Judging by the amount of hair dye present in the ranks of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, I think the whole singing thing is just a cover for the fact that it's actually a support group for women who are afraid of gray hair.
I just got a flier in the mail that says, "Life's too short to clean your own house." Now I'm all depressed at the time I've wasted scrubbing toilets.
Why are the only restaurants with drive-thrus the ones that sell nothing but piles of grease? How about a drive-thru sandwich place or a drive-thru Jamba Juice?
Someone needs to inform Utah that if I have a valid out-of-state driver's license, that means I know how to drive in UTAH without taking a test again.
Last night I had a dream where I was trying to keep my kids from having meltdowns while I waited over an hour for a doctor appointment. The night before I dreamed I was in charge of some primary event and one of the kids threw up, leaving me to clean it up. Why do I dream about things I hate doing in my real life? Why can't I swim in a barrel of candy or use the clouds as a trampoline instead?
How is it that I can look in the mirror and think I look fine, but then I see a picture of myself and realize my butt must be moonlighting as a billboard somewhere?
I'm really glad Santa put coal in my mom's stocking after a particularly naughty year in her childhood. It's great to be able to point to a real person who actually got coal in her stocking.
I think I will feel a little out of place in Utah until I use a weed whacker to style my hair. Even better, a weed whacker with a little purple dye on the blades.
Who thought up the one-bulb-goes-out-the-whole-string-of-lights-goes-out concept? Honestly, people. There is nothing more irritating then searching a whole string of lights to find one uncooperative little bulb.
It is November 30th and my Christmas cards will be mailed tomorrow. I'm pretty sure that is one of the signs of the times (nestled in between "earthquakes" and "wars and rumors of wars").
How come no one ever stops by thirty seconds after I've cleaned the whole house, but thirty seconds after Michael has gotten out every toy we own and the kitchen floor looks like it was last swept in 1945, everyone feels like popping in for a visit?
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Saturday, November 13, 2010
The Family Circus: A Travelogue
5 days. 2000 miles. 3 children. And David and I only wanted to kill each other one time.
Not bad.
I thought we'd have at least one argument under our belts before we hit Nebraska, but we made it to Wyoming. With a track record like that we're thinking of signing up for the Amazing Race.
Our trip started out well in spite of the fact that we followed a car to Wegmans that was graced by the license plate "PMS 24-7." (Does that say "Marry me" or what?) We thought it best to keep to a safe following distance in case of hormonally induced road rage.
Except for a little paranoid checking for bedbugs in each of our hotel rooms, our travels remained mercifully uneventful until an overzealous automatic flush toilet in Champaign, Illinois scared Michael into a near-terminal case of constipation. For the most part he behaved admirably, limiting his whining to "Is this Nutah yet?" and "I want more chips!" though he did store up enough wiggles and restless energy to power a small country; energy which exploded in willful disobedience during lunches and we-can't-take-anymore-crying breaks.
The thing about driving from east to west is that there is nothing to look forward to. You pass the interesting parts early on, and then it is just boring. I think we were about three hours and 800 desolate-looking farms into Iowa when David dryly commented, "You know, politicians spend a lot of time and money courting this state."
After a few days of nothing to look at but windswept prairie, we started getting a little stir-crazy. This came to a head just over the Wyoming border, when, in a state of tired giddiness, we had a sudden urge to download the Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass version of "My Favorite Things." James Bond meets Oscar Hammerstein, it's strange and satisfying and addicting all at once. We bounced around like maniacs in the front seats until even Michael couldn't resist and joined us in our dorkiness.
It was about this time that David said, "Go google maps to find a mall we could stop at for a lunch break."
I dutifully pecked "maps" into the google search bar of my iphone. "Now what?" I asked.
He glanced at my phone. "I meant 'google' as a noun, not a verb," he said, rolling his eyes. As if my sentence deciphering abilities need hearing aids. I know what he said and there was no this-is-a-noun nuance present.
By the time we arrived at our new home I was nervous, carsick, and tired of correcting Michael every time he said, "Nutah." But I started to have hope that I could actually survive living here when I walked in the kitchen of our house and saw, painted on the wall, a quote by Julia Child:
"If you're afraid of butter, use cream."
Ah, home sweet home.
Not bad.
I thought we'd have at least one argument under our belts before we hit Nebraska, but we made it to Wyoming. With a track record like that we're thinking of signing up for the Amazing Race.
Our trip started out well in spite of the fact that we followed a car to Wegmans that was graced by the license plate "PMS 24-7." (Does that say "Marry me" or what?) We thought it best to keep to a safe following distance in case of hormonally induced road rage.
Except for a little paranoid checking for bedbugs in each of our hotel rooms, our travels remained mercifully uneventful until an overzealous automatic flush toilet in Champaign, Illinois scared Michael into a near-terminal case of constipation. For the most part he behaved admirably, limiting his whining to "Is this Nutah yet?" and "I want more chips!" though he did store up enough wiggles and restless energy to power a small country; energy which exploded in willful disobedience during lunches and we-can't-take-anymore-crying breaks.
The thing about driving from east to west is that there is nothing to look forward to. You pass the interesting parts early on, and then it is just boring. I think we were about three hours and 800 desolate-looking farms into Iowa when David dryly commented, "You know, politicians spend a lot of time and money courting this state."
After a few days of nothing to look at but windswept prairie, we started getting a little stir-crazy. This came to a head just over the Wyoming border, when, in a state of tired giddiness, we had a sudden urge to download the Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass version of "My Favorite Things." James Bond meets Oscar Hammerstein, it's strange and satisfying and addicting all at once. We bounced around like maniacs in the front seats until even Michael couldn't resist and joined us in our dorkiness.
It was about this time that David said, "Go google maps to find a mall we could stop at for a lunch break."
I dutifully pecked "maps" into the google search bar of my iphone. "Now what?" I asked.
He glanced at my phone. "I meant 'google' as a noun, not a verb," he said, rolling his eyes. As if my sentence deciphering abilities need hearing aids. I know what he said and there was no this-is-a-noun nuance present.
By the time we arrived at our new home I was nervous, carsick, and tired of correcting Michael every time he said, "Nutah." But I started to have hope that I could actually survive living here when I walked in the kitchen of our house and saw, painted on the wall, a quote by Julia Child:
"If you're afraid of butter, use cream."
Ah, home sweet home.
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