra Martinis: Gold-sugared rims, hand-piped chocolate zebra pattern inside the glasses...

and ice cold milk to wash down all the cupcakes!

What a fun mocktail bar!

And then, of course, if you were the designated driver that evening... :)

THE GIRLS

Yes, the suite was SWEET, and the menu was even sweeter... but for me, the very best part about the entire evening was having almost all of my very favorite women in the same room at the same time. I couldn't have asked for a better gift! I cherish each one of these ladies for the light they bring to my life, and the fact that they would make time during the holiday season to celebrate with me... well, I was walking on SUNSHINE! I was literally beaming for DAYS and DAYS after this night, and these pictures should help explain why:

PART ONE: LET'S GET RETARDED

This is what happens when Mormon girls have WAY too much sugar and sparkling white grape juice spiked with... GINGER ALE.

So, here I am with two of my BFF's, Camme and Emily... there's a bit of backstory behind this photo (that's a whole different post), but what you REALLY need to see is the photo snapped right before we're standing here, looking pretty for our picture:

SHA-ZAM!

What can I say... when you're as old as we are, you've gotta make some... uh, adjustments... before you get your picture taken.

I don't know what it was about that ottoman... let's just say it prompted some suggestive behavior that's better left to the imagination. Liz seems to be the one in question in this particular photo... but I have 37 shots of Emily on that ottoman, and I can't post A. SINGLE. ONE. because this is, more or less, a family show.

(Just kidding, Em... mostly.)

I have only one explanation for this:

All the Single Ladies by Beyonce.

Me, Nikki G and Sandra... we're fixin' to shake our groove thang...

And off we go to Funkytown!

Sandra was doing her fantastic Domo-Morigato-Mister-Roboto off camera, and Nicole and I were still shakin' our moneymakers with Beyonce. No matter where Nicole is, if the place is rockin' she can't resist bustin' a move. Love your guts, "SexyBack" Gratzinger!

Um, Christine? Did you swap your "mocktail" for something a bit stronger?

And why didn't you share??

So, it was time to take the plunge and do some shots, and the girls let me have first crack. Emily's all: "KHo, ease up on that suction and DO NOT eat the cup!!"

Dude, I'm just gonna say it... freebasing frosting is FRIGGIN' AWESOME!!!

Ok, it's a little indulgent (conceited? delusional?) to post this photo... but I have to give some play to THE JEANS I bought for the party that night. They were fabulously spendy, and fabulous PERIOD... and quite frankly, the junk in my trunk will probably never look this good ever again, so why not? Plus, Christine will be thrilled that I used this photo, since she took about 12 pictures of my ars that night... hope you're happy sis!

PART TWO: SMILING FOR THE CAMERA

The gang's all here... look at all these gorgeous girls! Am I lucky or what?

"Staci and Rachel, my sister just won't stop taking pictures... look, there she is again! Do you think I should get a restraining order on her?"

Chittter-chatter with the chicks...

Just can't get enough of my girls...

PORTRAIT TIME!

Friends 4Life: Nicole, Sandra, Lesley

My BFF's from the 'hood, also affectionately known as The Drama Club:

Kristi, Kristin, Camme, Liz & Emily

My sisters! Christine, Candie, Kristen & Deanna

My other sisters, from the Relief Society (basically all my girlfriends from my ward/neighborhood): Kristi, Heidi, Camme, Staci, Rachel, Lori, Emily, Liz, Kristin

Oh look, more super fun girlfriends! Kristi T., Sheridan, and Alison

So... my parting shot has to be this one:

Christine, thank you SO MUCH for capturing the joy and elation I felt that evening! I was truly giddy, and SO grateful that so many of my dearest friends were able to help me celebrate an important milestone in my life... one that I welcome with open arms because, to be honest, I've never been happier in my life than I am right now.

40 really is fabulous, and I'm thrilled to be the newest resident of Cougartown!

40 Times Around the Sun

2009-12-13T19:32:00.018-07:00

Hide your frat boys...

the COUGAR has arrived!

(This photo cracks me up, so I had to open with it... and there's plenty more where that came from, although none are quite as ridiculous as this one. I'll be posting the photos from my birthday party very soon!)

Well, it's finally happened... the Big Four-Oh has officially pulled up in my driveway, gotten out of the car and is hammering, incessantly beating, on my door. I've been trying to ignore it… but, guess what, friends?

Middle Age REFUSES. TO. STOP. KNOCKING.

So this weekend, I finally flung the door open and said: "Hey, Middle Age! How the heck are ya? Come on in... would you like anything? A Metamucil cocktail? A giant bottle of Boniva? Some neck cream? A hemorrhoid cushion? I’ve got news for you, Ms. Age… we've got none of that old lady crap here, so you can SUCK IT!!"

I thought my 40th birthday blog post would be a massive, introspective thing—and it's still tempting because, you know, massive introspective things are my thing—but I'm going to mix things up a little and keep this short and sweet:

On my 30th birthday, I wrote a journal entry... one that hurts my heart to read now. The bright spot in my life was my three-year-old little boy, a brown-eyed miracle who was my whole world... but the rest of the entry describes dashed hopes and unfulfilled dreams. You can feel the disappointment of a woman who felt she hadn't done much with her life, who didn't know who she was, and who didn't know how to fix it.

What a difference a decade makes. The pain, the heartache, the mistakes... and the peace, the joy, the contentment. Oh, how different things are now than they were then.

Four years after writing that dismal journal entry, I let go of a big part of the life I had... namely, being married to Ty's dad and everything that came with it... in an effort to find the life I wanted. I walked away from someone I loved, in the hopes of finding someone else who I wanted desperately to love: Myself. It was not—I repeat, NOT—an easy decisionto make, but I made it.

And there were lots of other difficult decisions to come... and, wouldn't you know it, lots and lots of life lessons I needed to learn. It was the gamble of my life... and, THANK YOU GOD, it paid off.

On the eve of my 40th time around the sun, I'm oh-so-happy to report that, over the course of the past 10 years, I found myself. I know exactly who I am. And you know what? I LOVE who I am, inside and out, and I love my life.

