Mothering Moments: Good Parenting

Being a mother is hard work. There's the long hours, breaking up fights, constantly picking up, endless laundry, and meals to prepare. Not to mention very little pay, unless you shun cash and prefer crayon artwork on your walls, "shared" sticky candy, and someone eating all the Little Debbie's so you don't ruin your diet. You are supposed to mold them into decent human beings and guide their path as best you can. Being a mom is not for the faint-hearted.

But every now and then, a brief spark of happiness shines through, and all the stretch marks and mom jeans are worth it. I had one of those rare glimpses one Saturday while the kids were watching Harry Potter: The Prisoner of Azkaban. This conversation testified that I am doing the very best for my kids.

Baby: Why is Doctor Who in Harry Potter?

Boo: Because he's playing the bad guy.

Baby: Doctor Who is not a bad guy! He's the Doctor!

(Baby proceeds to be indignant about her sister's claims while Boo attempts to explain the concept of actors.)

Isn't being a mother great?

It's Finally Ironic!

Remember that song by Alanis Morissette called? She named it "Ironic" when really it was full of things that were really just rather unfortunate, not actually ironic. I tried explain this to my friends as they screamed the lyrics in the car. They didn't listen. Such is the plight of the grammar dork.

Then I saw this link on Facebook (thanks, Brent and Grammar Girl!). 

Finally! The song is now ironic! (even if the singing is not so great…)

Devouring Lies

I don't get to watch much live television any more. Usually, I record my shows and watch them while the kids are at school or after their bedtime. Also means I get to skip the commercials. I tune out the shows that feature unsupervised children or animated pigs. So when a show was on one Saturday afternoon without a cartoon character in sight, I let it have my attention for a bit. And now, I wish I could go back to those idealistic days of innocence from before watching that particular episode.

Here is a short version of what I learned in that fateful 30 minutes:

Did you see that? Baby carrots are made, not grown. They start out as regular carrots, but get chopped and peeled down to that perfectly munchable size. It's like I don't even know what is real any more. Next time I take a break on a Saturday, I'll learn that fuzzy Martians don't eat oatmeal.

Honesty is the Best Policy

Honesty really is the best policy in a marriage. Especially since your kids are going to rat you out anyway.

The other day, I was away from home and the Man was spending some quality time with the kids when one of them said a word not permitted in our home. Immediately, the Man correcting the rule-breaker. Deciding to use the opportunity as a lesson, he asked them "Do you ever hear Mommy and Daddy saying those words?"

Instead of the emphatic "No" response, the kids had a different story.

"Mommy said a bad word."

What? Concealing the shock of a suspected imperfection in my otherwise flawless character (had to try hard not to snort while typing that), the Man questioned them further.

When? "The other day when we were going to the Boy's piano lesson."
Where? "In the garage."

While soaking this in, the kids added the final blow. "She said it when she broke the mirror off the van backing out of the garage."

Busted.

It's been so cold around here that things have been snapping left and right, like the edge on the snow shovel, an outdoor planter, my temper…so when I told the Man that my passenger side mirror had broken off (again), he had no cause to question further. Until the kids told him the entire story.

And really, I ought to know better than to attempt anything other than the complete truth around here. After all, my memory is so sketchy that I might just forget what falsehood I've spread. It's just easier to stick to the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Please help me...

My Jagged Little Pills

I'm not good with prescription medication. Seems like I never have the expected results or side-effects. When I had a transplant, the doctor gave me an anti-rejection pill that would let my body accept the new addition. There weren't supposed to be any side-effects to speak of. So of course I developed boils. I still get them. And it pretty much sucks as bad as you think it would.

On this blog, I've frequently discussed my experiences with happy pills and how they don't always work like they should. My doctor was rather boggled by recent reactions, insisting that she'd never seen anything like this before. Well, my mother always told me I was special.

