Please Hire Me

This may sound conceited, but I have a list of jobs I think I could do pretty well.  I bump into scenarios at the grocery store, or the bank, or see things on a show that wakes something inside me—something suppressed by being a stay-at-home mom for the better part of a decade.  And this thing, this astonishingly egocentric thought screams out for validation by declaring myself more capable and superior at a task than a person who has perhaps dropped thousands of dollars and spent years studying the very skill.  Okay, so this sounds extremely conceited.

In my arrogance, I refuse to believe I am the only person with this kind of ego.  Does no one else watch a Hallmark Christmas movie and think, I could do this.  Someone hire me!  Here, I shall write one for you in less than five minutes to prove my point.

Pan into a quaint little town where an unusually pretty shopkeeper sells specialty merchandise or services to a town that loves her questionably too much.  Cut to a conversation with quirky friend/coworker where it is revealed that the shop used to belong to a deceased parent.  Zoom in on shopkeeper’s face as she opens the mail and finds that her failing company is once again behind on mortgage payments and will be evicted on Christmas Eve.  Cue seemingly duchy city-slicker, with impeccably tailored jawline, who is also down on his luck, and reluctantly decides to visit his high school stomping grounds.  He bumps into the shopkeeper and basically annoys her during the most stressful moment of her life while she unexplainably overcomes baggage from a previous relationship and falls for the city-slicker, probably because of a reluctant, but well-timed kiss under the mistletoe.  Together they find a way to save the store, but not before having a huge misunderstanding when she sees him hug his cousin, but instead of saying, “Hey you two. What’s going on here?  You his sister or something?”  She storms away and spends twenty minutes of the movie refusing to explain to him why she’s upset because no one knows how to communicate in these Hallmark movies.  The end.  Someone, please hire me.  I will make you all the moneys.

Another job I feel confident I could do quite well is voice work for children’s shows.  I, too, can over-enthusiastically sound surprised when the mail arrives an hour late or when I need a circle to complete the toy car that will rush to the park where the mayor will honor the only person capable of saving the town: a five-year-old.  I can also make a litany of grunting noises should a fight scene be included in the script.  Just thought I slid that one in there.

Sometimes I stroll through the greeting card section at Dollar Tree and look through the dramatic stock photos beautifully framed with some vague, cheesy message, and I think, I could do that.  I have an English degree, after all.  If I can’t BS some generic greeting card prose, then I should just return my diploma.

Exibit A

Exibit B

Exibit C

A couple of months ago, I was at a junior high play where a young teen apologetically handed me the most hideous program I’ve ever seen.  The words were crooked on the page, all in a basic serif font, and the inside of the program was upside down.  I don’t even want to talk about the misspelled cast names.  No need to verbally murder the woman who threw that thing together.  When my husband saw it, he turned to me and whispered, “They should have asked you to create this program.”  Well, I don’t want to brag, but I do have a little publishing experience I gleaned at the feet of my uber talented mother.  I chuckled and imagined how I would improve the layout and overall look of the horribly folded piece of paper.  Basically, my husband is an enabler.

I know that I am over-simplifying many of these professions, but for the moment, leave me to my dreams.  Allow me the luxury of self-aggrandizing validation whilst I while away my lonely days at home.  And let me know if you have ever come across something and thought, Someone is getting paid for this?  I need to get in on this action.  Hire me!

When the Luck of the Irish Failed Me

On Monday, February 13th, I completed my last day of class, and on Tuesday, February 14th (Valentine's Day), I ventured to the Dollar Tree and purchased a litany of St. Patrick's Day paraphernalia for crafting in my copious free hours.  I carefully laid out my spoils on the family room floor and planned a revolutionary wreath that was sure to send my neighbors into a jealous frenzy.

I began with 3 aluminum tins that I sliced and diced to create metal rings which I manipulated into a heart shape.

Next, I contracted tetanus from too many metal cuts as I glued my makeshift hearts together.

Then, I took poorly-crafted St. Patty's Day tinsel and wrapped it around my shamrock form whilst green confetti shed from the emerald strings, and danced and glistened in the air before adhering themselves to every surface of the room with static electricity.

Lastly, I stood back to admire my flimsy, nondescript bush.  It was suddenly obvious that my genius craft was a flop.  In desperation, I glued a leprechaun bobblehead to the center of my "shamrock," but instead of enhancing the good luck charm, my wreath looked like an Irish gull laid an unfortunate egg after eating Lucky Charms out of a convenience store dumpster.

My front door has since remained bare.  No jealous neighbors.  No lucky threshold.  Just an unwelcoming nail protruding like a finger bidding my visitors to turn and leave before my hot glue gun has time to heat up again.

Prejudice

I should be working on a ten page research paper right now, but my brain is swirling with thoughts and emotions that will leak out my eyes if I don't drain them through my fingertips into the keyboard.  Bear with me.

I am prejudice.  I think it takes a lot of courage to admit that.  Of course, everyone is prejudice in their own way.  Even someone who seems perfectly political correct can show a moment of weakness.  Thankfully, when confronting prejudice, walking a mile in someone's shoes can expose the error of one's ways, and I have recently had the opportunity to do so.

As a teenager, I HATED mowing the lawn.  And by hate, I mean loathed with all of the fiery passions of H-E-double toothpicks with a side of manure-coated disdain.  I can remember two occasions when my brother and father were not available for some inconceivable reason (car show probably), and my mother decided I needed to “build character” out in the scorching, dry heat.  If you ever thought your mom didn't love you for taking away your phone, grounding you from the television, or not letting you attend a friend's birthday party so you could visit Aunt Myrtle in a nursing home, you were wrong.  She did those things because she loved you.  But if she made you mow the lawn, there is a pretty good chance that her enduring love was diminishing. So, on those two summer mornings when my teenage sassiness made my mother question giving birth to me, she ordered me outside with some excuse about how I needed to “contribute to the household” and “build character” and yada yada yada.  I stared into her blackening soul, and beneath her look of wisdom was smugness because she knew that as I stomped outside in my capris and flip flops, I was going to be humbled beyond measure.