I can't think of anything to say that can top that... so I'll just say Happy Happy Happy 40th Birthday to me!

And now, I'm off to apply my neck cream... don't tell Middle Age, ok?

Honestly, where does she find the thyme?

2009-12-07T15:48:00.024-07:00

We went to my sister Candie's house for dinner last night... And before I tell you about that dish, here's the dish you need to know first.

Candie is an AMAZING cook/baker/entertainer. She is CULINARIAN AMPLIFIED... like, if Martha Stewart hit the crack pipe and chased it with a 12-pack of Red Bulls before she even sauteed the onions. To say that Candie channels Martha would not only be an understatement (and a dreadful cliche), it would be inaccurate... for, truth be told, Martha actually channels Candie.

As it happens, Candie's twin, Christine, is also an Einstein of all things edible. Three years ago she made me some grilled scallops that I still dream about to this very day. (Yep, that good.) Bobby Flay, Paula Deen, Rachael Ray and any other Food Network hack can SUCK IT... because the real deal is related to me, and they live in West Bountiful and Seattle.

Me? I ride the short bus to the grocery store and make a beeline for all aisles marked "Food Items for Those Who Cry at the Thought of Boiling Water."

True story: One time Candie came to my house for dinner... I know, SCARY AND STUPID. But having been properly trained in the fine art of hostessing, I asked her well in advance which flavor of Ramen Noodles her family liked the best—after all, I would never want anyone to be disappointed.

ANYWAY... while putting together the side dish she brought, she asked if she could borrow my garlic press.

K: "My what?"

C: "Your garlic press."

K: "Uh... what does a garlic press look like?"

C: [Pause] "Does that mean you don't have one?"

K: "Not necessarily... I might have been given one once and not known what it was for, so I don't know if I have one or not." (Sadly, this was absolutely true—you could have easily convinced me that a carburetor from a 1972 Plymouth Duster was a garlic press.)

C: [Extended pause, coupled with dejected headshaking] Ok, where is your utensil drawer? I'll look and see if you have one.

I did not, in fact, have a garlic press, and I don't know what horrified her more: That I didn't own one, or that I wouldn't have known what it was if I did. Ashamed and appalled, I bought a garlic press the next week and put it in my utensil drawer. It's still never been used—and it's clearly labeled in case I forget what the hell it is—but if my sister is ever in the neighborhood and has some garlic that desperately needs pressing, I'M. ALL. SET.

Where was I, now? Oh yeah... dinner at Candie's.

Her food is always excellent... but last night, in honor of my upcoming birthday, she pulled out all the stops and made a SPECIAL CULINARY EXTRAVAGANZA, which I am going to describe for you now.

DISCLAIMER: Have a bib, dropcloth or bucket handy for inevitable hypersalivation.

Filet Mignon Crustinis: Crusty, toasted baguette slices slathered with a thick sauce made from carmelized onions, light sour cream and fresh thyme, then layered with thin slices of filet and sprinkled with bleu cheese crumbles. (This was actually a recipe of Christine's, one that Candie had been dying to make... and she executed it flawlessly.)

Fancy Schmancy Mashed Potatoes: Not your average Tupperware bowl of taters. Candie put them in a pastry bag and piped them into perfect little potato blossoms on our plates. (I. AM. NOT. KIDDING.)

Tomato and Mozzarella Salad: A tangy balsamic broth with little orbs of herbed mozzarella paired with teeny-tiny tomatoes... no, not cherry tomatoes, but I don't know what kind they were. (See? SHORT BUS.) Possibly grape tomatoes? I just know they were THE SHIZ.

Spaghetti Squash: Golden, tender and oh-so-buttery, a perfect complement to the rest of the meal.

And now brace yourself for...

The To-Die-For Dessert: Individual trifles featuring layers of dulce de leche cake, Dove dark chocolate mousse, fresh strawberries, homemade whipped cream and Dove dark chocolate shavings.

Um... yeah.

I'll give you a few minutes to digest all that... and while you do, I'll rattle off the questions that went through my mind as I was partaking of this glorious meal, in this general order:

"Was she expecting someone else besides us? Like, perhaps, the Queen of England?"

"Is there a dress code? Should we go home and change back into our church clothes?"

"Did they have to take out a second mortgage on their house to pay for this meat?"

"Is she SERIOUSLY going to pipe those mashed potatoes onto my plate?" [She SERIOUSLY did!]

"What kind of tomatoes are these?"

"Where on Earth do you get fresh, sweet strawberries this time of year?"

"Where do you find fresh thyme in the grocery store? What does it even look like?? Does it come in a bag, or in a bunch, or on a branch? How can you tell it apart from cilantro or beet greens or a Chia Pet?"

"Why oh why OH WHY can't dessert be void of all fat-inducing consequence in this life??"

So mind-blowing, this meal... and SO incredibly flattering that my sister would go out of her way to prepare it for me. I honestly don't know where she finds the time—or the thyme—but I thank her from the bottom of my (happy tummy) heart for tracking them both down.

And, I admit, Candie has inspired me to broaden my own culinary horizons. It's true! Next time she comes to my house for dinner, I am TOTALLY jazzing up the Ramen with some freshly-pressed garlic.

Shiny New Doors

2009-11-24T21:43:00.022-07:00

For our Thanksgiving family outing D, T and I went to see The Blind Side on Monday evening. I have read several reviews about the film since then, and many critics lead off with: "This is a feel-good football movie that..."

BLAM. I'm automatically disgusted.

In my mind, the person who would call The Blind Side a football movie is also the obtuse/lazy/self-absorbed person who would stand inside the Sistine Chapel and go, "It's cool, I guess... but why did Michaelangelo have to paint the ceiling?" Somehow, somehow, they're tripped up by the trivial and completely miss the beauty and nobility of what they're seeing.

For someone like me, there's not a CHANCE. IN. HELL. that the true message of this film was gonna get away. For someone like me, this story invokes a present-life appreciation with as much voltage as if you plastered my body with electrodes and hooked me up to the NiCad battery in Fairbanks, AK. (No frame of reference for this one? Here you go.)

