The Holy War

Remember Thanksgiving?  And how my MIL taught me how to darn socks?  

Well, it was just in the nick of time.

This here is photographic evidence that I lie not on this blog. When I say my thirteen-year-old son plays basketball outside in the snow in his socks, I mean it.

Before thanksgiving I would have simply screamed DARNIT at these socks, but now, thanks to my MIL, I know I need a needle and thread, and thanks to the Old Boat Guy I know I need a lightbulb to get these darn socks darned.

Why would I need a lightbulb, you ask?  I wondered that too. Apparently you put the lightbulb inside the sock. Most likely so you can see what you're darning.   

Which reminds me of a joke. 

How many Mormons does it take to darn a sock to helk? 

Four. One to screw in the lightbulb, one to say the closing prayer, and one to bring refreshments.   

The last Mormon is just there to say "the devil made me do it."

Ba dum bum.

Hey, btw, April says you can't shout your stains out by yelling at your laundry. Can anyone confirm this to be true? 

If I might add, you shouldn't deck your halls either.  Unless you want your walls to call social services on you.

Anyways, back to my son's holy war.  This is not the first time his feet have worn out their welcome on the basketball court.

Poor thing. I guess I need to teach him the hypocritic oath because what's the use of having holy socks when your shoes have no soul?

(ba dum bum)

Glory Dayz/Daze

Oh my goodness! Oh my goodness! I've been meaning to post all day, but I am seriously so tired.  It's 12:28 p.m. and I am just now sitting down to take a load off for the first time since I popped out of bed this morning.  

Its all because my hub wanted to know how my dumb and dumber cooking blog was coming along. And then he wanted to know how my windex cologne business was coming along.  And then he wanted to know if I was making any $$$ off my sushi shop slash vegetable oil gas station. 

I told him all three ideas were still in the conception stage, so he told me he had a business idea that was already in the labor and delivery stage. 

Fresh California oranges. 

Apparently I'm going to get rich and famous selling fresh Cali O.J. (minus the J). 

I'm no longer a dummy, peeps, I'm a bizness lady.  

And guess what else! I'm going back to school! You heard me right. I'm officially enrolled in traffic school and I'm going to major in coming-to-a-complete-stop-before-turning-in-front-of-the-nice-policeman-ology.

 

Hope I'm not too busy with my new bizness to go shopping for some new school clothes and a new backpack. I asked the nice policeman if traffic school is offering any scholarships this semester, so I could afford the new outfits, but he just shook his head. 

So guess what I got in the mail from my very first blog friend, Jami at Superfluous Miscellany?Guess! Guess! Guess!

Give up? huh? huh? huh?

Oh, you'll never guess.  I'll just show you. 

 

SPAM! Of every sort and variety.  A whole potpourri of SPAM.  PLUS a new musubi maker. CheeeeeeeeHoooo!

MAHALO Jami! 

(Just between you and me though, that one small act of kindness and consideration was both superfluous AND miscellaneous.) 

But life is random like that. 

Take Sunday, for instance. My MIL randomly decided, after 20 years, that it was time to get our storage out of her storage.  So we did, and guess what we've been storing all these years? 

Our glory dayz.  

That's right--my old cheer skirt and pon pons, (which I like to call pom poms) and my hub's old college basketball uniform. Maybe I should try to dig up some photographic evidence for your viewing pleasure.

Wait! There is no try, there is only do, right?



It's amazing how much fun your kids can have with your glory dayz. And even more amazing how sordid they can make you feel as they're dragging your glory dayz through the mud.

The first words out of my daughter's mouth when she saw my cheer skirt was, "That is DISGUSTING!"

I think she was a little grossed out that it fit my youngest son. 

I told her I was never a little boys size 10, but she didn't believe me.  

Until she tried it on herself. 

 

HA! Look who's a little boys size 10 now! (btw, that's my sister's daughter in my sister's cheer skirt).

 My kids also fit into my hubs basketball jersey.

 But who cares about that?

So my sister came over and our daughters dared both of us to squeeze into our old glory dayz cheer sweaters.

Which we did, (when we sucked in our breath).

So then they double dog dared us to fit into our glory dayz cheer skirts. 

Which we did (although we couldn't zip them up.)

So then they triple dog dared us to to do a glory dayz toe touch.  

 (*Note: You are about to see videographic evidence of my existence. And believe me, it's graphic! (but not as graphic as the above forementioned double jointed elbows. No wonder I got cut from SYTYCDance.) (**Note: I didn't know I was being videographed or I would have tried harder.) (***Note: I photoshopped that fake tree in the background into the picture. But I didn't get a chance to photoshop the ornaments.)

(I really need to take Cheiko Okasaki's advice and lighten up, don't I?  I take life way too seriously.) 

P.S.  If this post feels groggy, it's because I fell asleep at least a dozen times while writing it. 

Black Friday Soup for the Soul

Black Friday.  The most wonderful day of the year. 

At least that's what my hub always says. 

In Hawaii he would jump out of bed on Thanksgiving morning and drive to Chevron to buy a newspaper so he could plot his BF strategy. 

Being the good little supportive, submissive, subservient wife that I am, I went along for the ride, but this year I was a hesitant because I've heard horror stories about the Utah crowds and the bargain shopper cat fights. 

And because, well, it's cooooold outside at 4 a.m.

But my hub is a force to be reckoned with when he wants to save $120 on a BBQ grill.  Needless to say, I submitted my will to his will and put on my game face. 

Sooooo, do you want the low down skinny about Black Friday in Utah? Straight from the horses mouth?

 

(you might want to grab a pencil because some of this will be great for your next sacrament meeting talk.)

In Utah Walmart lets you wait inside their store before it opens. Right next to the product of your choice. 

