It's hard to believe that a girl this cute could stuff a roll of toilet paper down the sink, flood the bathroom, and smear an entire stick of butter all over the front of my kitchen cupboards, isn't it?
Yep. That's how she gets you.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Monday, July 16, 2012
Heigh Ho, Heigh Ho
David went off to work this morning a full hour earlier than usual, armed with a frown and a ziploc bag full of excedrin. After a prolonged hug and kiss at the door he said, "I'll miss you," as if he were boarding an aircraft carrier bound for Afghanistan. Then we kissed again, because, let's face it, you can never kiss too much.
In a burst of post-vacation blues combined with an uncomfortable awareness that David is back to busy season at work, at 9:00 this morning I ate an entire bar of authentic Swiss chocolate (direct from Switzerland! Thanks, EHRL!) and followed it with a swig of milk straight from the jug. Since I ate a bowl of cereal at 7:00, I figure the chocolate and milk counts as "brunch". That combined with the fact that I was being environmentally responsible by drinking directly out of the jug means I am officially not as pathetic as you think I am. Besides, none of my children saw me do it.
All right, all right. I admit to being a little pathetic. Not to mention that last night before saying our prayers, David and I were swapping less-than-flattering stories about someone we both find to be incredibly irritating. Then we bowed our heads, folded our arms, and David paused long enough to make it seem awkward before he said, "Um, you pray."
"For our souls?" I asked.
Then we laughed hysterically. This is how you know we're pathetic and we're going to hell.
Plus, I've been up for four hours now and I'm still sitting here in my bathrobe. And I just discovered that I have a hole the size of a large planet on the backside of my underwear that has very obviously been gaining size for awhile now. How I did not notice this before now, I'll never know.
As for my kids, Matthew and Leah are helping themselves to a snack from the box of cereal that is still sitting on the table and Michael is simultaneously watching Team Umizoomi and playing a game on my iphone. Luckily it's summer and I still have a good 11 hours to redeem myself as a mother before the children go to bed.
I better hurry if I want the chance to take a shower.
In a burst of post-vacation blues combined with an uncomfortable awareness that David is back to busy season at work, at 9:00 this morning I ate an entire bar of authentic Swiss chocolate (direct from Switzerland! Thanks, EHRL!) and followed it with a swig of milk straight from the jug. Since I ate a bowl of cereal at 7:00, I figure the chocolate and milk counts as "brunch". That combined with the fact that I was being environmentally responsible by drinking directly out of the jug means I am officially not as pathetic as you think I am. Besides, none of my children saw me do it.
All right, all right. I admit to being a little pathetic. Not to mention that last night before saying our prayers, David and I were swapping less-than-flattering stories about someone we both find to be incredibly irritating. Then we bowed our heads, folded our arms, and David paused long enough to make it seem awkward before he said, "Um, you pray."
"For our souls?" I asked.
Then we laughed hysterically. This is how you know we're pathetic and we're going to hell.
Plus, I've been up for four hours now and I'm still sitting here in my bathrobe. And I just discovered that I have a hole the size of a large planet on the backside of my underwear that has very obviously been gaining size for awhile now. How I did not notice this before now, I'll never know.
As for my kids, Matthew and Leah are helping themselves to a snack from the box of cereal that is still sitting on the table and Michael is simultaneously watching Team Umizoomi and playing a game on my iphone. Luckily it's summer and I still have a good 11 hours to redeem myself as a mother before the children go to bed.
I better hurry if I want the chance to take a shower.
Friday, July 6, 2012
Matthew's Science Experiment
Supplies Needed:
1 freezer
$100 worth of food
1 on/off button or knob
1 small boy who likes buttons and knobs:
Step by step instructions:
* Go out to the garage
* Grab your scooter and head toward the back door so your mom thinks you are going in the backyard to play
* Once she goes back into the house, open the freezer
* Turn control knob to "off"
* Shut freezer door so she doesn't know you were in there
* Return about a week later to check progress:
Most interesting findings:
* Rhodes Rolls actually explode through the bag when thawed (those are the rolls all over the bottom shelf and in the door).
* Chicken juices are not contained even by vacuum-packing.