A movie like this generates a sense of gratitude so amplified that it borders on the maniacal... because for someone like me, watching The Blind Side was like seeing a long-ago life of my own unfold on the screen.

I watched as the homeless Michael "Big Mike" Oher, no doubt wearied by aimless wandering, slowly lumbers his way to an all-night laundromat to sit and wait out another night—and I almost had a complete emotional breakdown right there in the theater because, although I was never technically homeless... [deep breath]... ok, here goes... I was a kid who, in a nutshell, lost her mother to cancer and her father to a seedy bar on the other side of town, and was basically left to fend for herself.

So... there are no words, none whatsoever, to describe my emotions as Michael sat in that dingy laundromat, unable to escape the fact that he belonged nowhere and to nobody. The most suitable word I can find to fit is heartbroken... I was truly heartbroken watching that scene, because for four years I felt the same waves of palpable despair, uncertainty and loneliness that he must have felt... I was submerged in those waves more times than I care to think about now.

And then Leigh Anne Touhy meets Michael for the first time, on a chilly Thanksgiving Eve. It was a no-nonsense exchange, almost a confrontation, where she looks up—WAY up—at him and says: "Don't you lie to me, now... do you have somewhere to sleep tonight?" Michael shakes his head and Leigh Anne, who wasn't going to stand for that, extends her arm and simply replies: "All right, then. Come on."

The compassion was automatic, the altruism borderline impulsive... I mean honestly, how crazy is that? Crazy enough to forever change the trajectory of five people's lives and, in turn, create a bona-fide miracle borne from human kindness.

And what would the impact be if each of us exercised benevolence with the same audacity and recklessness, even if it was only one time in our whole lives?

That, my friends, is what this movie is about.

The Touhys extended their arms, their home and their hearts, but I'll let you in on what the Touhys really did: They took Michael by the hand, led him to a clean, shiny door—one that led to the opportunity to live a better life—stood with him on the threshold and, with big grins on their faces, said: "Go ahead... open it!"

When the life you've been living is one of sorrow and hopelessness—one with very little chance that you'll escape it alive and intact, much less happy and well-adjusted—there is simply no greater gift you'll ever receive than that door. You can trust me on that one... because Sean and Leigh Anne Touhy were beaten to the punch by Bob and Carla Dirk.

In March of 1981, my father finally drank himself into an early grave and left behind the tattered remains of his life, including his three children. For a few months my sisters and I were bounced around to relatives, all of whom bickered over who was going to be saddled with raising us (nobody wanted the job). And then, on July 1, 1981, Bob and Carla scooped up my sisters and me, drove us across the country to their home, and parked us in front of our own clean, shiny new door.

Nearly 30 years later, it still astounds me to know that Michael Oher's miracle happened to me, too.

My mother and I have discussed this several times over the years; I've tried to get her to confess how difficult it really must have been—that she and my dad surely must have had buyer's remorse at some point. Seriously, how gonzo do you have to be not to second-guess adopting an unruly 11-year-old and her six-year-old twin sisters?? Her answer has always been the same:

"Well... it was a pretty simple decision, really. We just knew it was the right thing to do... which was confirmed by how easily it all fell into place. We couldn't imagine our lives any other way, and wouldn't want to."

Certifiably Insane, table for two? Right this way, please, inside the padded cell. Enjoy.

On this chilly Thanksgiving Eve, I am overwhelmed by the blessing of good health; by the love I feel from my Savior, my husband, my son, my family and my dearest friends; by the satisfaction of a career that I thoroughly enjoy, and that affords me to live in circumstances I would've never dreamed possible as a child. There are a grundle of other tender mercies too extensive to name here... but what you need to know is that I wouldn't have any of them, not a single one, without the two items permanently engraved at the top of my List of Things I Am Grateful For Beyond Any Rational and/or Describable Level:

Charity-deranged parents, and a shiny new door.

Thank you, Mom and Dad.

40 Years of Serious "Street" Cred

2009-11-10T12:30:00.026-07:00

This year I am turning 40. As in FOUR-OH MY HELL HOW IS IT THAT I'M THIS OLD ALREADY???

But that's another post for another time... sometime in the next 34 days.

In the meantime, I will share this: In an effort to distract myself from the realization that my life is half over, I've made a game out of finding other people/cool events/monumental stuff that turns 40 this year as well. The entire list will appear in the aforementioned "different post"... but there was no way I could let today go by without paying giddy, giggly homage to what is BY FAR the absolute best thing I share my birthday year with.

Happy birthday to SESAME STREET, which aired its first episode exactly 40 years ago today!

How can I express my gratitude to Maria for teaching me how to count to 10 in Spanish? How can I show my appreciation to the silhouettes that taught me how to sound out words? How can I ever thank Grover for helping me channel my inner superhero?

Today I give mad props to a show that instilled in me an early love of letters and words, a love that continues to this day... a show that taught me kindness matters most (remember the seventh son of the Alligator King?)... a show where I learned that bakers are clumsy, pinball is awesome, and grouches are sometimes nice...

Today, with enough nostalgia to choke an imaginary woolly mammoth, I pay happy tribute to a show that taught me how to count -- and, more importantly, taught me that everyone counts in this world, no matter what color they are, where they're from or if they're different than I am.

Below are one... two... (count with me)... three... four... five of my favorite Sesame Street clips... my way of showing love for the peeps from the ultimate 'hood. Long live Big Bird, Bert & Ernie and the gang -- nobody has more "Street" cred in my book!

Clip#1: OneTwoThreeFourFive, SixSevenEightNineTen, ElevenTwelve!!
Pinball, groovy song and counting... you know you're diggin' it.

Clip #2: BRRRRRIIIIIINGGGG!!!
These aliens, a.k.a. the Yip Yips, have always cracked me up. Even now there are times that I have to suppress a giggle when the phone rings, because I often think of the Yip Yips hovering over that rotary phone, blurting: BRRRRRRRIIIIINGGG! One of the funniest segments on SS for me... yipyipyipyipyip!!