Shopko serves hot chocolate and Home Depot shows movies. 

At Best Buy, while you're waiting to check out, the workers let you know that they would be happy to get you anything on your list you may have forgotten.  

Black Friday in Utah is just like being at Disneyland--only less expensive with shorter lines and fewer people. 

I kid not.  

I have to admit I was a little disappointed there was no pushing or shoving, but my hub did have a major adrenalin rush at Home Depot.  

(This is the part you can use for your next sacrament meeting talk.) 

Home Depot didn't open until 6 a.m. so we had 30 minutes to wait in line and watch Elf, which I've seen a hundred million times, so I suggested we go next door to Best Buy and shop rather than wait in the below freezing temperatures. 

But no, my hub was determined to get that BBQ grill and wasn't about to lose his place in line.

What a cutie patootie. 

So I ditched him. 

I went to Best Buy and left my poor hub alone, and vulnerable to the hypnotic persuasive powers of mob rule suggestion. For thirty minutes straight all he heard around him was buzz, buzz, buzz about the Rigid high performance wet/dry vac for the amazing low price of  $20.

  
We already have one, but he got caught up in the moment and lost focus.  As soon as the store opened he rushed along with all the other wet/dry vac groupies to aisle 14 where they were carefully stacked. 

What happened next was a blur--a flurry of flatbed carts and frenzied jazz hands grabbing, grabbing, grabbing 3, 4, 5 wet/dry vacs.  My hub tried to get a piece of the action, but to no avail. 

SUDDENLY a voice came over the loud speaker and announced that there were more wet/dry vacs on aisle 1.  

You do the math.  

He booked it across the store, dodging the wheelbarrows and the fake Christmas trees and the portable heaters to aisle 1.  He dove over the top of the chainsaws and did a forward roll, landing directly in front of the neatly stacked high performance wet/dry vacs--perfect for large or small clean ups.

But other people were diving and doing forward rolls too.  

So my dear hub, bless his heart, boxed out, and shot his jazz hands into the crowd . . . 

And I am happy (I think) to report that we are now the proud owners of a Rigid high performance wet/dry vac. 

Thank you very much. 

But there was a moment of clarity soon after he got his jazz hands on that wet/dry vac.  It was merely a vague gnawing thought at first, but rather quickly it exploded into a white hot epiphany.

THE BBQ GRILL! 

Had he traded what he wanted most for what he wanted NOW? 

Had he been so caught up in the moment with a sassy little high performance wet/dry vac that he lost his chance to get what he came for? What he really needed? 

All that searching and wishing and longing . . . all those lonely meals without grilled chicken or steak or burgers while he waited for the right BBQ grill to come along . . .

Was it too late? 

No. Of course not, you silly goose. Who wants to buy a BBQ grill in the middle of winter?

But when you tell the story in your next Sacrament meeting talk, feel free to change the ending for dramatic effect.  We wouldn't want kids out there thinking they can have their wet/dry vac and eat it too. 

My Thomas Kinkade Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving in Hawaii--I always LUBBED it! The comings and the goings. The hap hap happy happenings.  The endless ebb and flow of neighbors coming in and out of our day. 

Thanksgiving in Hawaii was just like every other day in the hood, only with Turkey and pie.

(See, when you live in a townhouse far far away, your neighbors are your ohana, which means family, and family means no one gets left alone.)

(Ever.) 

(Even if you scream "LEAVE me ALONE!" at the top of your lungs.)

On the other hand, when you live in a single family home close close at hand, your neighbors are not your ohana. Your ohana is your ohana, and the last thing anyone around here needs is more ohana.

So this year we spent Thanksgiving with our very own ohana for the first time in 20 years. 

And it was sooooo weird--in a magical-hot-apple-cider-roaring-cozy-fire kinda way. 

For a second I thought I was living inside a Thomas Kinkade puzzle.

I've always wondered what the people inside these charming cottages do all day. 

And now I know.  They are listening to the Carpenters Christmas album and baking hot buttered rolls and devouring Black Friday ads.  And their kids are making gingerbread houses and playing Madden 09 and watching the Macy's Day Parade. And their ohana is dropping by, in and out they come, bearing smiles and hugs and fruit salad with chocolate whipped cream.

I wonder if Thomas Kinkade realizes there is such a thing as chocolate whipped cream and that people inside his puzzles are putting it on their fruit salad?   

Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think chocolate whipped cream is a Mormon thing because I'm pretty sure my apostate brother thought it up himself  (WHO does that?)  And when he couldn't find any chocolate whipped cream in the grocery store (because DUH! no one has invented it yet because EWW!) he took matters into his own hands with a bottle of Hershey's syrup and some cool whip and then he forced us all at gunpoint to eat it.  

And doggonit, it was delicious. And we liked it. 

But still . . . kinda kooky.

And he's not even my kookiest brother.  I have another brother who runs his car on vegetable oil that he gets from a sushi shop.  And when he drives it smells like french fries.  

True story. The universe is a little bit more at risk for high cholesterol because of my kooky brother.

So if my Dumb and Dumber cooking blog doesn't make me rich and my Windex cologne doesn't make me famous, I'm going to start a sushi shop gas station. Only instead of making sushi I'll make SPAM musubi and instead of pumping vegetable oil, I'll pump soy sauce. That way the universe will crave fried rice, which is lower in saturated trans fat.

So anyways, I had a weird thanksgiving--in a magical-hot-apple-cider-roaring-cozy-fire kinda way. And I even learned something new about darning socks from my mother-in-law.  In fact everyone at the table learned something new about darning socks from my mother-in-law. 

Did you know that darning socks involves a needle and thread? 

And all these years I thought I was darning my holey socks to helk by simply screaming at them. 

P.S. Black Friday stories tomorrow . . .