And painkillers are rarely as annihilating as their name would suggest, although I do see some pretty freaky light trails...while still writhing in pain. Unfortunately, while I was admiring the whitish beams my fingers were making, Boo picked that moment to come and talk to me. Just like her mother, Boo talks with her hands. Finally, I had to ask her to stop moving her hands so much because the light trails were getting too blurry. As any non-medicated person would be, she was perplexed. I attempted to show the difference by having her watch the light emitted from her little fingertips, then try to find the same reaction in the oscillating fan on the other side of the room.

Me: See? No light trails.
Boo: Uh, Mom? Are you feeling okay?
Me: I think it's because the fan isn't alive.
Boo: …
Me: Would you go catch me a spider? I want to see if it has a light trail.

Boo left the room but she didn't go hunt down a spider. I muttered at her lack of faith.
Instead, she brought me her hamster, Peanut.

(And yes, he had light trails.)




* Make sure you come back to see me on Monday. I'm interviewing a fabulous YA author and offering her books in a giveaway!

Don't Step On My Cerulean-Hued, Non-Animal Skin Shoes!

Source

I've already admitted my utter lack of skill in the fashion department, especially when it comes to shoes. Nearly two years later, I haven't changed (although I now own a pair of adorable red heels!). Currently, I am on pair #6 of the same utilitarian black loafers because I wear them with everything. I'd rather stick with what works because by the time I join in on a trend, it's usually long over.

Honest, I really tried to care about shoes! I spent far too much money on an adorable pair of embroidered shoes that I had coveted (yes, coveted, as in "committing the sin of envy") for months. And? I've never worn them. I have a different pair of shoes that are nearly the same color that I opt for instead. Why? No idea. Maybe because the uglier shoes would give me better traction in case I have to run from zombies.

Then, in preparation for my cruise (which I never blogged about because I am a total slacker), I got two new pairs of shoes. Both are open-toed wedges, which I picked because I wanted heels ('cuz I'm short) but didn't want to wear stilettos on the beach. "Stuck" is not a good look. Now, the black pair has become my go-to shoe, taking the place of my trusty loafers. They are higher heels than I usually wear but they're just fun to walk in. I don't trip over my feet or stumble nearly as often as I do in heels. And? Random strangers give me compliments on them. For a chubby white lady who usually has had a kid smear something on her clothes which she then wears out in public because she hasn't noticed, compliments are pretty scarce.

So I stroll along, completing my errands in my cute shoes. I usually don't notice how much my feet hurt until I've been sitting down for a moment (a rare event with three kids to entertain during the summers months). But boy howdy, the shoes turn from pretty to painful after a couple hours. I tried inserts from Dr Scholl's but they won't stick to the shoes and keep flopping out. I found one in my daughter's doll house, being used as a carpet. I've decided that limping really takes the swing out of my swagger.

Also? There should be a law against gorgeous, tall, slim women being allowed to wear sky-high heels around us short, frumpy types. Even my Super Sexy Goddess boots just can't compare.

Friday Confessional: I am Dork, Hear me Roar

I confess...

I am a dork.

I've known about my dorkiness since junior high, when I first started watching Doctor Who episodes with my older siblings. Aliens are cool. So are bow ties.

I confess...

I denied my dorkside for years, all through high school, where I giggled over episodes of MTVs The Real World when secretly, I just wanted to read the latest Dragonlance or Xanth novel.

It wasn't until college that I truly embraced who I was. So what if I liked British humor and found Monty Python and the Holy Grail hysterical? So what if I read books about magic or vampires (before they were all sparkly and angsty)? And so what if my favorite movie is futuristic eye candy featuring Bruce Willis falling for a perfect, engineered woman? I love that movie!

I confess...

Sometimes, I still try to hide my dorkiness, but then I just come across as kinda annoying. I'm much better at being myself.

I confess...

I've learned that not everyone likes dorky stuff. That's fine. I don't always like trendy stuff (like ginoromous flower headbands on babies). But I'll still hang out with you.

Besides, more people need to drop the things that don't make them happy and embrace their inner dork. There's nothing wrong with dorks. There are a lot more of us anyway.