Total damage:
6 lbs. of spoiled chicken
4 lbs. of bacon
4 lbs. of butter
3 lbs. of ready-to-eat shredded pork (that I painstakingly slow-cooked last week)
60 frozen rolls
6 containers of homemade jam
Frozen spinach, Healthy Choice Fudge Bars, and Skinny Cow ice cream sandwiches
Sigh. Oh well. I've been meaning to defrost the freezer anyway.
1 freezer
$100 worth of food
1 on/off button or knob
1 small boy who likes buttons and knobs:
Step by step instructions:
* Go out to the garage
* Grab your scooter and head toward the back door so your mom thinks you are going in the backyard to play
* Once she goes back into the house, open the freezer
* Turn control knob to "off"
* Shut freezer door so she doesn't know you were in there
* Return about a week later to check progress:
Most interesting findings:
* Rhodes Rolls actually explode through the bag when thawed (those are the rolls all over the bottom shelf and in the door).
* Chicken juices are not contained even by vacuum-packing.
Total damage:
6 lbs. of spoiled chicken
4 lbs. of bacon
4 lbs. of butter
3 lbs. of ready-to-eat shredded pork (that I painstakingly slow-cooked last week)
60 frozen rolls
6 containers of homemade jam
Frozen spinach, Healthy Choice Fudge Bars, and Skinny Cow ice cream sandwiches
Sigh. Oh well. I've been meaning to defrost the freezer anyway.
Monday, July 2, 2012
Cher's Underwear Problem
Music icon and fashion horror story, Cher, has a problem with underwear. Not hers, of course (nor the fact that she often mistakes hers as outerwear). With Mitt Romney's. Because his underthings are ultra weird and scary -- pssst! Romney thinks his underwear is magic!!
Behold, her twittery wisdom:
"I Feel if he [Obama] doesn't get all his DUCKS IN A ROW we'll b forced 2 listen 2Uncaring Richy Rich! The whitest man in MAGIC UNDERWEAR in the WH!"
Maybe it's just me, but I don't think Cher is the right one to be pointing fingers here. I mean, if anyone's underwear looks like it is about to sprout wings and start shouting, "Expelliarmus!" it's Cher's. Not to mention the other glaring ironies - that she not only happens to be white, but according to Forbes Magazine, she is richer than the old GOP devil himself, by upwards of $55 million.
But, she cares, so I guess that's the difference. (Celebrities: they may not know what they are talking about, but they "care.")
Well, I hate to disappoint you, Cher, but Mitt Romney's underwear isn't magic. And if you were to suggest such a thing to his face, I think he might manage to unzip his business-like demeanor long enough to give you a hearty guffaw. He might even snort a little. I mean, for heaven's sake, magic underwear? Really?
Yes, many members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (myself included) wear what are called "garments" underneath their regular clothing. It's simply a reminder of promises they have made to God in temples.
But I realize that such a boring and reasonable explanation would defeat the purpose of making Romney look like a backwards religious nutcase, and I hate to spoil your party, so I'll let you get back to your "tolerant" and "understanding" ways.
Right after I make fun of this outfit. Honestly, Cher, what were you thinking?
Behold, her twittery wisdom:
"I Feel if he [Obama] doesn't get all his DUCKS IN A ROW we'll b forced 2 listen 2Uncaring Richy Rich! The whitest man in MAGIC UNDERWEAR in the WH!"
Maybe it's just me, but I don't think Cher is the right one to be pointing fingers here. I mean, if anyone's underwear looks like it is about to sprout wings and start shouting, "Expelliarmus!" it's Cher's. Not to mention the other glaring ironies - that she not only happens to be white, but according to Forbes Magazine, she is richer than the old GOP devil himself, by upwards of $55 million.
But, she cares, so I guess that's the difference. (Celebrities: they may not know what they are talking about, but they "care.")
Well, I hate to disappoint you, Cher, but Mitt Romney's underwear isn't magic. And if you were to suggest such a thing to his face, I think he might manage to unzip his business-like demeanor long enough to give you a hearty guffaw. He might even snort a little. I mean, for heaven's sake, magic underwear? Really?
Yes, many members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (myself included) wear what are called "garments" underneath their regular clothing. It's simply a reminder of promises they have made to God in temples.
