Saturday, February 27, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
That's what Taylor Swift says. But I have to disagree. I think yesterday was a fairy tale.
Actually, this whole week has been a fairy tale.
Not the chic-flick kind with the knight in shining armor, but sometimes I could swear the universe is playing favorites. At least if there's food involved.
Like on Tuesday, I went for Chinese with my mom and got three fortunes in my cookie. My mom only got one.
See what I mean?
What are the chances?
And today, my hub took me to Olive Garden and we ordered my favorite Zuppa Toscana soup and all-you-can-eat salad. Then tonight I was invited to a pow wow hosted by my Stake Young Women's president. Guess what she served? That's right, Zuppa Toscana soup and all-you-can-eat salad.
Things like that happen to me all the time.
I'm hooked on . . . drumroll, please . . . crocheting.
Unlike porn and Prozac, crocheting is a vice you can teach your Young Women so they can make baby hats and booties for the humanitarian center.
It's also a vice you can sit around and do with other cast members of the Sponge Bob ward in between episodes.
One of my favorite cast members is our Relief Society Compassionate Service leader. She's a real kick-in-the-pants. But for some reason she was as nervous at a pregnant nun to teach our Young Women how to crochet (her words, not mine). So a few days ago I invited her and some others over for a crash course in crochet. (Get it? crash course.)
Oh my goodness! Oh my goodness! Can I just say how addicting it is to sit around and crochet with a bunch of pregnant nuns?
Bless their hearts.
Eww, I wonder how many other people I know have made out in my basement.
Ain't it weird to think on? I mean, all that hidden history just hovering around us all. Good thing we're so blissfully ignorant.
Speaking of history, this Sponge Bob ward has a lot of history together. It's the kind of ward that people grow up in and get married in and raise their kids to grow up in and get married in and raise their kids in. And so on and so on and so on.
My Laurel adviser, who made out in my basement, grew up in this ward.
Her mom grew up in this ward too.
And her mom's Laurel adviser grew up in this ward too. She is 83 years old and she's still in this ward.
And she still bowls every week on a bowling league. At least she did, until last month when she tripped over a stray bowling shoe on her way down the lane and broke her hip.
I can't imagine it. Bowling. Every week. For 83 years. Until you trip on a shoe and break your hip.
How would it feel to always know who you are and where you want to bowl? To know this is the place. Your place. Your series. Sponge Bob for LIFE!
I guess that's the advantage of being a cartoon character.
Me, I still don't know which bowling league I belong to. I'm like a bedouin or a gypsy, minus that sexy air of mystery.
Not complaining though. It ain't so bad being a Demigod and hanging out with a bunch of cartoon characters.
He's fourteen now and he likes to choke my son during Sunday School--no doubt my son deserves it. When Russell isn't wearing his scout uniform he wears a classy black wool overcoat with a beret and white gloves. And he carries a cane.
My favorite favorite characters in the ward are the wild Thornberries.
They're my home teachers--a father/son team.
Imagine Chris Farley and Mike Myers. With Chickens.
Chickens that play soccer.
Soccer playing chickens outside, and a five foot iguana crawling across the ceiling inside. Although one of their chickens does come inside and watch t.v. with them. Apparently he laughs and cries in all the right places. And he scootches over and snuggles with Brother Thornberry during the scary parts.
I guess me and Taylor Swift ain't the only ones livin' la vida fairy tale.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
No worries, it's not THEE Matchmaker.com, it's his own little dating system thingie.
Such a softie. The thought of a sock sitting home alone on a Saturday night just kills him, so he's taken it upon himself to match up every lonely sock within a 2,400 square foot radius.
He just doesn't get that you can't hurry love. Even for socks. Patience truly is a virtue when you're waiting for your sole mate.
Any interference whatsoever throws off the balance and harmony of footwear foreordination.
(Plus it makes our kids look goofy.)
I have to hand it to him though, he's tolerant. And accepting. He accepts everyone and everything just as they are. He wouldn't hurt a fly. And he wouldn't try to change that fly either. It was hard enough for him to change diapers because he didn't want to make the diapers feel bad about themselves.
He's the same with light bulbs. Heaven forbid we hurt a light bulb's feelings just because it doesn't shine anymore. "Just leave it be," he says. "I don't want it to know we want to change it just because it isn't meeting our needs anymore."