Teacher from the Yellow and Blue Lagoon

When I was in elementary school, I had very memorable teachers. Mrs. Bott taught me two different years: first grade and then again in third. She was loud and funny and got us excited when there was something new to learn. Mr. Moyle was my first experience with favoritism. Mrs. Smith turned my interest to theater and drama, something I would pursue through high school. Mrs. Colby was one of the most popular teachers, but for me, I'll always remember the time she went around the table during our after-school group meeting, belittling each and every one of us. She called me a liar. I wasn't. Mrs. Maske was the mean one, the teacher that glared and yelled and was just generally disappointed in our behavior. In fact, one of her glares stopped my hiccups cold. True story.

With hindsight working for me, I realized Mrs. Maske was one of the better teachers, where I felt like I really learned best in her class. But at the time, all we talked about was how mean she could be. She was very strict and rarely seemed to smile. Misbehavior was speedily and harshly punished, including time spent in the hallway (where the principal would see you and come over to discuss your mistakes) or missing out on recess. Mrs. Maske taught science to my fifth grade class and we were always plotting something to "get back" at her. Those plots fell through or we completely chickened out. Then came the day when I was continually patted on the back for the best executed prank of the year.

Since science was taught at the very end of the day, it was a time when we were most antsy, especially during good weather. Punishments abounded. My plan formed early one afternoon. We quickly organized, spreading the word during after-lunch recess and reminders whispered on our way into the classroom. Mrs. Maske would make her entrance later, after everyone was seated. My clever plan was to have everyone in the class do something really annoying, all at the same time so just one person wouldn't get in trouble. Kinda like everyone dropping their pencil but much, much grander. Instead of clattering writing instruments, we all sat with our hands on our desks, twiddling our thumbs! Genius, I tell you! Her head would explode with frustration at our antics! This was going to be awesome...

Moments before her arrival, everyone was in on the plan, even the kids that never did anything out of line. Thumbs twiddling like the windmills of freedom of expression.

Mrs Maske walked in the door and to the front of the room. The room was silent, except for the daring movements of our posable digits. Her bugged eyes swept the room as she picked up the chalk, preparing to begin the lesson outline on the board. The chalk faltered mid-word.

"I just can't do this," Mrs. Maske declared, turning to face her new oppressors.

We smiled in triumph, snickers breaking out as we anticipated the rant of anger that would be unleashed.

"You all are so quiet and well behaved!" She continued. "I can't let such good attitudes go unrewarded. Instead of class, you can go out to the playground."

Jaws dropped and thumbs halted. She was giving us...an extra recess? Sunshine and fresh air instead of lessons on plant cell division? And she wasn't...angry? Chairs scraped on worn linoleum and shoes scurried for the door before the teacher could realize her mistake.

What I thought would be an eyeball-smoking scene of naughty kids, ended up looking like smiling faces, hands quietly folded on desks, eagerly awaiting new knowledge and an improved future. She never even noticed the thumbs.

Tell me about one of your memorable teachers!

We Want To Know - even if I am a day late

So this was supposed to go up yesterday but I wanted to post Boo's photo instead and since I'm the boss, I get to do what I want. Hmmm...I think I need another piece of fudge before continuing this post...hehehehehe...

Okay, now on to the questions!

{1} If the blogging world had a talent show, what would your act be?

Going days without posting and causing my readers to lose interest. Alright, I'll be serious. I'd have to show off my cakes first. Then maybe I'd regale you with my endless supply of knock-knock jokes.

{2} What's the most likely reason you might become famous?
Honestly, my fame would probably come from having hiccups for ten months straight or being the innocently oblivious bystander that gets hit in the face with the game ball. Really, I'd like to one day be known -- if not famous -- for my published writing, but only if it's the good kind of famous.

{3} What question are you repeatedly asked that you are tired of hearing?
"Are they twins?" I get asked this nearly every time I have Boo and Boy together out in public. And no, they're not twins; they're 2 1/2 years apart. They definitely look like they're closely related because -- and here's the shocker! -- they ARE!

{4} What's the last thing you broke?
A nail. This morning. On my toothbrush. Talented, I know.

{5} Finish this sentence. I can't believe I used to ________.
Line dance. It wasn't just the line dancing but the wearing of tight jeans, boots, and such out in public while performing these atrocities against polite society. The Texas heat can do crazy things to a person.

