Feb 28, 2009

random stuff - not that this is much different than usual, of course

My husband likes to read the dictionary. I know, I don't get it either. But then again, I don't read dictionaries as a hobby. The thesaurus? Yeah, maybe....in the bathroom.....if I've already counted all the bumps on the wall....and the ceiling.....usually I'm just not in there long enough. Which is probably why my vocabulary is so diminutive.

My 100th post is coming up soon. I'm wondering whether to celebrate it or not. Of course it's just the 100th on this blog. When I reached the magical number on my family blog I didn't realize that it was something to be recognized and totally missed it. But then again, what makes the 100th post so special anyway? I wonder if anyone will deliver balloons? Or flowers, perhaps? I would prefer chocolates actually. But I have a few more posts to go before all this happens. And since I haven't really decided on anything especially particular, it may just go by with no deliveries or hullabaloo of any kind. We shall see. (Call your florist, just in case.)

There is a house down the street that is 600 square feet bigger than mine (which is more than a 1/3 larger than here.) But it's selling for $50,000 less than we currently owe on our house. Is that not crazy? If we could swap houses I totally would. Except that the front of my house is way cuter. Just so you know.

Monkey frequently has to wear an eyepatch. Those sticky flesh colored ones that, from across the room, make him look like he just has a weird hole where his eye should be. Really, why make them flesh colored? If I had to wear an eye patch I would want it to be bright and exciting. And maybe it would help if they had pirate crossbones or even smiley faces on them. OOOOH, how about one with a fake eye painted on it? And maybe some fake eyelashes glued to the painted-on lid just for added realness. That would be great - no one would even be able to tell that you had a patch on! I'm a stinking genius - no one better steal my idea. I mean it. I'm getting a patent on this one. Because I'm thinking a two year old would FOR SURE love an eye patch knowing that it had a fake eyeball painted on it, versus the standard flesh-colored thing.

We have a lot of peanut butter in our pantry. Yes - you needed to know that. There will be a quiz later.

You know what's frustrating? My brain is so much more ambitious than the rest of me. Such as: I have this idea for a book that I want to write. As if I am in any way qualified to write a book - but that's really beside the point. Because once I sit down to start writing it I realize that it takes a whole lot of effort and time to write books, and I'm just too busy and uncommitted to do something that huge.

Also I thought it would be cool to start playing the piano again. Not to be all horn tooty or anything but I was really good in high school. Not concert hall good, but quite good enough. And now.....pffffft. Chopsticks, anyone? Because that I can play. Tonight my brain thought it would be cool to compose a song. Not like a hard one, but like a Regina Spektor/Kate Nash type song. I used to do stuff like that. Kind of. But it's like I'm going to follow through on something like this now. Plus, I don't even know what I'd write a song about these days.

I painted my bathroom last month. But I never went back in and touched it up. And I never taped the edges or anything when I painted it. It was kind of one of those impulse type moments. It looks quite horrid. I blame the ambitious brain that never follows through. That's me.

And on that note, I am going to drop this post. Because good endings take effort.

Feb 24, 2009

a foot story

I'm in a horribly mundane mood, and can't even muster a blog worthy thought. Yet, I still feel like blogging. I really hate when this happens.

But -lucky you- I sat down and brainstormed for like 35 hours and came up with a fantastic topic:

FEET

That's right, I can think of lots of stuff (or a few things, whatever) about feet. So here you go:

I'm not a foot fan. They gross me out.

I love little tiny baby feet. And I will even kiss little tiny baby feet. Little tiny baby feet are stinking adorable. But then they grow.

I will tickle toddler feet. As long as they're clean, and not sweaty or fresh out of shoes or anything, I can handle tickling toddler feet.

I force myself to cut the toenails on my Kindergartner's feet. I will only do it right after her bath, and still I have to hold back the gagging. Five year old feet just aren't kissable nor tickle-able anymore. To me. That is.

I make my husband wear socks to bed. Ok, it's his choice. But let's just say that in the beginning I strongly suggested NEVER touching me with his feet. Ever. Even by accident, while we're both sleeping. I'm sure I would wake in a horrible fit of vomitous rage. It would not be pretty. (Not that I'm particularly gorgeous when first waking up - but still.)