At least he finally changed the recording on his office answering machine. Usually when I call his office, a reassuring voice asks me to leave a message for "Dr. Dunaway." Today, however, my hub's voice startled me by asking me to leave a message for . . . HIM.
It's Dr. Dunaway's fault that we're here in Utah, btw. He decided to retire. And then BYU decided to rehire.
Every day for the past 6 months Dr. Dunaway has been assuring me that he just stepped out of the office. And I believed him. I was convinced he would be back shortly, as promised, and that we weren't even in Utah at all.
But we really are here, aren't we?
Or maybe we're not.
After all, my silly goose hub still hasn't changed the car clocks or the computer clocks from Hawaiian time.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Well my hub is officially a trekkie--I am officially a pioneer woman. You heard me right. I'm a PIONEER WOMAN! That's got to be good luck for an aspiring cooking blogger like me, huh?
My hub and I have been chosen to represent the Sponge Bob ward as a ma and a pa on trek this summer. Can you believe it? I'm gonna be a ma!
Trek is just a crazy little thing we do here in Utah where everyone gets to dress up like Little House on the Prairie and "boldly go where no man has gone before." (Get it?) And all because we are "The Next Generation." (Get it? Get it?)
I'm not sure exactly what all goes on during trek, but I think it has something to do with pulling handcarts across Whyoming until we hook up with the Starship Enterprise for our first ma and pa mission.
Except I have to wear bloomers.
I told the committee I'm more of a hip-hugger kinda girl.
"Those bloomers won't really go with my low-rise jeans," I said. "Can I alter the pattern just a titch?"
There was a collective church-lady pause before the stake trekkie leader said, "Well, isn't that special . . . NO! "
As it turns out we can't wear jeans either, due to the high probability of chafing as we walk and walk and walk.
My hub gets to wear a sexy cowboy hat, but I have to wear a bonnet.
Not only do I have to wear a bonnet, I also have to SEW the bonnet in which I have to wear.
HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA
"You're not serious!" I said.
But they were serious.
"Oooh, oooh, oooh," I said, raising my hand in the air like I just didn't care. "Can I make mine out of aloha print instead of plaid? Please, please, pretty please! Can I, huh? huh? huh?"
And then I told them about how the Hawaiian people love Star Trek almost as much as they love Magnum P.I.
And then the ma sitting next to me accidentally poked me in the eye.
In the end I got my way. Maybe because our ward Trekkie leader is a Hawaiian named Scottie.
(At least that's what we call him when we say "beam me up!")
Only problem now is, I don't know how to sew.
Iwa? Martha? Anjeny? Swirl? I know you all love to sew. Can you whip me up an aloha bonnet? And maybe a pair of aloha bloomers?--(semi-low-rise, please) (I don't want to feel to frumpy if I run into Captain Kirk.) (Please, Gad, let it be the Chris Pine Captain Kirk and not the William Shatner Captain Kirk.)
Mahalo Nui Loa in advance, girlz!
Sunday, February 21, 2010
But spilling the beans about Country music wasn't the only faux pas I committed on the stand. I also wore a mumu. With riding boots.
Well, he didn't get it from strangers. Picture that face in a mumu with riding boots.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
But even bad weeks have their silver lining. My silver lining's name was Dolly.
We talked about everyone and everything. It made me so happy/sad.
Inside was a heart shaped card that read, Happy Valentines Day! Here's some Temple Beach for you.
(I hope that's not illegal.)
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
I don't think this years getaway to Mosquito, Nevada will produce the same kind of verbal abuse.
Look ma, no shoes!
My daughter had arrived the previous day with her club soccer team.
"No wonder you stay so skinny," my MIL told me, "you laugh so much!" And then she told me that laughing helps you lose weight.
"YOU help me lose weight," I told her.
If Kellie Pickler watched Lawrence Welk every Saturday night, called Yoooohoooo instead of ringing the doorbell, and used words like trousers and picture show-house, she would be my MIL.
Imagine the awkward pauses and the awkward attempts to change the subject.
Every morning they share one banana, one orange and one hard boiled egg on one plate. If we go to Costco they share one hot dog, but if we go to Chuck-A-Rama they suddenly need 6 separate plates of their own?