Clip #3: The first rave ever, brought to you by SOME, ALL and NONE
My boss and good friend Matt reminded me of this one and, after watching it a few times, I decided it was definitely postworthy. A super-silly-yet-simple way to teach some, none and then all, where the scene takes on a rave-like vibe. A muppet rave? Dude, I'm ALL over that!

Clip #4: Oh, that adorable John-John
He was and still is my favorite little non-muppet. Here's John-John helping Bert work through some of his feelings... and when he shows us his happy face, I just wanna put some sugar on those cheeks and eat 'em!

Clip #5: The Alligator King
This SS cartoon is the one I remember most vividly... the images, and the moral of the story, have always just stuck with me.

This post was brought to you by the letter K... and the number 40. :)

The Artful Rogers

2009-11-04T19:29:00.010-07:00

Last week my mom and I headed to Seattle for a couple of days to see my 11-year-old nephew, Jack Rogers, perform his first lead role in a musical. This is actually his fourth musical in as many years, but the first time he's landed the lead role... and we all knew it was only a matter of time.

By the time Jack was two, he was the best actor in the family (and believe me, he's got some pretty stiff competition). By the time he was four, he could sing... and I mean SING. Like, perfectly-on-pitch-not-a-note-out-of-place-Simon-Cowell-can-SUCK-IT sing. Right then and there I started socking away money for airfare to New York because, when Jack makes his Broadway debut, you can be sure I'll be watching it from fifth-row center.

So Jack landed the role of Oliver in Oliver, which is super cool... but the story gets even cooler.

My twin sisters, Christine (Jack's mom) and Candie, were the performers of the family growing up. They were always singing and dancing and making up little routines... and they were twins to boot, which cranked up the Adorable Factor off the charts. Seriously, if I had a nickel for every time my mom made them sing "Babyface" or a Buddy Holly song, I would be typing this on my solid gold computer while barking orders to the butler, the governess and the chef in my winter home on Maui.

Anyhoo... when the twins were eight years old they appeared in their first musical... which, as it turns out, was Oliver. Kind of a full-circle moment, right?

Almost.

Right before the musical opened, one of the women in the adult chorus had to quit the show. Christine attended every rehearsal with Jack, so she knew all the songs, the blocking, the choreography... and the director asked her if she would step in and join the cast. Of course she was thrilled!

THAT made it a full-circle moment... Christine reprising her role while Jack made his mark in the lead role. And my mom and I sat and watched with pride and joy as this full-circle moment unfolded, scene after scene.

I reveled in Jack's spot-on Cockney accent, and bristled every time adults pushed and shoved him around, which was quite a bit. (Yeah, I knew it wasn't real, but still... keep your mangy paws off him!) I watched him link arms with the Artful Dodger and sashay across the stage belting out "Consider yourself... at home!" I watched my sister sing and dance with as much effervescence as she had when she was eight. I watched mother and son exchange quick, smiling glances whenever they crossed one another on stage.

Best of all, I watched my nephew stand on that stage all by himself and sing his big solo, "Where is Love." The bravery! The innocence! The talent radiating from this smart, quirky kid like a full-tilt high beam! My mom cried, and I stared at Jack the whole time thinking to myself:

"Ladies and gentlemen, that is one damn fine singing orphan."

Unlike Oliver, at that moment I knew exactly where love was: In a hundred-year-old theater house in Everett, Washington, watching the people I love doing something they love... and KILLING IT.

Bravo, Artful Rogers! Bravo!

Christine, Mom, Me & Oliver... I mean, Jack :)

Thatzit

2009-10-20T10:49:00.006-06:00

I don't know what's worse... that it's been almost a month since I posted, or that my first post in almost a month would be about, after all this time, THE ZIT again.

I know a few of you had serious gag reflex from the last entry, so I'll make this brief: About a week ago, and the day before I was taking Ty to the doctor to formally diagnose what I had finally decided was a tumor, he managed to pop it. I wasn't there when he did it, but apparently it was an experience not unlike Armageddon: Pus, blood, tears, pain. It's on the mend now, but I'm kind of worried about it leaving a mark.

SUPER. As if adolescence doesn't already leave a mark, right?

Anyway... for those who were left hanging in horrified-yet-curious suspense about this subplot in our lives, you now have closure. Let's hope the skin on Ty's nose gets it, too. :)

Zits and Pits

2009-09-23T12:16:00.011-06:00

[Editor's Note: The following post contains material that is accurately depicted by its title. If you are pregnant, nursing, may become pregnant or have a hyperactive gag reflex, please consult your doctor before reading.]

Tyler has a monster zit. ON HIS NOSE. And it's been there for ALMOST A MONTH.

We all know that zits are just one of many horrible rites of passage into adolesence:

"Hello, and welcome to Adolesence. After you fill out these forms, please proceed to the next station where you'll up your Acne Pack... then move forward to the the Body Hair Kiosk. After that, you'll continue down a long hallway to the Body Odor Wing (it's a separate wing for obvious reasons). Your last stop is the Hormone Supercenter, where you'll get juiced up with our special cocktail that includes: Foul-Temperedness, Awkward Bumbling with Adults, General Apathy and Disinterest, Self-consciousness and, every mother's favorite, Mouthiness. Enjoy your stay!"

Apparently T's Acne Pack included one of those big, red numbers that glows in the dark and lives underground for days on end, and only seems to get bigger and redder. Most of us know what the life cycle of a zit should be, even these beauties... but I'm telling you, this one has transcended FAR beyond that cycle.

After many days with no whitehead in sight, we sterilized a needle and I made him take a couple of stabs at it, just to see if we could stir things up a bit. He didn't want to, but I didn't care—by then it was in such a state of crimson bloatedness that Rudolph himself would've laughed and called him names! So against his will, and under my close supervision, a pokin' we did go.

It semed to help—a day or two later he managed to pop it—but the red blister, while definitely more deflated, remains to this very day. At this point I don't know whether I should call a dermatologist or a priest... but the exorcism looks more promising with each passing day. (BTW, if you're wondering if he was sporting it for school pictures... of course, my friends, of course. Could it happen any other way?)

And while we're on the subject of the joys of puberty...