But I realize that such a boring and reasonable explanation would defeat the purpose of making Romney look like a backwards religious nutcase, and I hate to spoil your party, so I'll let you get back to your "tolerant" and "understanding" ways.
Right after I make fun of this outfit. Honestly, Cher, what were you thinking?
Monday, June 25, 2012
For Love of Unicorns
Jennifer Nagy, writing for the Huffington Post, is on a mission. Unhappy and divorced at the age of 29, she wants a law instated that will prevent couples from getting married before the age of 25.
Her reasoning? She married at 24 and it didn't work out. Therefore, every couple who climbs aboard the marriage boat before the age of 25 will find themselves wanting to jump ship before long. It's simple math: since A+B = divorce, so does C+D or X+Y or Q+Z. Obviously.
Grumpily, she acknowledges that some couples might marry young and make it last, but then adds, "Maybe there is such a thing as fairies and unicorns too."
My, what miserable people she must surround herself with.
Having been surrounded by "fairies and unicorns" my entire life, I could cite personal experience that proves the opposite of her theory. In my family and circle of friends, the majority were married under the age of 25, and the vast majority of those are still together and still happy.
But the fact is that age is not the issue here. (Does she really think turning 25 would have caused her to undergo the magical transformation from immature dope to unicorn?) She reveals the real issues when she says of meeting her ex, "I was enjoying the freedom of drinking and partying legally for the first time...", "I was perfectly happy to let him take control of my life," and "I had no idea who I was or what I wanted in my life."
That isn't an issue of age, but of selfishness and immaturity, neither of which is likely to diminish when one spends her time devoted to partying in bars and reveling in freedom from responsibility.
I married at the age of 19. I was still a teenager, and yet I knew exactly who I was and what I wanted out of life. That doesn't mean all the details were filled in, nor do they have to be -- you might go into a marriage thinking you want 10 kids, but then, when reality trumps idealized dreaming, you realize you are happier with two. Or you might go into it thinking you want to be a stay-at-home mom, but then realize you need the outlet of a full-time job. Not everything needs to be laid out exactly so for the next 70 years. But, when a solid foundation is there, when you and your spouse are on the same page concerning the essentials (commitment to God and to each other) the rest is just details.
David and I have been very happily married for 11 years. There has not been a single day where we have not said, "I love you" and meant it. There has not been a single day where I have regretted marrying him or where I didn't feel grateful for him. And as for "finding yourself," what better way to do that then hand-in-hand with your biggest supporter and truest friend?
Unicorns and fairies are everywhere, Ms. Nagy. You just have to know where to look.
Her reasoning? She married at 24 and it didn't work out. Therefore, every couple who climbs aboard the marriage boat before the age of 25 will find themselves wanting to jump ship before long. It's simple math: since A+B = divorce, so does C+D or X+Y or Q+Z. Obviously.
Grumpily, she acknowledges that some couples might marry young and make it last, but then adds, "Maybe there is such a thing as fairies and unicorns too."
My, what miserable people she must surround herself with.
Having been surrounded by "fairies and unicorns" my entire life, I could cite personal experience that proves the opposite of her theory. In my family and circle of friends, the majority were married under the age of 25, and the vast majority of those are still together and still happy.
But the fact is that age is not the issue here. (Does she really think turning 25 would have caused her to undergo the magical transformation from immature dope to unicorn?) She reveals the real issues when she says of meeting her ex, "I was enjoying the freedom of drinking and partying legally for the first time...", "I was perfectly happy to let him take control of my life," and "I had no idea who I was or what I wanted in my life."
That isn't an issue of age, but of selfishness and immaturity, neither of which is likely to diminish when one spends her time devoted to partying in bars and reveling in freedom from responsibility.
I married at the age of 19. I was still a teenager, and yet I knew exactly who I was and what I wanted out of life. That doesn't mean all the details were filled in, nor do they have to be -- you might go into a marriage thinking you want 10 kids, but then, when reality trumps idealized dreaming, you realize you are happier with two. Or you might go into it thinking you want to be a stay-at-home mom, but then realize you need the outlet of a full-time job. Not everything needs to be laid out exactly so for the next 70 years. But, when a solid foundation is there, when you and your spouse are on the same page concerning the essentials (commitment to God and to each other) the rest is just details.