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Does that sound romantic or what?
It's called Mosquito because it's an itchy little town that buzzes in your ear when you try to sleep. My kids wanted to know why if it's called Mosquito, it's spelled Mesquite and I told them the truth, that Nevada discriminates against the letter o.
My (know-it-all) MIL corrected me and said the town is named Mesquite after all the mesquite bushes on the other side of the Virgin River.
Was that rude?
But I have a point, right?
I mean, remember when Brittany Spears became an oxymoron because she claimed she was a virgin? And remember when Madonna became a simile because she said she was like a virgin?
It's all just rhetoric.
However, there is one really attractive thing about Mosquito, Nevada--the sun. That is one HOT sun. Bold too. Nothing shy about it.
The Astroturf's not hard on the eyes either. It's a bee-U-tiful, bright, vivid green--almost the color of joy. Except it's not real joy. It's synthetic--little blades of grass implants all over the soccer field.
Between the bold sun and the Astroturf implants, let's just say I didn't wear a single drab colored sweater all weekend.
Picture this: me . . . walking across the Astroturf in slow motion . . . in my slippahs--toes fully exposed, and my flimsy hot pink, v-neck tee . . . my thumb hooked carelessly in the pocket of my denim culottes . . . It would have been picture perfect if that indignant wind hadn't kept scolding me every time I got too friendly with the sun.
The one thing I realized from my romantic weekend getaway is that love truly is all you need. Plus a little sun. And maybe a "periodic" pedicure.
I got plenty of all three this weekend. Except the pedicure, which I didn't get because of the recession. And anyway, I still have a little bit of polish left from my last pedi.
Naybe I'll gather the courage to tell you about the other things tomorrow.
Stay tuned for photographic evidence of my hub pumping gas in his snowman pj's. (Talk about mood killer!)
Thursday, February 11, 2010
But I think my hub can because he's taking me away on a romantic get-a-way this weekend. Just the two of us.
And his parents.
And my boys.
Oh, and my daughter will be there too because she's got a soccer tournament. We might try to squeeze in some of her games in between all the romance.
I knew it was going to be a bad week at our Super Bowl party when I guzzled four glasses of icy, cold Mountain Dew. On an empty stomach. In less than 90 minutes. On the verge of PMS.
Yes, I knew it was a dumb thing to do even as I was doing it, and yes, I heard the still small voice in the back of my head skipping rope and chanting, Grumpty Dumpty sat on a wall . . . Grumpty Dumpty had a great fall . . .
I anticipated the crash, followed by the burn, followed by some bloating and a surge of estrogen, but I JUST. DIDN'T. CARE. I don't know why. Maybe because I'm sick to death of not having any vices (besides drab colored sweaters.) That's what my life boils down to, peeps, DRAB COLORED SWEATERS!
"Bring it on, grumplestilskin!" I cried on Sunday as I poured Mountain Dew over my raspberry sherbet and jammed a Tim Tam in it.
To be honest, I rarely touch the stuff--maybe four or five times a year, and when I do I sip it like a lady with my pinky fully extended towards heaven, but last weekend it was on sale for $1 at Walmart so I figured it would only cost about 50 cents to get fully loaded on caffeine cocktails, nightcaps, shots and slams. GRAND slams. I was slamming it straight up and straight down and on the rocks, until my son said, "MOM! I think you might be breaking a commandment!"
My MIL was there to witness the whole thing, but she just laughed and turned her attention back to her story about how she used to play cowboys and Indians with the boys when she was a little girl.
"The cowboys always won," My FIL said and then my MIL winked.
The week went downhill from there.
I tried to salvage it by attending a yoga class, but this particular class did jump-ups and hand-stands, which is to say we had to jump from a down-dog position into a handstand. I haven't done a hand stand since I was ten-years-old. You get me? The whole experience released all the negative toxins in my body and do you know hard it is to stay positive when all your toxins are negative?
Even American Idol couldn't cheer me up this week. Or Ghost Hunters International. It just annoyed me how polite they are to all those rude international ghosts.