Last weekend I was in my room reading—minding my own business, not bothering anyone— when T appeared and proudly announced that he has armpit hair. He had just taken a shower, so he had a towel wrapped around his waist... and just in case his declaration wasn't scary enough, he threw his arms up in the air and leaned in so I, too, could behold the tender sprouts—all nine of them.

I tried to be enthusiastic, but I think I came off as mortified. Even Dave cried TMI on that one, which was Tyler's cue to start cracking jokes about combing and braiding it.

Seriously, people... there's only so much testosterone-laden puberty humor a mother can take.

Mumblers

2009-09-04T12:51:00.010-06:00

I live with mumblers. I don't know how or why that happened to me, of all people, but I do.

"Ty, do you have your homework done?"

"Phurmpinorfroghurphrumphd."

"Dave, what time will you be back from your meeting?"

"Shrunphmourenhoefhephrumdphf."

D and T insist they don't mumble—at least, I think that's what they're saying to me when I accuse them of it 17 times a day—but THEY DO, and their vocal gobbedlygook drives me full-tilt bonkers sometimes.

Last night we went to the first U of U football game of the season... which was fun (we won!), but kind of annoying. Try attending a sporting event, featuring marching bands and commentators and a gazillion Ute fans screaming their guts out, with my two mumblers.

"What was that call, hon? I didn't see the end of the play, what was the call?"

"Frmphhorhm."

"What?"

"Frmphhorhm!"

"LOOK AT ME AND SPEAK... WHAT DID YOU SAY???"

"FRMPHHORHM!!"

What. A. Night. Mare.

At one point last night D looked me in the eye, leaned in (I guess he wanted to make sure I heard this particular statement), and said: "I'm not going to speak louder just so you can hear me... you're just going to have to listen better."

Um... Excuse me? What was that?

COULD YOU REPEAT THAT? (I dare you, in fact, to repeat it.)

I was tempted to explain that just because dolphins and owls and his own mind can hear him doesn't mean that I can. I also wanted to remind him that my hearing is severely compromised, thanks to 40 years of listening to my own clamorous, resounding,
"someone-please-tell-Kareen-that-she's-in-a-restaurant-not-a-windtunnel" vociferations. (Do you people honestly think I'm not self-aware?)

Instead of doing all that, I did what any good wife does: Rolled my eyes and went back to watching the game.

It's not any easier to get T to speak up. He's not comprehensible until I say "What did you say?" five times. Yep, it takes five repeats before he's coherent enough for me to understand. FIVE.

*sigh*

If living with mumblers is Karma's idea of a practical joke on someone whose "indoor voice" got left behind in the vaginal canal at birth... well, you can suck it, Karma. You are NOT funny, not one little bit. DO YOU HEAR ME?!?!?!

Cupdate

2009-09-01T12:57:00.006-06:00

Yes, friends, our saga that is The Athletic Cup continues. Hard to believe, isn't it?

So, you'll recall my post from a few weeks ago (read it here) regarding our search for the proper athletic protection for Tyler... and how heee-larious the guys thought they were as they snapped pictures of the WALL O' CUPS at the sporting goods store.

Well, if they wouldn't have been so busy creating that Kodak moment, perhaps one of them would have noticed the absolute GINORMITY of the cup they purchased.

The first time I got a good look at the cup was the first time Ty wore it to practice; he came home and said that it was like wearing a frying pan in his pants. I told him to bust it out, so I could see what we were dealing with.

Sha-ZAM! Out it came from his pants to the table… and immediately I thought of Hercules, Samson and The Incredible Hulk.

It was WAY. TOO. BIG. I couldn't decide if they had picked up the wrong one by accident, or they had just not paid attention... or if I had somehow instilled in Tyler a positive body image so powerful that it extended far beyond reality...

Forget the frying pan. If it were heat-resistant I could boil a pot of spaghetti for 12 in that thing.

The next day I purchased and brought home a slightly smaller, considerably narrower model. Ty says the new version is much better, although it's still not the most comfortable accessory in the world (which is now more of a getting-used-to situation).

As for the Team Goliath protection: We can’t return it, because Ty already used it. Dave says he’s going to wear it to the Utah games in case Coach Whit calls him down and has him run a few plays. (The dreams of middle-aged men are precious.) Most likely it will just sit in Ty’s drawers—meaning his dresser—for a few years until he… uh… grows into it.

In the meantime, perhaps we can find some other uses for it—like when we have company over for dinner. Hope you like pasta!

That Darn Cat

2009-08-27T14:09:00.017-06:00

I read an article recently about communicating with your teenager (a little research couldn't hurt, right?), and the author made an interesting analogy between younger and older children.

Babies, toddlers and younger children are like puppies: You can hug them and kiss them and love on them forever, and they eat it up... they just can't get enough affection/attention.

In contrast, pre-teens and teenagers are like cats: They avoid you most of the time, every once in a while they might seek you out... but it's always on their own terms, never yours. AND THERE IS NO TOUCHING OF ANY KIND.

First let me say that I think this author is right on the money with this analogy... which is unfortunate, because I'm not terribly fond of cats. I mean, they're ok, but I've always been a dog-lover and have never had the urge to own a cat. Ever. I've never liked their "kiss-off, I'm too good for you" attitude... they don't seem especially fun and/or playful... and they could care less when you want someone to sit with you and watch the latest episode of Project Runway.

(At this point I would like to give a shout out to The Dingo, who always watches TV with me. He'll watch anything, too... even the Real Housewives of Atlanta. He sits right next to me while those crazy women holler and pull on each other's artificial hair in restaurants, and he never judges me.)

Anyway.

Now this lady's telling me that, thanks to a hormonal tsunami, my cute little canine is gone and, congratulations, you're the proud owner of a persnickety, hissing feline.

That's. Just. Awesome.

Since I wasn't fully aware of the magnitude of this transormation until now, it's logical to assume that I was making some of the cardinal mistakes people make when trying to... uh, talk to their cat. Actually, I was making MOST of the cardinal mistakes. But I'm aware now, and I'm working on it.