It never occurred to me that mowing the lawn would be painful until I powered up the machine, and razor blades of grass whipped around my exposed ankles like miniature tornadoes of ninjas.  I sucked up the pain as my uncalloused hands gripped the vibrating handle, pinching my palms with the lever.  I leaned forward and pumped my legs, propelling the mower across the lawn while the deafening sound rattled my ears and dislodged a tooth or two.  The vibrations of the motor weakened the muscles in my arms.  Between getting caught in hidden dips in grass and maneuvering around trees and a swing set without the luxury of backing up, lest I suck that pesky plastic flap underneath the belly of the beast, it felt as though two noodles had replaced my once-useful limbs, making it nearly impossible to heft the devil equipment around my obstacle course of a yard. I swore with every foul word I could muster, “Dagnabbit!  Freakin’ grass!  Stupid mower!  How the heck do people do this every week?!  I swear I will never make my dang kids mow the lawn.  I will love my friggen kids. Sweet mother of Jefferson Davis!  Who put a stinkin’ rock in the grass?!  DAGUMMIT!”

I survived the experience and forgave my father for shirking his sheltering duties and my mother for finding teaching opportunities with heavy machinery not appropriate for a delicate flower like myself.  But it was then that I formed a deep prejudice for men who made women mown the lawn.  Whenever I drove past a house with a married woman pushing that howling monster, I was immediately seized by this undeniable urge to march my self-righteous behind over there and protect that her with a restraining order against her spouse and a good therapist to help her deal with the emotional damage.  Did these men not realize they were crushing the feminine spirit one blade at a time?

Then, I bought a house.

And Paul and I bought a lawn mower.

On a breezy, spring morning, empowered by homeownership and sideways glances from my neighbors, I decided to pull out our shiny mower and tackle our overgrown lawn.  I checked the oil level, poured gasoline into the tank and, with consuming dread, nearly tore my shoulder out of socket pulling that rip cord.  Then, something unexpected happened.  I traipsed across the lawn and looked back at the uniform sheen of the freshly cut greenery and as heavenly choirs rang from the ground felt a shot of obsessive-compulsive adrenaline flooding through my veins.  I wanted more, so I turned the machine around and cut another row, then another.  With each subsequent row, the thrill of mowing increased.  The pain of the occasional stick or rock that shot out at my exposed ankles was completely obscured by this addictive need for progression.  My arms quivered slightly, not from fatigue but anticipation of another yard behind the house that still needed trimmed.  Music blared in my ears, and I belted Train over the purr of my lawnmower.  The vibrations of the engine massaged my spirit, and I could feel my soul connecting with the earth as we became one entity.  What was happening?

When I rounded the willow tree and the miracle machine devoured the last tuft of overgrowth, I let go of the lever.  The mower hummed into silence, leaving me standing in a level kingdom of emerald carpet, grown graciously from my mother earth.  As I turned off my iPod, the soft twitters of birds singing my praise replaced the brassy voice of Adele.  I lovingly placed the mower back in the garden shed and walked up onto my deck to overlook my kingdom.  I stood there for what felt like seconds and hours morphed into a moment of pure bliss until the shouts of my children from inside the house woke me from my euphoria.

Since that day, I have not let my husband mow my lawn, lest he find it as addicting as I do.  I’ve become possessive of our crimson mower and territorial of my grass.  I confessed my feelings to my mother-in-law last week when she came up to babysit, and she shared a confession of her own:  She felt the same way.

I will never again pass judgment on some poor, unassuming man when I see his wife out mowing the law.  It could be that, like me, she is relishing in mowing meditation as she reconnects with herself for a few child-free moments.ned forward and pumped my legs, propelling the mower across the lawn while the deafening sound rattled my ears and dislodged a tooth or two.  The vibrations of the motor weakened the muscles in my arms.  Between getting caught in hidden dips in grass and maneuvering around trees and a swing set without the luxury of backing up, it felt as though two noodles had replaced my once-useful limbs, making it nearly impossible to heft the devil equipment around my obstacle course of a yard. I swore with every foul word I could muster, “Dagnabbit!  Freakin’ grass!  Stupid mower!  How the heck do people do this every week?!  I swear I will never make my dang kids mow the lawn.  I will love my friggen kids. Sweet mother of Jefferson Davis!  Who put a stinkin’ rock in the grass?!  DAGUMMIT!”

I survived the experience and forgave my father for shirking his sheltering duties and my mother for finding teaching opportunities with heavy machinery not appropriate for a delicate flower like myself.  I also formed a deep prejudice for husbands who forced their wives to mow the lawn.  Whenever I drove past a house with a married woman pushing that howling monster, I immediately made an assumption that the man in her life should have a restraining order against him for spousal abuse.  Did they not realize they were crushing the feminine spirit one blade at a time?

Then, I bought a house.

And Paul and I bought a lawn mower.