Answer one of these questions in the comment! (Or make fun or mine...whichever...)

Nothing Rhymes With Orange

Sometimes I get in these weird moods...where I just have to do something completely silly, like make up rules for a created holiday or go to the midnight showing of a teen movie while eight months pregnant. Just crazy.

The other night, I decided to make buffalo wings for dinner. Don't get all excited - I totally cheated and used the ones from Costco. I pulled a bag of carrots out of the fridge to serve and then reached for a box of gelatin (so the Boy wouldn't completely starve). I picked the orange flavor. Setting all the options on the table, I giggled...then I added a bowl of baby oranges.

The kids loved it and it was almost entirely unintentional.

Now they want me to serve them a blue dinner. Hrmm...blue food. Blueberry pancakes, blue yogurt (easy enough to color the vanilla flavor). Maybe I could soak some pear halves overnight but that is just too much food coloring. Might need to re-read some Percy Jackson books to see what blue foods his mother served him on his birthday.

What suggestions do you have for blue food?

Boo Hoo

Sometimes, I take things a little too personally. A random comment (or lack of comment) can leave me deflated for days. Perhaps the person totally did not mean it that way; it's just my low self-esteem filling in the blanks. I'll mope around, eat a little too much chocolate, and just generally feel sorry for myself and the wretch that I've become, while the person - or as I like to refer to them, the super big meanie dummy head - had no clue that anything is other than as it should be.

Anyway...

Our family moved to this lovely community seven years ago. The following autumn, I started a fun little game. You might have heard of it. It's call a Boo. Or a Halloween Phantom. I'd print up a cutesy poem explaining that they had just been "boo'd" and now it was their turn to find another family to give anonymous treats to, thereby spreading the fun and calories around. The first year, I really made an effort. I got a trick-or-treating bucket, filled it with candy, homemade cookies, and a couple decorations. I cackled with glee every time I passed that house and saw the little ghost in the window, indicating that the house had already been boo'd. More of those little ghosts began to haunt the neighborhood! It was really cool to see my game spread. However, I couldn't help but notice, when skeletons were reburied in storage and the sugar buzz wore off, we didn't get a ghost.

The next year, I sent around two buckets, slightly toned down, as it might be intimidating to continue my awesomeness. Our neighborhood was growing and there were more people to share in my game. Same poem, same picture. Same results. Nobody boo'd us.

I carried on the tradition for two more years, always secretly hoping that every after-dark ring of the door bell would bring a ghost bearing a plate of goodies. It gets hard. The rejection starts to get personal when it happens so many years in a row. I wondered why we were never picked (was I too short? maybe too awesome? were we really part of some form of the Truman Show and my little game wasn't figured into the script and no one was allowed to contact us?). So I stopped. The past two years, I didn't try. I saw ghosts going up in windows so I knew someone else had picked up the torch, but they didn't pick us.

Tuesday night, it came: an almost-bedtime ring of the doorbell. A tinfoil covered plate of love sitting on our steps, with instructions on how to continue the game. I tried not to cry. It was finally my turn, like being asked to sit with the cool kids at lunch. Such a small thing, really. Nothing that would ruffle anyone else's feathers but to me...that ghost in my window is like a seal of approval that I've applied for year after year and was denied. But not this year.

Too Cool For Me

Why is it that whenever I see a guy riding a motorcycle that looks like this:

I always think of this:

Anyone else see it that way?

Party Pooper

Hey, I've got a dilemma and am having a heck of a time making a decision. Care to weigh in on it?

Da Boo's birthday is fast approaching. She decides a year in advance what the theme will be and then insists on discussing ideas for her party on a weekly basis. And believe me, I wish that last statement was an exaggeration. It is not. This year, since her birthday is so very close to October 31st, she decided she wanted a Halloween party. Cool. I love Halloween.

Now, here's the problem. Halloween is on a Sunday this year. We don't, as a family rule, have friend parties on Sundays. Breaking that rule just this once is not possible. Ain't gonna happen (we Mormons are hard-headed like that). So that's Factor #1.