I'm a foot hypocrite. Because I hate wearing shoes or socks or.....any other thing... on my feet. I know, I make everyone else hide their nasty feetness, and yet I walk around sans socks. What can I say? I'm a horrible person. Deal with it.

And now, here's a foot related story (like I said, lots to say about feet):

In middle school (6th and 7th grades) they made us shower after PE. I'm sure it was because we all stunk like the barely pubescent children that we were. And if you're thinking, "Woah, I hadn't hit puberty by then - what's she talking about?!" Well, I'll tell you. I was an early developer. And I HATED it. By 6th grade I had boobs. And those little excuses for towels that they gave us in middle school just couldn't wrap around it all.

At the vulnerable age of 12, showering in PE was the worst -absolutely horridest- thing I could think of. I would wrap the tiny towel around myself, hoping that I could just squish all of my non-viewable areas inside while simultaneously stripping off my gym clothes. It was tricky. And then I had to take tiny awkward steps to the big shower so that nothing snuck out on the way. And then I'd stand facing the wall, open and close the towel inhumanly fast and call it a shower. At least I got wet.

I'm pretty sure I would be really emotionally stunted if something wonderful hadn't happened to prevent all of these nightmarish showerings. One day, I got a wart. A slimy fat wart right on my big toe.

Usually warts aren't to be praised. In fact, they are downright grotesque. But because of the blessed little thing I couldn't share a public shower. Looking back I really think that it was only fair - you know, I had to deal with boobs at an early age so I surely deserved something to get out of PE showering.

So yeah. A foot story.

Oh, and don't ever touch me with your feet, ok? Really. I might go all kung fu on your butt. And then I'd probably throw up. Or do both at the same time - which I really don't want to experience. So just keep those socks on.

Feb 17, 2009

a family vacation

We took the kids to Disneyland last week. It was stinking magical. My favorite souvenir from the trip is my lingering and ever torturous cold turned sinus infection. Thank you, germs, and the lazy blood cells that I like to call my immune system.

ANYWAYS...

I decided that there are 3 types of kids at Disneyland. And that it's possible for one child to actually go through each type in phases, but mostly speaking they stick to one.

TYPE 1: The Excited Child
This is the kid that you see wandering around with glossy eyes taking in the magic that is Disneyland. The type of kid who runs up to the characters for hugs and dances dreamily through the crowded walk-ways. These children really believe that they are in some kind of enchanted land, even during the eating of an overpriced, yet not so fabulous corndog. I firmly believe that ALL children should be this way, but sadly it is not so.

TYPE 2: The Whatever Child
This is the kid who doesn't care where he is and passively takes whatever comes. This type of child could go to a museum on the history of earthworms and still be as excited as he is to be in Disneyland. This kid is not worth the price of a three day park hopper ticket - the museum is probably cheaper anyway. (Luckily kids under 3 don't have to pay, because Monkey's indifference would have been much more frustrating.)

TYPE 3: The Screaming Child or The Scaredy Kid
This is the kid who throws screaming wild tirades while waiting in line, but not out of boredom or impatience, but out of sheer horror. This is the child you have to run out of the 3D theaters with while they clutch to you making sounds at what could pass as a pig being tortured. This is the kid who screams, "Get me off of here!!!!" during the beyond mild Dumbo ride. This type of kid doesn't care if there's magic in the air or not, he (or she) will NOT enjoy Disneyland.

I'll give you 3 guesses at what type of kids I have. (Of course this will allow to guess each, so really you can't go wrong here.)

Let's just say that there wasn't a whole lot of type number one going on. And also that we had to convince our children that everything at Disneyland was just robots. And while we were at it we mentioned that the tooth fairy and the Easter bunny are both big fake-o's. Because really - how magic killing is to tell your kids that Buzz isn't real, and "oh hey, the Princesses wear wigs." And also some people will give you dirty looks when you force your screaming 4 year old onto a carousel and then Peter Pan and then command the still screaming child to stand next to Pluto for a picture.

And that was Disneyland. And despite the screaming outbursts, tired feet ("We don't need shuttles!" says Husband), and the sinus infection that has now consumed my face it was actually a really great trip! I believe we'll go back.....in like 6 years.

Feb 4, 2009

the REAL story continued...

I won't do the cruel 5 day waiting thing, so here it is. Oh yeah, and don't forget to read part one, or you're going to be really confused.


How I Met my Husband: PART 2

I was in a pickle.