On a breezy, spring morning, empowered by homeownership and sideways glances from my neighbors, I decided to pull out our shiny mower and tackle our overgrown lawn.  I checked the oil level, poured gasoline into the tank and, with consuming dread, nearly tore my shoulder out of socket pulling that rip cord.  Then, something unexpected happened.  I traipsed across the lawn and looked back at the uniform sheen of the freshly cut greenery and felt a shot of OCD adrenaline flooding through my veins.  I wanted more, so I turned the machine around and cut another row, then another.  With each subsequent row, the thrill of mowing increased.  The pain of the occasional stick or rock that shot out at my exposed ankles was completely obscured by this addictive need for progression.  My arms quivered slightly, not from fatigue but anticipation of another yard behind the house that still needed trimmed.  Music blared in my ears, and I belted Train over the purr of my lawnmower.  The vibrations of the engine massaged my spirit, and I could feel my soul connecting with the earth as we became one entity.  What was happening?

When I rounded the willow tree and the miracle machine devoured the last tuft of overgrowth, I let go of the lever.  The mower hummed into silence, leaving me standing in a level kingdom of emerald carpet, grown graciously from my mother earth.  As I turned off my iPod, the soft twitters of birds singing my praise replaced the brassy voice of Adele.  I lovingly placed the mower back in the garden shed and walked up onto my deck to overlook my kingdom.  I stood there for what felt like seconds and hours morphed into a moment of pure bliss until the shouts of my children from inside the house woke me from my euphoria.

Since that day, I have not let my husband mow my lawn, lest he find it as addicting as I do.  I’ve become possessive of our crimson mower and territorial of my grass.  I confessed my feelings to my mother-in-law last week when she came up to babysit, and she shared a confession of her own:  She felt the same way.

I will never again pass judgment on some poor, unassuming man when I see his wife out mowing the law.  It could be that, like me, she is relishing in mowing meditation as she reconnects with herself for a few child-free moments.

An English Major's Dilemma

Do you know how hard it is to be an English major?!  


Let's just all have a moment of silence for me.
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I don't mean to sound like a first-world whiner, but since the news of my major change (pun intended), the world has begun to treat me differently.  See, for all of you non-English majors, if you accidentally misspell a word or leave out a comma (or my personal favorite, add an extra), your readers will be forgiving because it's not like you are an English major, amiright?  But for us ENGLISH majors, there is this stifling expectation that everything spilling out of our mouths or rolling off our fingertips must be literary gold, laced with sophisticated semicolons and daring dashes.  Heaven forbid my auto correct settings change a word without me noticing.  If I mix up a their/there/they're or a you're/your/yore, I might as well sequester myself for days until the disappointment blows over.
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Can we have another moment of silence?
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Now, I have a confession.  I am not an English aficionado, nor am I a writing wonder or a spelling guru.  Proper punctuation isn't always my thang, and I reserve the right to use it creatively when I want my voice to shine through uninhibited.  Truth be told, I have not even started the course work for the English major because I've been finishing generals.  The basic knowledge of syntax I use daily is pulled from my long term memory bank stretching upwards of 20 years ago when I was picking my nose in grade school.

Kind world, have mercy on me.  Sometimes I use words like 'unctuous' in everyday speech, but more often than not, I forget how many C's are in 'necessary' and fail to proof read before posting something of the Facebook.  Cut me a little slack and be like Elsa.  Let it go.



This post was bought to you by our sponsor: A Bunch of Sass.

The big picture

A few months ago, I walked in on Annie admiring a framed picture.  The photo was of me and Paul smiling like oblivious idiots just six weeks before we tied the knot.  We were young, unburdened, innocent to the complexities of adulthood and child-rearing.  Annie looked up at me and asked, "Mommy?  How come you don't look like this anymore?"  I gazed down at the slimmer body and trimmer chin and frowned, stung by my daughter's harsh truth.  I explained to Annie that mommy has had some babies and that changes your body.  Mommy has also made some bad choices about what kinds of foods she's put into her body and how often she exercises.  I avoided her gaze, ashamed of myself for letting the stress of life get to me and terrified my daughter might be embarrassed by her portly parent.  Annie shook her head with a real sense of bewilderment.

"No, why don't you look like this anymore?"  She pointed again to the picture with her tiny finger. "Can you have this attitude again?"  My 19-year-old face stared up at me through the glass, eyes glistening with hope and excitement for the future instead of the constant dread I see in the mirror these days.  I carefully slid the picture out of Annie's hands and hid it away in the cupboard.  While choking back tears, I apologized to Annie and told her I can't be that girl again because I have changed.  I will try to be happy, but I can't get that unburdened innocence back.  This is part of growing up.  Annie seemed just as confused by this answer as she did by the first, but as she tried to ask again why I looked so different from my picture, my tears began to flow freely, and I asked Annie if we could talk about it later.

Weeks passed, and I thought about this conversation often.  I wished I could go back and tell that innocent 19-year-old how her life was going to be different than she planned so she could anticipate the changes a little better.  I mourned for myself and for this new me that I honestly hated some days, especially when the depression was so enveloping that I couldn't see any rays of positivity on the horizon.

One Sunday, I got out of the shower and blew my hair dry.  It was extra fluffy and unwieldy, so I pulled it up into a half-ponytail. When I descended the stairs, Annie looked up at me and gasped.  "Mommy!  I thought you said you couldn't look like that anymore."  I shot her a bewildered gaze.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

She pointed to the cupboard.  "Like the picture.  I thought you said you couldn't look like that anymore."

I blinked while my mind began to assemble the puzzle that is Annie conversations.  That whole time she had been talking about my hair?  She just wanted to know why I didn't wear it in a half ponytail anymore........?

ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?!

I had an existential crisis over a ponytail?!  I've been trying to deny my dramatic tendencies for years, but it's getting harder by the day.  Experiences like this aren't helping either.  At least one good thing came from my experience.  I'm learning not to assume so much or worry about things I cannot change. Oh, and I've started wearing my hair in a half ponytail again.