Factor #2 is the fact that I am Goddess of the Activities for my church (or Ward Activities Chair, for those of you in on the lingo). I have to plan, prepare, and pull-off four activities per year with an average attendance of 250 people. Not an easy task. The Fall event -- already scheduled and half-planned with other committees contributing -- is set for the Friday before Halloween. Since I will already be going half crazy from the ward event, I cannot, for the love of sanity, mix Boo's party into the same weekend. That takes out a Friday or Saturday party. (And let's be honest, Thursday's gone, too.)

So maybe I just have it earlier; like the weekend before or maybe sooner that week. However, I, like many of my mom friends, usually do not have the kids' costumes completely finished this far in advance. Do I have it early and risk some kids not coming because they don't have an outfit yet? There's Factor #3.

Boo's actual birthday is just a day or two after Halloween. So here's the dilemma you've all been waiting for: I've considered holding the party on her actual birthday. Would this be totally lame? Would the costumes already be stashed away? Too much of a candy overload? Put yourself in the parent-role of a child invited to a Halloween costume party after Halloween and tell me what you would think.

Eye of the Beholder

I have a few fears and phobias. I hate basements...especially at night. I don't like feet on me (but have a complete double standard on that and I insist on putting my cold feet on the Man's warm legs). The thought of fish touching me absolutely terrifies me. Hey, never said I was rational.

But don't even discuss touching my eyes. I think it started with with movie "Fire in the Sky." It's about alien abduction. In one scene, they show some of the experiments the alleged aliens performed on their victims. It involves the guy's head held still, eyelid pried open, and a very, very long needle. Makes my eyes water just thinking about it.

Then there was that kid in my high school...he left his contact lenses in for three weeks straight -- this was before you were supposed to do that ('cuz I'm old) -- and had to have them surgically removed. It's one of the big reasons why I'm very grateful for my good eyesight, which does not require me to wear glasses, much less contacts. Also why I don't encourage the Man to trade in his specs. I don't think I could handle watching him put in contacts and take them out. Ugh...shivers my spine when I imagine that. But with two kids in glasses and most likely a third one, I don't think I'll dodge that bullet much longer.

Okay, so what's my point? Before I go on and on about trying to take better care of myself, make more of an effort, blah blah blah, I'll cut to the chase: I got an eyelash curler. I've never used one before. Never had one used on me, either. Not even in the infamous Glamour Shots. And frankly, I have no idea how to use it.

Do I use the curler after mascara or before? Maybe between coats? How long do I hold it there? Seriously, how long? After a few seconds, my eye starts to twitch and I begin to wonder if I might accidentally rip off all my lashes. Someone please tell me that can't actually happen...I think I'd rather be abducted by aliens than be lashless.

600 Zombies

Lately, it seems like zombies are already taking over the world. Or at least my world. And since I am the center of the universe, it affects everyone. And really, if there was a zombie invasion, wouldn't you want to know about it?

Innocently enough, it started with Facebook. One day, we might discover that the fall of mankind began with a status update, but in my case, it was flair. Flair is a collection of clever/funny/mushy/serious images and sayings in the shape of buttons. Like those you might wear on your rainbow-colored suspenders. I found one that was clever and cute and oh so innocent:

Things started to snowball from there.

I read "The Forest of Hands and Teeth" by Carrie Ryan while we were camping down in Moab...causing me to have zombie-induced nightmares the entire trip.

As if wiggling in a sleeping bag out in the middle of the wilderness isn't enough, reading about a girl running through the wilderness being chased by zombies isn't conducive to a good night's sleep. I liked the story, but because of the nightmares, I won't read the sequel. At least, not unless it's full daylight outside, all access points to my house are barricaded, and I can hold a baseball bat in my free hand.

Then my favorite radio station recently fired all the djs and now only plays 90s music. So I've heard the Cranberries' "Zombie" quite a bit lately. A teenaged acquaintance was horrified that I didn't know Rob Zombie's music. And after listening to it, I think I was better off oblivious.