"Ghost, if you're here, we ask you to please step forward. Please . . . Pretty please . . . with sugar on top. And can I ask you one more favor, ghost? Will you touch me so I know you're here? Thank you, kind ghost. I promise I won't hurt you."
Have they ever considered the possibility that those international ghosts might try to hurt them?
What really gets me is when they try to speak to the rude ghosts in Spanish. "Porfavor kind ghost. Esta Lista? Quidado, kind ghost."
Oddly the ghosts always answer back in English, which proves my theory that I will have plenty of time to be bi-lingual after this life.
As a last resort to lift my spirits this week I went to the temple. Instead of feeling better I just felt like I was cheating on the Laie temple. I always get kinda judgmentally when I'm cheating. Well I don't really get judgementally, it's more like I notice things I wouldn't normally notice. BUGGY things. Like how I was the only one wearing a rental dress and how even though everyone was wearing uber cute non-rental dresses, no one was fully dressed.
Do they not sell smiles at Beehive Clothing?
I think the universe tried to humble me for my observations because half way through the session the lady next to me handed me a breath mint.
(It's so depressing when your breath isn't temple worthy!)
Anyways, happy Valentines weekend everyone! May yours be as romantic as mine!
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
I remember my theory had something to do with F. Scott Fitzgerald's contrast between movement--both East and West--and stasis. My paper explored his understated use of dynamic vs. static images to reveal the implications of the changing social and moral philosophy of the early 1920's.
Or something like that.
So tonight, at exactly 9:45 p.m. my daughter says to me, "Mom, I just wrote a paper on The Great Gatsby. Can you come take a look?"
"Of course I can, darling," I replied. "I am an expert, afterall!"
I thought her paper started off on the right foot:
At first glance The Great Gatsby seems to be just a series of random events that don’t really mean much, but the deeper you dig for meaning, the easier it is to find it.
True that, I thought. But then she revealed the deeper meaning:
West Egg and East Egg, Long Island are shaped like eggs, and it reminds me of humpty dumpty. Each character in the book sits on their own wall and eventually they all crack.
Wait! I'm getting an image:
At first glance, I thought, "where did she come from?" But the more I think about it . . . let's just say, if anyone ever asks me how I know she's my daughter, I'll tell them this story.
And maybe I'll mention the time in college when I wrote a paper on Keats, Shelley and Byron entitled The Peanut Butter Poets, based on the fact that their images stick to the roof of your mouth.
Or maybe I won't.
And remember when we'd have slumber parties and toilet paper the Old Boat Guy's blog? And then we'd stay up all night interpreting messages from the universe?
And remember when we had the Truth or Dare retreat and we helped each other carry our buckets?
(I miss those dayz.)
Well one of our friends needs help carrying her bucket right now. April's sister Robin, at Serenity Now, is going through the same thing that Pat (Nutty Hamster Chick) went through several years ago, and Tiffany went through last year--her foster daughter is being returned to her birth parents.
INCONSOLABLE, INCONSOLABLE! INCONSOLABLE!
But we have to try!
So can you all please go kick off your shoes and put on your aprons and whip up some comfort food--something really cheesy and gooey and creamy--and then we'll meet in Robin's comment box for a group hug.
I'll bring the Jamba Juice. And you guys bring the tissue, because this post will make your eyes sweat.
Would it be too oxymoronic to wish for you serenity, NOW!
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Only we weren't driving a 1966 Thunderbird convertible, we were driving a 1990 U-Haul.
And we weren't being chased by the police--thank goodness, because I can't graduate from Traffic School again for three years--we were being chased by responsibility.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
It was a pimped out dance party because my bro let us use his DJ sound system and his DJ strobe light and his DJ fog machine.
We hit the lights and then we hit the floor.
We did the limbo and the cha cha slide and the electric slide and the boot scootin' boogie and the hoedown throwdown and the chicken dance .
Then we did Thriller and High School Musical and the YMCA.
Then we did the macarena and the hamster dance and hokey pokey.
The only thing we didn't do was kissing.
Not even a peck.
Even my hub abstained.
"But we have to set the example," I told him.
"You're right," he said. "When you stop getting pulled over, I'll stop abstaining from you in public."
No wonder the divorce rate is so darn high!
Who is edumacating our children, anyway?
I hope it's not the same person who let my kids to do this at the dance party: