Brain Sweats!

Is it just me, or was that the longest Aloha Friday ever? 

Sorry 'bout that.  I spent the last 4 days sweating profusely.  But not from my eyeballs, from my brain.  

There have been so many things to sweat about.  First of all, my IL's took us out to the the Golden Corral again.  This time it was breakfast for my twins birthday.  I thought it would be easier because you don't eat dessert after breakfast, right?  But that didn't stop her.  She waited until everyone was done eating, then she went and got an omelet.  Do you realize how long it takes to make an omelet at Golden Corral on a holiday?  And that's not including eating time.  And digesting time in between bites.

Loooooooong story short, I can teach patience too, so I pulled a business card from my wallet and every time she put her fork down to tell a story I started tapping it against the table right in front of her plate.  

Mwuaaha ha ha HA! 

While she was listing every family birthday in September I was tap tap tap tap tap tappity tap tapping. 

 

While she was telling the ages (tap) and attractability (tap) of each prophet (TAPTAPTAPTAP), I was a regular Gene Kelly.  Too bad it wasn't raining and I wasn't singing. 

My kids were outside the window swatting bees by that time so at least I had something to focus on to keep my head from spinning around and popping off.  

Finally, she was down to her last bite.  We made eye contact.  Slowly but surely she lowered her fork to the table and I swear to Gad a slight smile began to form in the corner of her mouth.  

But SUDDENLY! I stood up, grabbed the cars keys, air kissed my hub and said, "BA-BYE now!" 

Was that rude?  A girl can only learn patience so fast, right?  

There are other things I'm sweating about too.  Someone from my new ward came over--a lovely lady who looked lovely, but kept apologizing for not looking lovely.  She said she needed to find out about my history.  It didn't sound too dangerous at first--I was born a poor black child and such--but then she cut right to the chase and asked me straight up "what previous callings have you held?  What about your hub? What are your talents?  Where do you work?" My throat closed up and I had to excuse myself to breathe into a paper bag. 

I ended up breaking the commandments and telling her I was the Disneyland Coordinator and that my hub was the Rock Band instructor.  

Then at church the Bishop wanted to see us after sacrament.  I thought I was in trouble for yawning through all the hymns.  I couldn't help it.  They take peacefully and gently to a whole new level in Utah and I had to concentrate to keep from sliding into a coma.  

"I just want to get to know you," he assured us, but once inside his office he sat us right in front of his 50" framed Family Proclamation and opened his 8" binder.

"Are you available on weekdays?  Weeknights?  Weekends?  Sundays? Holidays? Birthdays? he said.

We both looked at him with our best deer-in-the-headlights impression. 

"When can we start putting you to work? You look like enthusiastic folks, with a lot of energy."

"I actually just got out of a coma," I squeaked. 

"We don't waste time around here.  We'll put you right to work.  Do you guys ride bikes?" 

"Bikes?  No.  We don't even own bikes." 

"Well you can borrow some.  We're having a ward biking activity next Saturday.  We'll be biking 10 miles.  Do you own any spandex?"

"Spandex?  No.  Spandex is against our religion."  

"You can ride back too, that makes 20 miles." 

"We hate biking, actually." 

"And there's a 65-miles option too, if you're up for it." 

That's when I got up and poked his eyes out.

It's a new place, which means new demands and stresses and expectations.  For my hub and I it's a new dynamic, new patterns, new behaviors.  We are trying to get used to each other in our new roles--Me, itchy with a "b" and him, assive with a "p."   

At least our roles are not reversed.  I'd hate to be itchy with a "p" because then I'd never get my shot on American Idol.  And I'm glad he's not assive with a "b" because I'm a total salmon snob. 

Anywayz, Aloha Monday!  Can't wait till Friday. 

Aloha Friday

Aloha! 

It's Friday! Which in Hawaii means everyone is putting on their shaka shirts and hula skirts right now.

Except for me because I'm in Utah baking pies in my jeans and CTR t-shirt.

Do you think I'm depressed? Because I can't stop baking pies.

Or do you think I'm just weird?

When you move to a new place everyone seems weird, except you. But then you wake up one day and everyone seems normal, except you.

I don't know which is worse?

I guess I'll know I'm normal when I start chunking and ratting and wedging my hair.

Anyways, I am struggling with my identity right now. I hope I don't start doing scrapbooks next.

(Oh, dear. I'm going to scrapbook myself silly all winter long, huh? huh? huh?)

I can see why people do it. I really can. It's so much more productive than prozac or porn. And you need something to fill that vacant void of disconnect you see on everyone's faces at your daughter's soccer games.

At least my daughter's soccer games are good material for my next book, The Invisible Mom, and it's sequel, The Secret Life of Itchy B's.

I'm not complaining because being the new girl is super fun and exciting, as is being a stay-at-home mom slash glamorous writer. Surprisingly it doesn't really bother me at all that I can't figure out which side of the field to park my growing apple-pie bootie. Not recognizing anyway has it's perks because anyone doesn't recognize you either, which means you don't have to be bothered with anyone pestering you and introducing themselves to you and saying "welcome to the team, you must be the new girl's mom. blah blah blah."

The only thing better than being the new girl's mom is unpacking the new girl's untouched soccer snacks after every game. It's takes me back to this post when I first realized I had a big L on my forehead?

The only good thing about the big L post was that it allowed my kids to open up and come out of the closet about their shame over always having the junkest sack lunches in the state of Hawaii.

"Everyone always had to share with me because my lunch was so junk," said my daughter.

"I know, so embarrassing!" my said my thirteen-year-old son. "Everyone else had two sodas and a huge bag of Doritos."

"Yeah, and like three musubi's with SPAM AND egg!" chimed in my twins. "And store bought cookies."

Then they wrapped their arms around each other and cried and sang Kumbaya.

Allow me to share some photographic evidence that I am not the only one with a big L on my forehead.

No, I didn't not pack this lunch. Some other loser did.

Maybe I'm normal after all.

Mahalo!

And AlooooooooHA!!!!!!

If I knew you were coming I'd a baked a pie!

OMGOSH!!!  Guess what I did today!  Guess! Guess! Guess! 

I baked a pie.  From scratch.  

Me! 

And it was dee-licious and dee-lightful.

Lookie! That's me with my pie (and my stay-at-home-mom hair).

Isn't it bee-U-tiful?

I made the whole thing by myself.  Even the delicate, flakey crust.

I did it because my mom is a tree snob. She discriminates against trees. 

See my sister has two apple trees in her yard--a green apple and a red apple.  Me, I am not a tree racist--I have a dream that one day all apples will be treated equally, but my mom doesn't agree.  She says my sister's red apples are awful and no good.  They're too tart.  

I wanted to prove to her that with a little sugar and spice, even a tart apple will be nice.  

Who's  scrunching up their nose now, Mama mia?  

No one, that's who! 

Unfortunately I had an epiphany while I was baking.  Kinda disillusioning, actually.  You know all those cooking blogs?  They're big fat liars.  Cooking is a dirty dirty job. 

But I guess someone's got to do it. 

Besides baking pies and going to Maceys every day to see if there are any dumb guys giving stuff away, I've been watching Family Feud and eating popsicles with my sick kids.  Three of them have strep throat and I think I'll just start the other one on an antibiotic too.  An ounce of prevention is like a stitch in time, right?  

My poor thirteen year old has something else too.  I can't remember what it's called.  I think it's like hog flu or this-little-piggy flu or wild boar flu. Whatever it is, it looks like this: 

 

When I asked my son if I could use this photo on my blog, he shrugged and said, "If you think it's necessary." 

K, I'm off to eat some pie, but I just wanted to say mahalo to all ya'll for jumping in to help me poke that rude dude in the eye after insulting my darling daughter.  I haven't been that pet-peeved since my son got scolded in primary for praying that the Steelers would win the Superbowl. 

I See Dumb People--(and I don't do wordless Wednesdays)

Something strange is happening to me here in Utah

I don't know why I've been given this special power, but yesterday I was at Macey's when I heard a friendly, almost pleading, voice come over the loud speaker. He was asking the customers to come to the front of the store and get a coupon. Of course, I'm nothing if not obedient so I went to get my coupon. Alls I had to do was buy two boxes of cereal for $1.69 then I could get $2 off a gallon of milk. But a gallon of milk only costs $1.59.

Am I dumb or is Maceys dumb? $1.59 is less than $2.00, right?

The cashier gave me 41 cents for taking a gallon of milk off their hands.

That's dumb, right?

Dumb people see me too. Especially when I'm driving to Salt Lake City. You know dumb people see you when they wave at you. With one finger.

I personally get a little overwhelmed by all the lane choices. I'm just not used to so many choices. I usually try to drive in the lane but not of the lane, but apparently that's not the way they do things in Utah. In Utah you don't ride the fence. You don't blur the lines. You pick a lane and you don't waver from it.

A word of advice: When driving in Utah don't hug the slow lane because #1, my mom will tell you you're driving too slow, and #2, the slow lane is the exit lane. You might accidentally take every exit from Salt Lake City to Lehi.

But then you might get smart and move over to the fast lane.

But then you might get dumb again and miss your own exit.

I see dumb movies too. In fact last night I saw Mama Mia.

Am I dumb or is the rest of the world dumb? How is the name of helk and tamnation did Mama Mia get to be the best selling DVD of all time? Are people using the DVD to run over in their driveway as part of their anger management?

Sorry Sandi, and the rest of the world. I know you all hate me now, but I need to say what I need to say. Mama Mia is THEE dumbest movie (besides Cry Baby) on the face of the earth!

If I were a teenager in Hawaii I would say that movie is irrits! (urban dictionary definition: shortened version of irritation: feelings of irritation,a scratchy annoyance, like mild diarrea.)

If I was a teenager in Utah I would say that movie is LAME SAUCE: (urban dictionary definition: a description of how incredibly hard something sucks.)

The Broadway musical was LAME SAUCE too, but I thought the movie might be better.

Don't get me wrong. I'm a huge ABBA fan. Danced to their albums in my living room over and over as a pre-teen, but I guess I didn't do it enough to think "hmmmm . . . maybe I could string these songs together and create a plotline that sucks so incredibly hard not even David Hasselhoff could save it."

Meryl Streep couldn't even save it! What the what, Meryl? You cannot sing, and you're too classy to act like an ADHD tramp(oline).

Was that rude? 

Bless her heart! I'm just sayin'

I also see rude people.  Especially at my daughter's soccer games. Yesterday, some dude insulted my daughter OUT LOUD after she missed a goal. I was like DUDE, I'm right here! Within ear shot! Don't you have any manners, dude? Don't you know that's the NEW girl.  The girl who just moved 3,000 miles away from her comfort zone, where she was lubbed and respected.  That's right, dude, she's the NEW girl.  The one who just moved here from Hawaii, where people get all up in your grill and talk back when you insult their daughters. They're itchy in Hawaii.  And sometimes itchy with a B.  It's not all aloha and sunshine in Hawaii, dude! If you mess with their Ohana, they speak Kung Fu Panda. 

DUDE, DON'T MESS WITH MY OHANA!

I think I'm going to be itchy with a B in my next life.  

Oh wait, this is my next life.