Sadly, one of my favorite Twilight-themed blogs went dormant but I still like to peruse the entries. The last post? One that explains how Edward wouldn't be nearly as desirable if he were one of the living dead. True enough. As if sparkling wasn't enough of a turn-off, attempting to eat my brains during a make-out session would definitely kill the moment.

One of my can't-decide-if-I-really-like-it-but-I-can't-stop-watching movies is Shaun of the Dead.

Thinking this was a silly comedy, I made the mistake of trying to watch this while the Man was out of town. At night. With no viable weapons in the house (we don't own a Cricket bat) and surrounded by plate glass windows just begging to be smashed by decaying limbs.

Now, I see zombies everywhere...in other books, casual mentions on tv, otherwise innocent conversations, and even in the mirror when I have to wake up extra early to get the kids ready for the Fourth of July parade. It's inevitable. The zombies are coming.

The final straw arrived in my email the other morning:

Oh my...

During a zombie invasion, what would you do to survive?

Join the Club

I am currently at a blogging conference. And I'm blogging. Because I am nothing if not a joiner.

In fact, I'm sharing a room with three other bloggers...who are also all blogging (or on Twitter).

But here's the thing...earlier this evening, I was sitting with a group of bloggers who were chatting away (because that's what we like to do when you can tear us away from the keyboard). Several of my bloggy heros are there, too. And I'm not talking. (Those of you that know me are gasping because you probably can't remember a time when I wasn't talking.)

I'm not really a shy person. I like to talk to people, get to know them, hear their stories (so I can incorporate them into one of my novels at a later time) and become life-long friends. Or at least for as long as we're sitting next to each other. Whatever.

So why wasn't I making with the chit-chat? I think I was intimidated. Here were women who consistently post witty and intelligent things, have followers who are equally as brilliant with their comments, and were selected as speakers for this conference. AND? They had business cards with their blog addresses! I didn't even have a name tag. My readership has taken a nosedive. And I haven't posted regularly in months.

I had nothing to talk about.

What do you do in a social setting when you're feeling awkward and unworthy? (Please? I need the tips, here!)

Just Hand It Over

Boo and I were discussing her upcoming Field Day at school. She had a list of treats and goodies available from the concession stand. I told her I'd give her $2 (because she doesn't read my blog so can't get $50) for snacks. Then I tried to explain to her that the items were priced in quarter increments, giving her examples of the different combinations she could get.

Me: Sno Cones are 50 cents and nachos are a $1 so you could get both of those and still have some money left over.

Boo: Can I get a drink, too?

Me: Yep. You'd have enough for one drink because they are 50 cents.

Boo: ...

Me: Or you can get other things. You don't have to get nachos or a drink. There's lots of stuff on here and you might decide you want some candy instead.

Boo: ...

Me: So remind me in the morning and I give you $2 before school.

Boo: Can I have your credit card instead?

__________

And as the voluptuous Boob Nazi reminded me, I never announced a winner for the make-me-laugh-or-at-least-keep-me-from-being-so-dang-miserable contest. Two entries made me bust out laughing:

Mary's Swagger Wagon (because I drive one)

and

the Co-ed's ASL in the USA (the faces he makes are just too funny)

Congrats to Mary, who will get the iTunes card, and to the Co-ed, who will get cupcakes or something equally as carb-laden! (Mary, email me your address!)

__________

I'm wearing white pants to the Casual Blogger Conference...hey, Memorial Day is only, like, two days away...that should be fine, right? Right? Please don't judge me for my fashion ineptitude. Judge me for my split modifiers and dangling participles.

__________

And don't forget to enter my contest for the $50 gift card to CSN's online stores!

Don't Eat at Joe's

For Spring Break, we went camping down in Moab. Apparently, we didn't learn last year that spring camping in southern Utah is really hit-or-miss on the good weather. During the day, it was a lovely 70 degrees. But the night tipped down to the 30s. Good thing the trailer had a heater!

It was such good weather (a nice break from the snow we'd been having), that I neglected to remember the sunscreen on our first hike. I got the worst of it. Of course. Now everyone will know I was wearing a v-neck shirt.