David and I have been very happily married for 11 years. There has not been a single day where we have not said, "I love you" and meant it. There has not been a single day where I have regretted marrying him or where I didn't feel grateful for him. And as for "finding yourself," what better way to do that then hand-in-hand with your biggest supporter and truest friend?
Unicorns and fairies are everywhere, Ms. Nagy. You just have to know where to look.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Talking Dirty
I hate camping.
My husband's family loves it. For some inexplicable reason they like vacations that involve tents and dirt and scary hole-in-the-ground potties. They also don't deteriorate like I do. On day one all of my sisters-in-law show up to camp looking perfect. After three days of campfires and hiking and no showers, they all look exactly the same. I, on the other hand, start out looking somewhat decent (by virtue of the fact that my mascara hasn't worn off yet), and by day three I have deteriorated into a grimy pile of stringy hair and bad skin that would frighten Medusa herself. Not to mention the smell.
Then there is the whole getting-ready-to-go-camping thing. This is a process wherein you spend five days packing up your entire house so that you can take it outside and get it all dirty. Then, once you arrive at the campsite, you do everything you do at home, only it's 10 times harder and about 1000 times as unsanitary.
Add to this the prospect of taking along two toddlers, one of whom asks for his clothes to be washed any time he gets so much as a speck of dust on his shirt, and both of whom need to use the potty every five minutes, and you have a recipe that doesn't sound anything like "family fun".
So, forgive me, but I wasn't exactly looking forward to the whole camping thing. Don't get me wrong, I don't hate every single thing about camping. (I like a fire-roasted smore as much as the next girl). But discovering that my air mattress has a leak would be a lot less annoying if I were doing the camp-on-my-family-room floor thing. Also less annoying? The waking-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night-to-pee thing. I mean, unless bladder rupture is imminent, there is no way I'm getting out of my sleeping bag to hike in the pitch black, freezing cold to the hole-in-the-ground potty (do you know what is down there?!). Besides, being out in the middle of nowhere in the dead of night creeps me out. You never know what is lurking behind a bush. (I prefer the suburban security of knowing that if a serial killer gets to me, at least the neighbors will hear my screaming).
But, camp we did. Matthew only asked me to change his clothes about 75 times (at one point he even complained that his shoes were dirty). Matthew and Leah smartly eschewed the scary camp toilets for the pink froggy potty, which was resurrected specifically for the trip. I hiked for three hours with Matthew on my back, which is quite an achievement when you consider how pathetically out-of-shape I am. And Michael spent his time getting as dirty as humanly possible.
Verdict? The kids had a blast with their cousins. We enjoyed spending time with family. And I might have smiled to myself a time or two as I cuddled Matthew and Leah next to the campfire.
Don't tell anyone, okay?
My husband's family loves it. For some inexplicable reason they like vacations that involve tents and dirt and scary hole-in-the-ground potties. They also don't deteriorate like I do. On day one all of my sisters-in-law show up to camp looking perfect. After three days of campfires and hiking and no showers, they all look exactly the same. I, on the other hand, start out looking somewhat decent (by virtue of the fact that my mascara hasn't worn off yet), and by day three I have deteriorated into a grimy pile of stringy hair and bad skin that would frighten Medusa herself. Not to mention the smell.
Then there is the whole getting-ready-to-go-camping thing. This is a process wherein you spend five days packing up your entire house so that you can take it outside and get it all dirty. Then, once you arrive at the campsite, you do everything you do at home, only it's 10 times harder and about 1000 times as unsanitary.
Add to this the prospect of taking along two toddlers, one of whom asks for his clothes to be washed any time he gets so much as a speck of dust on his shirt, and both of whom need to use the potty every five minutes, and you have a recipe that doesn't sound anything like "family fun".
So, forgive me, but I wasn't exactly looking forward to the whole camping thing. Don't get me wrong, I don't hate every single thing about camping. (I like a fire-roasted smore as much as the next girl). But discovering that my air mattress has a leak would be a lot less annoying if I were doing the camp-on-my-family-room floor thing. Also less annoying? The waking-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night-to-pee thing. I mean, unless bladder rupture is imminent, there is no way I'm getting out of my sleeping bag to hike in the pitch black, freezing cold to the hole-in-the-ground potty (do you know what is down there?!). Besides, being out in the middle of nowhere in the dead of night creeps me out. You never know what is lurking behind a bush. (I prefer the suburban security of knowing that if a serial killer gets to me, at least the neighbors will hear my screaming).