I'm trying not to make every conversation feel like I've led Tyler to a dark cellar with a single chair in the middle of the room, armed with a high-voltage spotlight (here, kitty kitty kitty...). I'm trying to take in stride behavior that's perfectly normal for a teenager, but at times does a tap dance on my last nerve. I'm trying to give him space without completely removing myself from the loop... I am still the mother of this hairball-spewer, after all.

And I will try... ugh, this is so hard for me, CONTROL FREAK NUMBER ONE... I will try to let him make his own choices, even if they aren't the choices that I think would make his life easier. I've realized that it's counter-intuitive for a parent to abstain from protecting their child, both from the world and from themselves. But even stronger than that realization is my general philosophy about parenting: If you're doing it right, you work yourself right out of a job.

I have to let him falter and fail, I know that. I know that. But it's much easier said than done because, as it turns out... I love that darn cat.

Welcome to Junior High

2009-08-23T12:00:00.010-06:00

Tyler's still willing to humor his mother and pose for a photo on the first day of school; here he is on Friday, before catching the bus to his big new adventure. School doesn't officially begin until Monday the 24th, but the "sevvies" go a day early so they can find their way around the school on their own, without the 8th graders (which I think is a great idea).

Of course, I was on pins and needles the whole day... and when he called me after school, I became the embodiment of the Spanish Inquisition:

"How was the bus ride? Did they have a big orientation? Did you make it to all your classes ok? How were your teachers? Do you have any friends in your classes? So, ARE YOU GOING TO BE OKAY???"

His answers:

"Fine. Yep. Yep. Fine. Yep. YES MOM, I'M GOING TO BE FINE. I'm gonna go check my Facebook, ok?"

Welcome to junior high.

7th Grade

2009-08-13T18:32:00.014-06:00

This week we registered Tyler for his first major rite of passage since potty training: The 7th grade. Having been through both myself, there's no doubt that making tinkle in the toiley is a hell of a lot easier. (But for Ty's sake let's just keep that between us, ok?)

We walked into Clarke N. Johnsen Junior High School and were greeted by the smell of floor wax and a gaggle of 8th-grade student body officers who directed us to Ground Zero -- a.k.a. the cafeteria. We proceeded through several workstations and plowed through about 300 pages of forms and instructions... seriously, there wasn't this much paperwork when we adopted Tyler, for crying out loud! One hour and $142 later (yes, that was one hundred forty-two dollars in fees for a public secondary education), we were cut loose to check out the school and find Tyler's classes.

And oh, you guys, how the memories flowed.

My first miserable memory of 7th grade happened even before the first day of school. When I received my schedule in the mail, I was horrified to find that my last name was misspelled. That's probably not a big deal if your last name is Larsen or Connors; but when your last name is DIRK, you run the risk of having your name bastardized simply by changing one letter -- ANY letter. For example:

The D can become a J and make JERK (phonetically)
The I can become an O and make DORK
The K can become a T and make DIRT

On my 7th grade schedule --and on every one of my teachers' rolls -- the worst of all possible typos occurred, and I was Kareen DICK. Oh yes indeed, true story.

As you can imagine, this required some damage control on the first day of school. I scurried up to every teacher and MADE SURE they corrected the error before calling roll. Crisis averted... but you gotta admit, that wasn't exactly a good omen. (Needless to say, Ty's name is spelled correctly on all his school records, thank you very much.)

Where was I? Oh yeah... walking the halls with Tyler...

As the images and feelings from that time in my life bubbled to the surface, suddenly I felt compelled to share all this advice with Tyler at that moment... and as it turns out, Dave had the same urge at the same moment.

"If your locker is nowhere near your first class, you might want to take your first period books home with you so you don't have to go all the way to your locker... "
"These two classes are in the same hallway, so be sure and bring books for both classes so you don't have to go back to your locker... "
"You've got only five minutes between classes, so you're really gonna have to hustle..."

Dave and I were like two jabbering monkeys (which is normal for me, but not for him), and it wasn't long before the only thing Ty was looking for was the EXIT THAT WOULD TAKE HIM FAR AWAY FROM HIS CRAZY YAMMERING PARENTS.

The advice we gave him that day had to do with logistics... but in my heart, I know that Tyler's navigation skills won't only be tested by hallways. He's going to have to find his way through hundreds of strangers, all with distinct personalities and raging hormones, and find his place among them.... and, a mom can only hope, a happy place among them. Not an easy task... and, when you think about it, not all that different from what we find ourselves doing in every stage of our lives.

So, ya know. Kind of a big deal.

That's why, sometime before next Friday (first day of school), I'll share with Tyler the really important stuff he needs to know. It will be short and concise because, if it isn't, his condition flares up -- the one where his eyes roll back in his head if I speak longer than 15 seconds. (A terrible affliction... one that can get you grounded in our house if it's accompanied by backtalking.)

Anyway, here's what I think is the must-know info:

PAY ATTENTION. The faster you learn the ropes, the more comfortable you'll be.
BE PATIENT WITH YOURSELF. You're not going to have it all down in one day. Give yourself some time to adjust and remember, everyone else is trying to do the same.
STAY CLOSE TO YOUR FRIENDS. Stick together no matter what, hang onto each other for dear life... you'll need them more than you've ever needed them before.
STEER CLEAR OF BULLIES. Stating the obvious here; but I will emphatically add that anything they say to you or about you is garbage, so NEVER EVER give them the satisfaction of believing them.
BE NICE TO EVERYONE. Lots of reasons for this one and this post is already ridiculously verbose, so I won't list them here...
REMEMBER HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU. Also obvious; but at this age, and no matter how many times those eyes roll back in his head, I don't think he can hear it enough.

For all the misery that can be found in 7th grade, there's a grundle of great memories to be made, too. I have a whole pile of them myself and, yes, they're a little dusty... but I wouldn't trade that pile for anything.

Go and rock the 7th grade, Ty. I know you'll be great. And when it's not great, I'm here.