The hiking was wonderful, the sights breath-taking, and the family well-behaved (and I'm not even being sarcastic!). It was such a great trip, that the Man suggested instead of crouching over a smokey campfire, slowly torturing hot dogs to death, we spend our last evening in a restaurant. I was in the mood for Mexican food. Both of the prominent Mexican establishments featured lots of stucco, turquoise trim, and scripted phrases touted their "authentic"-ness. We opted for the one closest to our campground: Fiesta Mexicana. (They don't have a website...shocker, I know.)

While we were being seated, I noticed the many signs prominently posted that limited drinks to one refill, no personal checks, and no split tabs. These people were serious.

The menu was vast and it was hard to narrow down the selections (because they didn't have chimichangas and that's what I always order). I opted for a House Special: fajita enchiladas.

The phrase "House Special" should have been my first clue.

The large scale to everything in that place should have been the second. They may limit you to one refill, but they give you a glass the size of a bucket. And look at Baby:


She could barely see over our super-sized table! (But I love this picture!)

So why was I so shocked when the waiter delivered this:


That's my dinner. Meant for one person, not three. It's on a pizza pan, people! A pizza pan! When was the last time you served a meal on a dish that size and didn't include half a dozen other diners?

Despite the seemingly insurmountable portions, I persevered. Not much leftover. (Of course, it helped that Baby is a bottomless pit and devoured most of my beans...) We really liked the food here (except for the Boy - he had a PB&J that I whipped up in the car before we went inside) and I will definitely beg the Man to come back next time we are in town. Besides, after all that hiking, I'll need someplace to cool off my newly acquired sunburn.

Just Shoot Me

Blogging Diva Kristina P. is having a Blog Carnival.

What's a Blog Carnival? It's where everyone uses the same topic/theme and posts on their blogs, leaving a link on the main site.

What's Kristina's theme? Glamour Shots.


That's right. Those cheesy, overly-made-up pictures that you paid way too much for in high school just to prove to yourself that underneath your average exterior, you were a smoking hot babe. Or maybe that was just me.

My parents gave me Glamour Shots for my 16th birthday. I was very, VERY excited. We went to the local mall that was currently infested with a studio and my "stylist" took over. I had a male stylist, which I thought was odd. The older lady in the chair next time mine had hair so fine that her stylist had pushed all of the hair in the back to the front with big plastic clips in order to get decent results. Meanwhile, my stylist is nearly swearing over at my massive locks and their inability to hold a curl.

Then came the photo shoot.

They had racks of shirts and wraps to choose from but my stylist picked for me (I was too overwhelmed by the choices and would have opted for whatever was sparkliest...or maybe he saw what I was wearing when I arrived and decided -- correctly -- that I had no fashion sense). Then, in the middle of the shoot, he announces that I need to wear his sunglasses for some pictures. They were some expensive brand so I was instructed to be really, really careful. Like my overly long lashes might scratch them or something. And in this particular photo, the photographer had me all posed with my arms up in my hair when he decides my zipper is too high. He glances around the studio, probably looking for my parents, and then slides the zipper down to somewhere around my belly button.

After assessing his near-defrocking, he asks "How old are you?"

When I tell him I'm sixteen, he reaches back over and zips me up a respectable height.

Afterward, I wanted to walk the mall, show off my powder-coated hotness. That was when I ran into a couple boys from my school. They grinned and said hi and then one of them asked for my name. They didn't even recognize me! I took the opportunity to haughtily inform them that I went to their school and then stormed off. That. Was. Awesome.


And I'm done. Go see the others pictures or join in on the fun!

No Foolin'

So...it was April Fool's Day. And I did nothing. I didn't even tell a lame joke. Major fail on my part.

Instead of cackling with glee at the misery confusion I caused my children with little pranks all day long, I took a car trip to deliver my niece back to her mother. And then I discovered a whole new section of my personal hell by driving through one of the deadliest canyons during a near-blizzard. But at least I now have absolute faith in my abilities to correct a fishtail while facing down a semi truck.

No real post for now. And maybe not another one until I've decided whether or not I should reconsider the whole Happy Pills things.

Miss me while I'm gone (out of my mind)...