Tricked

This week I was the victim of a pintrickster.  It happens, you know.  Sometimes when given a promise I want so badly to be true I just ignore all the signs.  Although my pride demands I keep this experience to myself, I feel called upon to expose lies whenever I see them.  So, without further ado, here is what happened.

A few weeks ago on Pinterest I stumbled upon a "tip" promising tear-free onion chopping.  I think I'm pretty sensitive to the sulfuric acid that wafts up during slicing and dicing and often turn into a blubbery mess by slice number three. The tears can be so thick it impairs my vision by either complete fogginess or a burning sensation so sharp I can't even crack my lids open. When wielding a large, sharp knife, being able to see is kind of important, so I often have to step away, wash my face, and go back in for round two.  Annoyed by my body's exaggerated response to one of my favorite vegetables, I readily clicked on the link, and was pleased by the suggestion.  Burn a candle.  That's right, just burn a candle.  The theory is the heat will burn up the sulfuric acid byproduct of death before it reaches your eyes.  No tears and you get to play with fire, how could this go wrong?

Tonight I stood at the counter, knife in one hand and matches it the other.  My station was already set up, cutting board front and center, and garbage sack for scraps to my right.  To my left was a pumpkin pie flavored candle leftover from the holidays just waiting to be lit.  I sat down the knife and struck a match, basking in the warming, homey smell of burnt wood.  I lightly touched it to each of the three wicks and blew it out, watching the smoke dance happily like a fortunate omen.  I waited a minute until the smell of pie filled the air.  Then I began to chop.

Slice number one, no tears.  I am Superwoman, I thought.  Slice number two,  still no tears.  This is actually working!  Slice number three, the most dreaded of all slices, I could feel a little burning at the outer corner of my eyes.  Now I was in trouble, and I knew it.

By slice number five the water works kicked in, and it wasn't just a few delicate drops.  It felt like searing lava flowing from my eyeballs. I tried to blink through the pain because tears or not, the onion needs chopped, but it just kept getting worse until great gooey glops of mascara muck began to descend like rain on the white devil flesh.

The flames of the candle waved and leered at me, sending more holiday scent toward my nose which embraced it without hesitation, leaving me with nothing by the taste of onion flavored pumpkin pie in the back of my throat.  With wounded pride and blind eyes, I sat down my knife and walked away.

I was tricked.  I admit it.  Please learn from my mistakes.

Commission

Sometimes it's so hard to write. Why do you think that is? One moment I can hear angels singing sonnets and syntax and the next there is silence. I type, I write, and I brainstorm, but you can't force genius. It makes me wonder if Picasso painted his Guernica because he was trying to stay in the painting habit. I seriously doubt it. Then again, some of the most famous works of art were commissioned work like the Sistine Chapel ceiling, which proves it can be done. When I consider that I just have to wonder what is wrong with me. Why can't I be that way? You see, I have a serious problem.

I CANNOT WRITE MY CHRISTMAS CARD/LETTER.

I have tried and rejected three drafts already. The latest attempt featured a poem about Santa using our toilet. I wish I was kidding.

Last January I blogged about being nervous for a boring year, and while the year wasn't boring per say, it was a difficult year for me, so writing a perky piece of tra la la seems a little fake. Yet, recounting the car crashes and emergency room visits throws me into a deep Debby Downer funk that I'm working so hard to positively think my way out of. So I sit at my computer thinking about my beautiful house with no linen closet and wonder how I can make the many adventures we had under this roof interesting to my dear family and friends. I must seek the inspiration Gods for enlightenment.

To do this, I ritualistically remove my pants and drape them on the back of the computer chair. I find inspiration often travels up through my feet, and jeans can sometimes restrict the flow. However, this part of my process leaves me with freezing legs so I must find a blanket to burrow in. Many a neighbor has come to my door to find me in this vulnerable condition, and it never ceases to be mortifying.

Anyway, now perfectly prepped for what I hope is a literary Guernica to distribute as a Christmas letter, I have repeatedly touched the tips of my fingers to the keyboard only to greet the sound of silence like a Simon and Garfunkel nightmare. Come on, Inspiration Gods! I trusted you!

In case you're wondering, this is when I try to force something, anything, that sounds remotely intelligent to transfer onto paper. But forcing myself to write rarely ends successfully. Just last night after an grueling hour of pecking and backspaces I read over that terrible poem about Santa using my bathroom and rubbed my head as I tried to think of a word that rhymed with crapper. Wiped with a wrapper? Kids sat on his lap, er? Couldn't be happier? No matter. At that point I realize it's time to scrap idea number three and step away from the computer until evening when I can again remove my pants and start the process over.

Here I am, sans pants, buried in a blanket, and writing something other than a Christmas card. So, if you have any spare time on your hands, have a moment of silence for the death of my creative abilities. I worry it's gone forever, or at least until after Christmas when it's no longer desperately needed. And if you get bored, feel free to write a card for me. Consider this a commission. Good luck with that.

Pintrickster

The other day as I was butchering some too-good-to-be-true tutorial I found on Pinterest, I began to wonder if there was someone out there laughing at me.  There are so many websites dedicated to Pinterest fails that I'm starting to believe bloggers are making things up for either boosts in website traffic or for their own general amusement.  It's as if they have a bingo machine for ailments and another for household goods.  The first is spun, yellow ping-pong balls flutter and collide like boiling atoms, and out pops a little ball. "Foot fungus," it reads. The next machine spins around and around until it procures a "cure".  Wonderful!  Now they just need a graphic.  Enter stock photo and some bold lettering.

Perrrrfect. Now it's time to write some content.

A Pintrickster likes to give you well-defined steps to make their deception seem legitimate.  These steps often come in odd numbers or in clusters of 6, which is a strong indicator that you are about to embarrass yourself, and Satan will laugh at you.

1. The first step will always be to wash the afflicted area.  This tricks you, the reader, into thinking the bizarreness that's about to follow is somehow sanctioned medically, herbally, or scientifically.  Sanitizing people are analyzing people, amiright?
2. Next they will tell you where to put the afflicted area.  Place hand over sink.  Hold nose under faucet. Or in the case of my example: Place foot in large bucket or container.  This manipulates you into thinking the author is your friend because they care about the cleanliness of your abode.  How sweet!
3. Next they will give you a list of measurements, which is just another way to seem professional.  But when you see '2/3rds', run. 2x3=6 which is the devil's number. Measure out 2/3rds cup of sauce into mixing bowl.
4. Now they will spring an added ingredient on you.  Mix in 6 tablespoons of cough medicine. This does two things: First, it convinces you of the science behind the tutorial.  The ingredients in the cough medicine activates the anti-fungal properties in the herbs suspended in the anti-oxidant rich tomatoes. Sounds pretty good, no?  Second, it disperses the blame. The more ingredients, the greater the dispersal.  Soon, the Pintrickster is hidden behind a wall of personal doubts. This isn't working; did I purchase the right brand of sauce? Should I have bought the organic? Or the one with the little mushrooms? Fight fungal with fungal.  Pretty sure that's a saying.  Or was it the cough medicine?  I bought the overnight formula.  I knew I should have got Dayquil.  Cherry flavor?  Orange flavor?  Better get both next time to be safe. At this point, is hasn't even occurred to you to question the legitimacy of the author.
5. This is where some technique comes in.  This is like scam insurance.  When the ridiculous claim they made doesn't work, you will start to wonder if you followed the directions completely.  This may motivate you to repeat the process and even invite a witness to help you perform the procedure perfectly.  Pour sauce mixture over toes in a counterclockwise motion.  Now, use a paint brush to gentle sweep the crimson magic over the entire surface of your foot, concentrating on the toenails and using zigzagging motions.  At this point, even the angels are laughing at you.
6. This step is for the sole purpose of torturing you.  It is step 6 after all.  Stand with feet apart, pointed at a 66 degree angle, and knees touching. In this position, allow feet to soak in magical sauce tonic until toes are deeply pruney and smell like Italy.
7. Rinse feet. This step is a mercy step for those would walk around with pizza feet otherwise. (You know who you are.)  This just goes to show you that Pintricksters have a conscience, however small that may be.
8. This step is to hide that small conscience. Repeat every night until fungus disappears.
9. In this instance, this final step is mostly a token step just to end the tutorial with an odd number.  It's also subtle mockery.  Enjoy your new, fresh feet!

Take these tips to heart next time you are tempted to dye your hair with soy sauce, remove warts with pie dough, or douse your eye in wheatgrass juice. That's a Pintrickster at work.  You're welcome.

Sleeping together

If you know me very well you may know I have a problem sleeping with my husband.  This was so embarrassing to me as I newlywed I often searched for newlyweds with a similar issue.  Miserly loves company and all that.  I just couldn't accept that I was alone in my suffering.  Several times, however, I was greeted with odd stares and nervous giggles as I tried to explain how little sleep you get when you're married.  My anguish was often attributed to some kind of extended foreplay or infinitely long pillow talks.  Little did they know it was neither of those typical marital perks that were the cause of my insomnia.

I learned within hours of making vows, cutting cake, and stealing a secret first dance in the hall at our reception that I could not sleep with my husband.  On our first night home we cuddled up under the covers, and I listened to Paul drift off within minutes.  I admired his sweet wheezes and smiled at the wedding band on his left ring finger.  I could feel the exhaustion from the excitement and activities of the day weighing down my body, so I took one last glance at my new husband and laid my head against his chest.  I closed my eyes and waited for sleep to take me.  It did not.  Instead of sleep, I was educated by the sandman.

In the next two hours I learned I couldn't not breathe if my head was on his chest because I would subconsciously try to sync my own breath with his asthmatic puffs.  I discovered I had an irrational fear of waking my extremely deep-sleeping husband which made shifting to get comfortable out of the question.  I noticed that my husband was cuddly and came to the unfortunate conclusion that I could not sleep while being touched.  I mean, like, at all.  On the off chance I managed to escape all of these undesirables, I was instead accosted by hot morning breath or the smell of Axe deodorant, which let me know strong smells wake me up.  Fantastic.

For months I struggled, cuddled, and fought my general fatigue until a glorious night in Disneyland brought me some relief.  The giant king size bed was better than any roller coaster or attraction because there, in the expanse of mattress, I escaped my husband's grasps and found some much needed rest.  The dawn brought a perky Kayla and a disgruntled Paul.  When I expressed my infatuation for the bed he muttered about it being too big and not being able to find me.  Before I could stop it, a smile spread across my face.  Perfect.

However, we had to leave the bed behind in sunny Anaheim, and I was back to my sleepless routine.  Rarely a night passed that I was not awakened to an elbow in the eye, an arm around my waste or, heaven forbid, a deep sleep sigh of caustic fumes blown in my direction.  I hoped, prayed, pleaded, and assumed that time would heal me of my nightly torment.  Eventually I just had to start sleeping through it, right?





Fast forward to the present day, five years later:

After my children are tucked in their beds for the night I like to collapse on my squeaky mattress, nestle my face into my cool pillow, and adjust my limbs until I find that sweet, sweet spot of incomparable comfort.  You know what I'm talking about.  The one position of ecstasy that pulls you rapidly into dreamland.  However, it is usually that very moment that my lips remind me they are a gazelle in the Sahara Desert, and just out of my reach is a chapstick waterhole.  I then find myself at a crossroads.  Down one path is greasy, appeased lips and a risk of undoing all the effort put into finding that perfect, perfect spot.  Down the other path is comfort, sleep, and waking up with lips that appear to have gotten in a bat'leth fight with an enraged Klingon.  The path I usually choose is the later because at the end of a long day, full-body comfort is my one true desire.  That and sleep, of course.

Then, after finishing an episode of Sherlock, in shuffles the man in all his nerdy glory.  He now knows I cannot sleep whilst being touched so he gives me a quick peck on the cheek before settling in on the opposite side of the bed.  He is consciously thoughtful but subconsciously deviant.  In a matter of minutes sleep takes him, and he begins his trek across the mattress in search of a warm body.  Soon he finds me in that sweet, sweet melted position, and he rolls over to face me.  The smell of sleeping breath brings me out of a heavenly dream to a dark and stinky reality.  I am at a new crossroads.  Hold down the fort and maintain my position while I lying awake in olfactory torment, or lose that perfect comfort with a possibility of more zzzZZZzzzs.  I die a little inside as I roll away from the man in my bed and my warm outline in the sheets.  Since I've already been forced to move I think, might as well put on that chapstick.

Maybe in ten years we can afford a king size mattress.  Until then, I will remain coverless and sleepless with my pillow on my nightstand.

The pajama pants from you-know-where

Last year I sewed some matching pajama pants for my husband and daughter.  I meant to sew some for me too but didn't buy enough fabric.  Andrea has LOVED these pants and whenever she sees her daddy wearing the "owl pants" (they have owls on them) she begs to wear hers as well.  Sadly, those pants had some flaws and fit issues (to short and a little snugly in the nether regions) because I didn't use a pattern.  Also, Andrea has all but outgrown hers.  So, this year I thought I would give the whole matching pajama thing a second try.  Using a pattern.  And buying SIX full yards of fabric.

Silly me.

So far, these pants have been nothing but blunder after blunder.  I partly blame it on drowsy sewing.

Public service announcement: Kids!  Do not try this at home!  Falling asleep while a sharp needle rapidly pierces in a downward motion in a close proximity to your phalanges is not smart!

(Climbing off soap box.)

The first of my serious of rather egregious errors was the same mistake I made last year.  I didn't buy enough fabric.  Six yards probably should have been eight.  But unlike last year, I did not want to go with out matching pants again, so Paul and I spent an evening strategically positioning patterns, planning proportions, and pinning the purple panels.  And after much patting of backs and praise, I began cutting.  Sadly, mistake number two was waiting in the wings for its grand entrance.  I cut out Andrea's back leg panel inside out.  When I discovered the blunder I cried out in horror because at this point I'm starting to have deja vu of the pants of yesteryear.  Paul shook his head in shame as I reasoned with myself.  "It's okay," I said.  "These pants were going to be really big on her anyway.  I may not have extra fabric but I can slim these puppies down and cut out a new smaller panel out of the inside out one.  Yes, that's what I'll do!  Precious."  I mumbled like Gollum.  Imagine creepy Gollum hunched over purple owls.  Now add some more hair.  Brown.  Long.  And put clothes on him.  There.  That's what I looked like, wide eyes and all.

When I (assumed) that problem was solved I began sewing and in the process learned that I had cut one half of my pants way too short.  Pajama pants in the front; capris in the back. I considered turning them into shorts right then and there, but I really, really wanted warm PANTS.  I dug through the tiny scraps and managed to get two strips of fabric to add to the bottom.  The owls were sideways but I thought a nice decorative ribbon would make the blunder look intentional. However, when I went to sew the pant legs I discovered that I had not properly lined things up and the decorative ribbon at the bottom didn't match up at the seams and spiraled around my ankles.  Too lazy to unpick and recut, I sewed in a strange side pleat and moved on with life.

My pants (albiet ugly) were nearing completion so I tried them on only to find them to be HUGELY too big and uncomfortable because I thought I was a size that I wasn't.  Apparently, I not only have sewing issues but body image issues as well.  Fantastic.

I needed a break from those horrid pants so I turned my attention to Sam's, which after sewing one seam it was apparent that they were far to small.  I tossed them to the side because I didn't have the energy to deal with that problem.  Besides, his pants were low on the priority totem pole.  I decided to revisit Andrea's.  After sewing the inseam I slipped them onto Andrea's legs, and much to my horror, the revised pattern I used to solve the inside out panel was far to skinny.  They were also too small for Sam.  I again gathered those few and precious scraps and pieced together panels to add to width to the waist and legs of the pants.  Once those were pinned and sewn in place I asked Andrea to try them on again so I could determine how much fabric was needed to turn under around her ankles.  "I don't want to wear those pants," she said flatly.

"Andrea!" I gasped.  "But these are your owl pants!  They're for Christmas.  Don't you want to try them on?"  She again refused which prompted some water works. . . from me.  Because if the three year old I was going to all of this trouble for and spending all this money on didn't even want her pants, THEN WHY WAS I WASTING PRECIOUS BRAIN CELLS AND MOMENTS I COULD HAVE USED FOR A MUCH-NEEDED NAP?!

I have temporarily abandoned the pajama pants from you-know-where.  They are tossed in a corner, collecting dust while I contemplate suicide finishing them.

Next year I'm just buying everyone matching pants.

Keys

This month I took my car in for it's yearly safety and emission tests, and I failed both.  Don't be jelly of my skillz.  (That's how the teenagers talk.)  Anyway. . . in order to pass these tests and renew my vehicle's registration, I was forced strongly advised to get new tires for my car, which you can imagine was an unwelcome expense just before the Christmas season.  Thankfully, my father helped me call around and find tires that were within my budget.  What do you know?  Walmart had the best prices.  Whut whut!  (Again, trying to keep my teenage reader interested.) 

Yesterday, after Sam's morning nap and snack, I packed up my children and drove down to the nearest Walmart with a tire shop.  When my car was checked in I bought some lunch, and Andrea and I wandered the aisles of Walmart for two hours drooling over baby Christmas clothes, kitchen gadgets, and all things Dora the Explorer.  Andrea even helped me pick out some presents for her daddy.  This excited her so much she began pointing out everything that made her thing of Paul and begging me to buy them so she could practice wrapping.  Nice try kid.  She did, however, convince me to surprise Daddy with some holiday flavored Oreos with the hope that he would, you know, share with her.

With new tires installed on our little blue Neon, I buckled my baby and then my preschooler and we drove home listening to Andrea's favorite songs.  (Want U Back by Cher Lloyd and Just Give Me a Reason by P!nk, in case you have a child looking for some hip jams.)  Half an hour later I pulled up in front of the house.  Sam was starving and beginning to fuss.  Andrea was ready for a nap and begging to go potty.  I pulled the groceries out of the trunk and just as it latched shut something shiny caught my eye.  It was my keys fading into the darkness of my locked trunk.  My brain shut off and panic took over my body.  I ran around to the driver's seat and pulled the trunk release.  Nothing happened. I ran to the front door and twisted the door knob.  It was locked.  I bolted to the back yard and yanked fiercely on the back door.  Also locked.

I had to keep reminding myself to breathe as I walked back to the car.  Once Andrea was unbuckled she ran to the porch.  "I have to go potty!"  She reminded me.

"You need to hold it, Honey!  We're locked out of the house." I hollered back as I pulled out my phone to call Paul.  He didn't answer.  I tried again.  No answer.  I left a desperate voice mail before searching the internet for his office number.  Unfortunately, the battery on my phone was almost dead and my search was not going well.  Andrea continued to dance around in a rather suspicious manner so I promised her one of Daddy's cookies if she could just hold it a little longer.  She sat down in the grass with an Oreo in each hand and her complaints turned into quiet smacking.  I returned to my internet search but the panic I'd been feeling began to mount as that battery icon flashed.  The last thing I needed was to be locked out with two little children far away from family and friends and no way to contact anyone.  Did I mention I still don't know any of my neighbors?

With tears streaming down my face and the state of my daughter's bladder weighing on my mind, I called my mom.  As I relived the events of my afternoon I felt something wet on the arm I had wrapped around my son.  A yellow streak confirmed that his diaper had leaked onto his clothes and me.  Andrea finished her cookies and began to dance again.  While my mom googled Paul's work she asked me if the back seat of the car could fold down.

Why. Didn't. I. Think. Of. That?

I ran to the car to check and, sure enough,it did.  Holding my poopy boy under one arm I started pulling out car seats so I could crawl into the trunk and paw around in the dark for my keys.  When they were safely in my hands a wave of relief came over me until a little voice again requested a trip to the potty.

While we only sat outside the house for about twenty minutes, it was a rather exciting and unpleasant twenty minutes.  Memo to me:  Keep yo' keys in yo' pocket, you cray cray foo.  (Translate that if you have a teen in your life.)

The Craigslist man

Since my second trimester is all but over I've started to feel that panic that comes with being unprepared.  We procured a new bed for Andrea so her crib could be used for the new baby, but we still have no mattress.  We don't have a dresser, or crib sheets, or clothes except for a small box of hand-me-downs.  Yesterday I spent a little time on Craigslist looking for baby things, and I stumbled upon a changing table/dresser that looked perfect for my purposes.  I texted the seller, and we planned to meet today to execute the transaction.  Because I drive a small Ford Escort, I asked my mom if I could borrow her van for the transportation of my latest acquisition.  She agreed, and this morning I packed up Andrea and headed up to Midvale for the dresser.

Unfortunately for me, I had written down the wrong house number.  I discovered this as I rang the doorbell to a house down the street from my intended location.  A medium-built older man answered the door.  He wore a white tank top which showed off his tan skin and the white hairs on his chest.  But his most distinctive feature was his facial hair which looked VERY similar to this:

Odd, I thought to myself.  This doesn't seem like the kind of person who would be selling a changing table. . . but I brushed away the thought and introduced myself.  "Hi!" I said cheerfully.  "I'm here in response to your ad."  The man looked at me for a moment and then glanced at the white minivan I had pulled up in.

"Which ad are you referring to?"  He purred as he leaned in and gave me a rather bone-chilling smile.  At this point, I was pretty sure this was NOT the kind of man who sells changing tables on Craigslist.  In fact, I began wondering what he did sell. . . or perhaps what he wanted.  Was he a drug dealer or some lonely man looking for womanly favors?  Either way, my mind started racing and then shut down completely.

"I'm here for the, you know, um, the. . ." I started waving my hands in the air to indicate rectangles and overall confusion. "You know, for clothes and changing and. . ." I waved my hands again as I noticed him leaning closer with that seriously creepy smile on his face.  "For babies!"  I finally blurted out, which is when his unpleasant smile turned to a frown and somehow cleared the haze in my head enough for the name of the item in question to come through.  "I'm here for the changing dresser.  Is this the right place?"

He leaned a little further out the door and looked toward his neighbors on either side.  "No, I sure don't have one of those for ya.  You might try next door."  With that, I thanked him and waved goodbye as I ran to the (thankfully) locked van where my toddler sat asking if we could have more adventures.  Hopefully not more like these, I thought.  As I pulled out of the creepy man's driveway, I called the number from the ad again and was directed down the street where I found a young couple with a baby who sat waiting by their front door with my changing dresser.