His Cup Runneth Over

2009-07-30T19:31:00.016-06:00

So, we have one of these in our house now:

For those of you who are unfamiliar with this creature, I believe the scientific name for it is Futbalia maniacas: A five-foot-two, 102-pound young male who, thrilled with the prospect of playing tackle football, gets up one random morning last week and puts on all his gear at 7 a.m. (yes, those shoulder pads are over his PJs). The curious specimen proceeded to wander aimlessly around the house for almost an hour, finally realizing that it is RIDICULOUS O'CLOCK and the only place to go from here is to have Mom take a picture.

Sorry, Ty... you asked for it.

So yes, the football frenzy has officially commenced in our home. I'm married to a Utah Man, am I (Ki Yi!), so we ramp up pretty quickly when August is upon us because it means football season is only a couple of weeks away. However, the excitement is amplified this year because Tyler has officially traded in his soccer cleats for football cleats... and mouth guards, and chin guards, and thigh pads, and a grundle of gridiron gear that I could SERIOUSLY go all season long without discussing... namely, ahem, athletic supporters/protectors.

And yes, I added "protectors" because, let's face it, is a cup really holding up anything? Protecting, yes... but supporting? Doubtful... at least, not on a 12-year-old. Ew, strike the thought, I don't want that image in my brain about my own kid, ARRGGH!

So last week, after we picked up the pads and pants and helmet, we made a list of all the whatever-else-we-need-in-order-to-hit-and-be-hit stuff to buy. Of course a cup was on the list, and Dave and Ty started talking about cups, and I started to squirm... and they picked up on that, and started to talk about cups ad nauseum... until it got to the point where I couldn't tell which one was the 12-year-old, and I said as much, and then left the room, and they chuckled because they've figured out how to make me uncomfortable and they LOVE it. Touchdown for them!

Football-crazed Males - 7

Outnumbered Female - 0

The next day, while I was at work and they were at the sporting goods store, Dave and Ty sent me this picture and I thought I would share it here:

In case you can't tell what these are, they are cups. Lots and lots (for the love of pete, why are there so many???) and lots and LOTS of them.

Yeah... you two are FREAKIN' HILARIOUS. While you're laughing about that, stop and think about all the people who saw you guys taking pictures in the JOCK STRAP AND CUP SECTION like a couple of WEIRDOS. Who's laughing now, suckers??

Woo-hoo, she SCORES!

Outnumbered Female - 7

Camera-happy Goofballs -7

I'll keep you posted with the play-by-play... looks like it's gonna be a great season. :)

Life, Liberty & the Pursuit of Facebooking

2009-07-13T09:12:00.004-06:00

So, along with a gazillion other people on the planet, Tyler has created a Facebook account. As he approaches official teenage status, along with all of his friends, I knew Facebook was only a matter of time... it was totally inevitable, and it is totally fine.

This morning Dave and I were discussing the "checks and balances" of having a pre-teen on Facebook. Specifically, we were talking about whether or not we should be checking his account from time to time and make sure nothing screwy is going on.

We floated this idea to Tyler this morning, explaining that we would need his username and password... and the result was one bent-out-of-shape kid who thinks the request is unfair.

As it happens, Dave and I don't agree on the issue... so I thought I'd open it up here for group discussion.

One of us thinks that having access to Ty's account is a good idea -- that all kids need to be accountable for what they say and do online as well as in "real life," and if he knows we have access to his account -- even if we never actually access it -- he will mind what he says. It's also not a bad idea from a security standpoint; it wouldn't hurt to check in once in a while to make sure that he isn't divulging too much information about himself.

On the flip side, one of us believes Tyler has a certain right to privacy, especially as he enters adolescence; that he should be able to interact with his friends freely without fearing repercussions from "Big Brother." He's a good kid and he has good friends (who, frankly, would probably rat him out if he said some inappropriate online anyway), so we should trust him to behave appropriately... the general idea being that granting trust initially will foster responsible behavior, which will, in turn, earn more trust.

Dave has a Facebook account; I continue to resist the Facebook craze (reasons behind this are for another post at another time). The compromise would be to have Dave invite Tyler to be his "friend" and, that way, Dave can check things out if need be... but Tyler wasn't crazy about this idea, either.

Here comes the "It-Takes-a-Village-to-Raise-a-Child" portion of the program.

Do you think Tyler has the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of Facebooking with wild abandon, or should the parental dictatorship set some boundaries? I'd really love some input before we make our final ruling on this issue.

The Amazing (Relay) Race

2009-07-11T00:20:00.001-06:00

It's been three weeks since I ran the Wasatch Back with my work peeps, so I think it's high time that I give you a "run" down of how it went.

When I look back through the photos, my first thought is: "Holy crap... I really did this!" I ran three times in a 24-hour period totaling 13.1 miles; there were six of us in our van, and we just started with Runner #1 in Logan and each took our turn (I was Runner #4); after we finished our legs, we would then pass the baton (a wristband, actually) to the other half of our team, six more people who were in another vehicle. They would run their legs, and then we'd take our turn again... and so it went for 28 hours, which is how long it took our team to cross the finish line in Park City.

Participating in this event was one of the hardest, and coolest, goals I have set and accomplished in a long time. It was exhausting and inspiring... and I can't wait to do it again next year! Here's the photo gallery, along with a bit of commentary:

Here's me with my teammates before the race began in Logan; see how fresh and clean and happy we all still look? From left: Mike, Jim, Bryce, Me, Jon (very mature, Jon... how old are you, nine?) and Brian. I work with everyone but Brian, who is related to Mike.

My first leg started around 2 p.m. on Friday afternoon, in a little town called Paradise. Here I am awaiting the hand-off and my official beginning of what would prove to be quite an adventure!

I'm off... and I'm thinking, "Crap, here we go... can I really do this???"

My first leg was my longest, 5.4 miles. In training for the race I had run 5-6 miles many times, just to make sure I could get through this leg... but it rained the entire month of June in Utah (and I mean, the ENTIRE MONTH) so, unfortunately, I didn't have much of an opportunity to run in the heat. This was probably the first bona-fide sunny day we'd had in about three weeks, and it was in the mid-70's... which didn't seem hot at all, until you were running in it. Therefore, this leg proved to be more difficult than I anticipated.