My options were: stay where I was, have two great jobs, live by my friends and hang out with the really funny guy with cool shoes OR move to a tiny town in another state, have no friends, and hike around in the horrible woods all day shocking fish. Yes, that’s right, SHOCKING FISH. Because that’s what summer crews do. Because it is vitally important to us as a species to know how many fish are in random streams. (It probably is important, but I was more into cool shoes and PARTTEEEEE-ing.)

It kind of sounds like a no brainer, right? Stay with the great jobs and friends, right? Enjoy the next 6 months and earn money, RIGHT? I love it when life works out perfectly.

Except that I knew that I needed to move away and shock fish. I knew it. The Lord couldn’t have been more clear if he had written a detailed “to do” list for me on the pavement in sidewalk chalk. (What if it rains, you ask? Well, that wouldn’t matter if the Lord used PERMANENT side walk chalk that torrents of rain couldn’t wash away. Duh? Plus, he’s God, he would make sure that I read it –multiple times- before allowing it to rain.)

Upon announcing my decision to leave all that was good and wonderful behind me, everyone thought I was insane. In fact, the only positive thing anyone had to say was that I would probably move and meet my future husband. Oh please.

Lots of people would tell me this, and lots of times I would either laugh hysterically or punch them in the jaw -depending on how many times I had heard it that day. No, I didn’t actually punch anyone. I just really felt like it. Because remember the plan: mission NOT marriage. Come on people, get it through your heads already.

So I packed up, and I moved. I may have also cried a little. Well, maybe not. But I did complain. A LOT. Not to my new host family – because they were wonderful. And hey, they just got me a job and free room and board. But I complained and moped on the inside – which probably showed on the outside and I was just too self-involved to notice that everyone else was noticing my horrible attitude. And I kept wondering, in a ‘I don’t want to question the Lord, but seriously’ sort of way, “WHY?!!! Why oh why am I here?!!”

For the whole first week of the job everyone had training. Where I slept in a tent, in the mountains. Already hating it. Luckily there was also a nearby cabin with a toilet and running water. Because a whole week without that and I’m pretty sure that I would I have hiked down the mountain, hitched a ride to civilization and then never gone back. Ever. (Good thing they had toilets, right? Because I doubt I would have actually been able to hike down that mountain without getting horribly lost and/or eaten by a bear.)

On the first day of training week I met HIM. At the time though, it was more a like, “oh, him.” I looked at him from across the campsite, under my baseball cap that was pulled down really low so that I could watch everyone with my mountain-hating disgust and no one could actually see what my face really looked like. And as I looked at ‘him’ a thought came into my head just as clear as that permanent side walk chalk:

“This is why you’re here. Meet your future husband.”

And then I laughed. Out loud. Across the campsite, away from anyone else, with my low hat and bad attitude. I’m pretty sure everyone else wondered how the crazy girl got a job away from the institution, because my sudden chortling had to have looked….strange (at least a little bit.)

And it turns out that the Lord will NOT in fact hit you with a direct bolt of lightening for laughing at personal revelation. Although I’d wager that He doesn’t appreciate it. So I wouldn’t recommend it.

So the week went on. The thought kept coming, and I kept laughing. But not wanting to pass up a good flirting opportunity, I flirted and I flirted often. And since my options were quite limited in our small group of fish shocking trainees, I mostly flirted with ‘him’.

And then the week ended and we were sent to different areas. I was turned into the office “data entry girl.” I’m thinking that my total inability in the whole forest service field showed and they needed to stick me somewhere. (Plus, the people there are all so busy hiking and stuff to learn how to type….or create programs that don’t run in DOS. Seriously, in ran in DOS – which is so old that I’m guessing a few of you won’t even know what DOS is.)

A few weeks later we started making excuses to see each other. We actually lived a good 2 ½ hour drive away from the other, but managed to spend a large amount of time together. And an even longer amount of time on the phone.

We were engaged before the summer was over. And then I had to face all those people that I theoretically punched in the jaw that ended up being right after all. It was humiliating- in a giggly, look at the rock on my finger, wow I’m such a girl, kind of way.

And that’s how I met my husband. Seven years and four kids later, I still like to remind myself WHY I ever married the guy. (Ok, only on some days, like when he comes home from work and says, “I think it smells like poop, but I don’t really want to say anything in case you made dinner….”)