But, camp we did. Matthew only asked me to change his clothes about 75 times (at one point he even complained that his shoes were dirty). Matthew and Leah smartly eschewed the scary camp toilets for the pink froggy potty, which was resurrected specifically for the trip. I hiked for three hours with Matthew on my back, which is quite an achievement when you consider how pathetically out-of-shape I am. And Michael spent his time getting as dirty as humanly possible.
Verdict? The kids had a blast with their cousins. We enjoyed spending time with family. And I might have smiled to myself a time or two as I cuddled Matthew and Leah next to the campfire.
Don't tell anyone, okay?
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Death to Exercise
You know how there are people who love to exercise? And not only do they love to exercise, they like to tell you that you should love to exercise too.
THEM: "I feel so invigorated after a run! Don't you just feel great after a good workout?"
ME: "I'm sorry, I didn't hear what you said. I was busy plotting ways to kill you."
For the record, this is how I feel after a workout:
Tired
Grouchy
Depressed
Sore
Which is why, when someone posted on their Facebook wall the "inspirational" quote that is constantly making the rounds through the in-shape population -- "No one has said, 'I regret that work out.' Ever." -- I actually snorted through my nose.
Every time I get off the treadmill I'm like, "I totally wish I'd spent that half-hour sleeping instead."
Oh, I know, it's supposed to get better. But when 'better' means 'you'll be able to do something you hate doing for a longer period of time", I gotta say, I think I'll pass.
I mean, if I can live till I am 85 through a strict regimen of exercise and copious celery ingestion OR I can live till I'm 80 and spend lots of time on the couch, eating cookies, sorry, I think I'll pick the second one.
Of course, I did have the buttons pop off of two pairs of shorts in one day last week. (In hindsight, I probably shouldn't have bought that Costco-sized box of 175 peppermint patties "to save money"). But I can comfort myself with the thought that I won't be the first to die if there is a famine.
Besides, I once read that people who get a "high" from exercise are more emotionally unstable than those of us for whom exercise serves the same function as bamboo shoots under the fingernails. Yeah, exercise does all sorts of fancy things like "improve cognitive function" and "enhance metabolic processes" but who cares about that when there are brownies to be eaten? I mean, talk about improving cognitive function. Hand me a brownie and I'll suddenly recall the location of every single gram of sugar in my house.
I'd like to see an exercise fanatic do that.
THEM: "I feel so invigorated after a run! Don't you just feel great after a good workout?"
ME: "I'm sorry, I didn't hear what you said. I was busy plotting ways to kill you."
For the record, this is how I feel after a workout:
Tired
Grouchy
Depressed
Sore
Which is why, when someone posted on their Facebook wall the "inspirational" quote that is constantly making the rounds through the in-shape population -- "No one has said, 'I regret that work out.' Ever." -- I actually snorted through my nose.
Every time I get off the treadmill I'm like, "I totally wish I'd spent that half-hour sleeping instead."
Oh, I know, it's supposed to get better. But when 'better' means 'you'll be able to do something you hate doing for a longer period of time", I gotta say, I think I'll pass.
I mean, if I can live till I am 85 through a strict regimen of exercise and copious celery ingestion OR I can live till I'm 80 and spend lots of time on the couch, eating cookies, sorry, I think I'll pick the second one.
Of course, I did have the buttons pop off of two pairs of shorts in one day last week. (In hindsight, I probably shouldn't have bought that Costco-sized box of 175 peppermint patties "to save money"). But I can comfort myself with the thought that I won't be the first to die if there is a famine.
Besides, I once read that people who get a "high" from exercise are more emotionally unstable than those of us for whom exercise serves the same function as bamboo shoots under the fingernails. Yeah, exercise does all sorts of fancy things like "improve cognitive function" and "enhance metabolic processes" but who cares about that when there are brownies to be eaten? I mean, talk about improving cognitive function. Hand me a brownie and I'll suddenly recall the location of every single gram of sugar in my house.
I'd like to see an exercise fanatic do that.
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