During this water break I'm handing Mike my "woobie" -- a wristband that I was accustomed to having every time I ran, kind of like a security blanket. Mike could tell you for sure, but I think in this photo I was saying something like "Oh my holy hell it is freakin' hot out here I can't breathe dude this SUCKS!" Which is why I'm handing him my woobie... because the last thing I need is to be clutching something hot and furry.

Check out the action shot Dave got at the end of my first leg; I almost look like an athlete here...

...but then the truth is revealed as I finish my five-plus blistering miles and gratefully hand off to Mike! I had to include this photo because, while I was panting like a dog then, it's pretty funny to look at now. In the last mile of this leg an old guy with white hair who was at least 70 years old blew past me and basically Kicked. My. Trash. Even now, that's still not very funny...

Now that I've caught my breath, I pose for a pic with Dave; he was my own personal pit crew, and followed us every step of the race in our car. I could never have pulled it off without his support -- thanks babe, love ya!

When you weren't running, there was some beautiful scenery along the way to hold your attention. This entire race route, which is basically all backroads from Logan to Park City, was really breathtaking. When we were done in our van and handed off the wristband to the other half of our team in a little town called Liberty, we found a park and took a little siesta out there on the grass. The we went to a restaurant called Eats of Eden (even country folk can be clever!), had a carb fest, and then drove ahead to the next exchange, where we started warming up for our second legs... which began around 8:30 p.m.

My second leg began around 11:15; it was 4.1 miles through quiet neighborhoods and ended in Morgan. My night run was, by far, my favorite run of them all. It was cool, it was quiet, there were a million stars... did I mention it was blissfully cool??

Great story about this photo finish... the last half mile of this leg, guess who snuck up on me again? You guessed it -- the elderly gentlemen who humiliated me earlier that day! Now, I know we're supposed to repsect our elders but, with all due respect, there was no way in hell he was going to beat me again. So I drafted him for a bit and then, with about 200 yards to go, I caught up to him, passed him and beat him to the hand-off. Suck on that, Grandpa Speed Racer! Actually, I walked over to him afterwards and thanked him for motivating me; he smiled and said he didn't mind being outrun by a young cute girl. Awwww.... :)

So... after our second exhange with the other team we headed to Coalville to catch some Z's... this is where having Dave and the comfort of my own vehicle was worth its weight in GOLD. I slept like the dead for FOUR HOURS... which may not sound like a lot but it really is, when the average shut-eye is about an hour or so. Around 7 a.m. on Saturday we began our third legs... and here I am almost missing my hand-off at Jordanelle Resovoir! Jon kicked butt up his hill and, frankly, I didn't expect him to come up as quick as he did.

This is is only other photo of me on my third leg, which is just fine with me... because it was a bit of an ugly finish. My last leg was 3.8 miles, and 2.8 of it was straight downhill, all the way down into Heber Valley, where I would then run another mile and be done. Well, the hill was fine, no problems at all... but when I hit the flat road, my quads seized up. And when I mean seized, I mean it felt like someone had ripped open the back of my thighs and poured quick-drying cement into my muscles, along with a few handfuls of glass for good measure. I had never, EVER felt any pain like that before... the cramping was just non-stop. I keep stopping to rub my legs out a bit, then would try to run and the pain would be so bad that I would have to walk and rub my legs some more. Needless to say, it was the longest mile ever. The last 100 yards I ignored the pain the ran to the exhange point, and by then I was crying pretty hard because I was in pain, and because I was angry that I had finished that way... but at least I finished.

After we were done we showered, rested and then headed to the plaza where the official finish line was... when your last runner is in the home stretch, it's customary for the entire team to join them and finish the race together. Cool, huh? So, here I am bringing up the rear with our entire team as we finish the race.

Look at those medals -- we are the champions! My peeps were the best!

Here's our entire 12-member team, the Screamin' Turtles. WAY TO GO TURTLE CREW!

We got home from Park City around 6 p.m. Saturday... where I took a warm shower and sat on the couch, icing my quads, for the rest of the evening. But of course, I had to pose for one last shot: Me, with my medal on the fridge (it's still on the fridge, as a matter of fact), and sporting my "I RANGAR UTAH" souvenir shirt.

Of course, there's no better souvenir than the experience itself. Sign me up for next year!

Pageant Mom

2009-07-02T19:19:00.010-06:00

On Tuesday I went to Subway, my usual haunt, for lunch. I go there at least twice a week, so the staff and I have a pretty good rapport... we're always chit-chatting as I make my way through the line. That day was no different, until one of the Subway ladies leaned in a little and said to me:

"You know, you remind me of someone."

"I do? Who?" I have no idea where this is going.

She leaned over a little more, smiling, and said: "You look like a pageant mom."

*GASP!*

"I'm sorry, what did you say?"

Which was stupid of me to say because, of course, she repeated it a little louder so that I -- and the 15 people behind me in line -- could hear her loud and clear. "Really? Uh... well, ok." I snatched up my sandwich and made a beeline for the door.

Oh no no no no, she did NOT just say that to me!!

So, now that the giggling (chortling/snickering/guffawing) has subsided, I'm sure all you enquiring minds want to know: What the hell was I wearing??? Here I am that day in my ensemble:

Pink, kinda-shiny blouse, black lacy (pretty lace, not slutty lace) skirt, chunky charm necklace, black wedges... So? Too sassy for a turkey sandwich on a Tuesday? Was she really putting me in the same category as these ladies??

If I had worn a feathery tutu, the comment would have made more sense...

My pink shirt looks NOTHING like this pageant mom's pink shirt... all I know is that this piece of work probably would have gotten her sandwich for free.

No blog post about pageant moms would be complete without honoring the PM of all PM's, Patsy Ramsey. (I know, can you believe it? The years weren't kind to her.)

I'm pretty sure Subway Lady meant it as a compliment (I know, YIKES)... but the damage is done. No more shimmery shirts and shiny baubles for me. I'm losing the lacy skirt and the wedges are going by the wayside, and tomorrow I'm ordering new clothes from the Amish Woman Unlimited catalogue.