And it’s a really good thing to know that the Lord has my life planned out better than I do – and that He doesn’t send bolts of lightening when I question his plans at first.

Feb 3, 2009

the REAL story

A few months ago I said that I met my husband through a psychic Oreo - which was a lie, you know. So I thought you'd like to hear the real story. I actually have it all written out anyways. And today I'm feeling dull - but I also feel like posting something. The two feelings cannot successfully go together. Unless, of course, you already have it all written out. But it's really long. So you'll probably get it in parts. Maybe a sentence at a time. I'm not really sure. Let's just play this by ear, shall we?



How I Met my Husband: PART 1

After two whopping years of college I was ready to take a break. Because, TWO whopping years. Whew. Hard work.

But I felt like my break should be for a reason – so, you know, I didn’t look overly lazy for having only completed 2 years of college. (If it counts I did get an Associates Degree – I’m not totally useless in the education department.)

I was also a good little Mormon girl so I knew that to take a socially worthwhile break I only had a couple of options. Because there are only two things that would stop a good little Mormon girl from attending college: Marriage or a Mission. Otherwise, you’d be in college looking for someone to marry… or maybe just to get an education. It really depends on the school, and if you live in Utah (or Rexburg.)

Marriage was totally out of the question. I was an active, attractive enough, 20 year old and there were SO many things I would have rather done than get married. Right then. Maybe later. But totally not then.

That left me the Mission option. Which sounded good. Living in a 3rd world country for awhile, learning some hard language and eating raw fish heads or dog meat and putting up with some other chick for 24 hours a day…. Ok, so maybe not. But there is that whole serving the Lord thing that helped. Plus, it wasn’t marriage. So a mission it would be.

Of course that also meant that I would have to come up with a bucket full of cash (a large-ish bucket.) And I had 6 months until my 21st birthday, so that gave me a chance to fill that bucket –if only somewhat. At least I was going to try. Plus, I liked money, so getting a good job was totally in the plan. (You’ll notice the past tense “liked.” It’s not that I don’t still like money, it’s just that I NEVER SEE ANY. And a long distance relationship is hard. Especially when the money that I love is distantly in someone else’s wallet….)

Back then I was working part-time in the accounting department of an internet service provider. Not that I studied anything in school that made me at all qualified to work in an accounting department. But there I was. Really there was a lot of filing and not so much to do with accounting. Plus the hours weren’t plentiful and the pay wasn’t great so I was looking for a bit something more.

I had mentioned this grand plan to an older friend of mine and guess what? It just so happened that her husband, who worked for the Forest Service, was taking applications for their summer crews – which paid a whole lot more and had awesome government benefits (like sick days……I had never before been paid to be sick and this was looking naively fabulous.)

Who cares if the job was with the Forest Service and I completely loathe being outside. Especially the kind of outside that is in the mountains with things like dirt, bugs, allergen filled plants and the major one - - NO BATHROOMS. But showers, Claritin and my exceptional pre-baby bladder holding abilities = MOOOOOOOONEY. So I applied.

But it’s a long process – you know how the government works. You have to fill out 520 papers and then wait for them to be processed through about 37 channels of people? So I filled it all out and waited until the semester was over.

During my wait, I had a splendid last few months of college. Because, PARTEEE, no more school. And during my juvenile merrymaking I met a guy. He was really funny and had cool shoes and a scooter – what’s not to like? But he wasn’t a “hey, let’s settle down and start a nice life together” type of guy. Mainly because, PARTEEEE and then pack up and move - - because, did I mention, this new job was in a completely different state? Plus, if you hadn’t already caught on – I wasn’t exactly in the “hey, let’s settle down and start a nice life together” mood back then either.

Also, during this waiting/partying period, my boss offered me a raise and more hours. (Because I must have been really good at filing.) And I also applied for a position at the local newspaper doing graphic design. Because that’s what I had been studying in school and mostly I just wanted to see if I was good enough to get the job. It turns out the newspaper interviewer lady had even heard of me and my designing prowess. (In passing, from a fellow classmate, in the form of a “hey, I know her, she’s not bad.”) So I had the job. If I had wanted it, that is.

Then I heard back from the Forest Service and my older friend offering me the job and free room and board if I helped with their kids on occasion.

I was in a pickle.


to be continued...