After the dresser was hefted into the back of the van and I was cruising down the freeway toward home, I began to wonder who was more uncomfortable by the situation with the first wrong house.  Was it me, who stumbled onto a man already waiting for an answer to his questionable ad?  Or was it the man with. . . expectations. . . who found a short, pregnant woman with a minivan at his doorstep inquiring about his offer?  I guess I'll never know, but I'm suddenly glad I don't live in Midvale.

The mysterious smell

That pregnant moment when the smell of your own body keeps you up at night.

It's officially 6:45 in the morning, but I've been away for almost two hours already  With how long it took me to fall asleep last night I'm guessing I got a good four hours of sleep.  This is probably the hardest part of pregnancy for me.  You see, I'm a tummy sleeper.  In the first trimester this is not a problem as the baby is the size of a lime and completely unnoticeable   But now the baby is the size of a turnip, and my little cantelope belly is too uncomfortable to lay on.  I try to fall asleep on my side but, based on Andrea's pregnancy, it's going to take me a few weeks to acclimate to the new position.  Until then, I'm expecting many more sleepless nights.  Unfortunately, sleeping on my side is only half reason for tonight's insomnia.

Early this morning I woke to an odd smell.  My pregnant nose found it repulsive and yet appetizing all at once.  I tried to ignore the odor and shift away from Paul in case he was the source.  The smell persisted.  I tossed and turned some more trying to find a comfortable position to drift off in. (but I got that cantelope belly, remember?) Half an hour passed, and I realized my mind had woken up.  Sleep, I told myself.  Just sleep.  But soon my thoughts on sleep morphed into a Christmas song which led to me planing next years Christmas tree color scheme which got me to thinking about slip-covering the pillows on the couch which prompted thoughts about painting my kitchen table and so forth.  It was official; my brain had turned on, and once my brain turns on sleep becomes impossibly elusive.

So there I lay, thoughts racing to all corners of the earth until I got a new whiff of the stench.  My brain focused all channels to my nose and began to analyze.  I turned toward Paul.  He breathed a heavy sign onto my face.  Hormones and senses pulsing from my uterus identified tomato, beans, basil, onion, hits of green (probably peas), and almost twenty-four hours since his last brushing.  As unpleasant as it was, it was not the mystery odor.  I turned away from him and smelled my comforter.  Hints of my own deodorant mingled with hints of Paul's meandered along my nasal passages (we both have the habit of stuffing blankets beneath our arms).  I fluffed the sheets ever so slightly to smell the warm nests which our bodies had settled into.  Essence of feet, lotion, and a puff of stale drifted from the sheets and disappeared into the night.  I laid there in the stillness and willed myself to ignore and give up on the unidentifiable stench.

Then, I got a tickle in my nostrils.  I looked over at Paul in panic as I tried to force down the impending sneeze.  I rubbed my nose and scrunched my face and braced for impact and then. . . Eureka! (and ah-choo)

Garlic!  The smell was garlic, freshly used at dinner, oozing from the pores of my own nose.  Having been months since I'd cooked with fresh garlic, I had forgotten it had a nasty tendency to manifest itself in ones body oils shortly thereafter.  Solving the mystery of the putrid and now understandably appetizing smell grossed me out even further as I watched the clock, waiting for the magic hour when I could get up and wash last nights dinner from my nose.

I hear Paul shuffling around in our bedroom which means the hour is upon me at last.  Farewell!

That awkward moment

I really enjoy my classes so far.  There is too much reading, but my teachers are all darling, and the subjects are making me think, which I love.  But I am occasionally reminded that I am not a typical college student.  I don't hang out with other college students and didn't live in the college scene pre-marriage, so I'm not exactly fluent in college cool.

Not to mention my bestious friend is 15.

So naturally when my Pre-1500 A.D. History classmate wondered aloud why we weren't attacking Canada for oil my first thought was. . . well. . . Justin Bieber.  Unfortunately, the thought spilled from my mouth, and I audibly heard every head in the class turn in my direction.  The palpable silence could have been cut with a knife until one blessed girl piped up, "I didn't know Justin Beiber was from Canada."  Chuckles of polite laughter broke through the awkward moment and the boy in front of me gave me an alien look.

"I have a 15 year old sister. . ." I muttered.

Of course, this boy was already learning about my weirdness.  He corrected my quiz earlier, and when asked the topic of the chapter we were assigned I answered:  As the Europeans domesticated animals, they were introduced to animal diseases.  They built up immunities to these infections and virus.  When founding the Americas, they introduced the indigenous people to these diseases and without hundreds of years of genetic immunities nearly 90% were eradicated.  Apparently, the quick answer was farming, which was also the name of the chapter.  I did read the chapter, just not the heading. . . so he gave me the point because I clearly demonstrated some comprehension, if not in a more roundabout way.

I, in turn, corrected his paper.  He wrote farming which earned him full credit.  However, in the confusion of trying to explain my odd answer, I missed how many points the quiz was worth.  I wrote a smiley face on the top of his and passed it up.  As the teacher collected the papers he looked down at my neighbor's and then up at me.  I tried not to focus on his lazy eye while he wondered aloud, "So, do smiley faces mean four points now?"  I felt blood rush to my cheeks as more awkward chuckles resonated throughout the room.

I'm so glad I held back from making a Star Trek comment during our discussion of Indian Regimes because I don't think the class could have thought me any weirder.  And I'd hate to prove them wrong.

First day of school

Day one of school proved to be overwhelming.  Sunday Andrea started showing some suspicious symptoms so Paul kept her out of the nursery and took her home early.  By the time I got home she was feverish and miserable.  She woke up from her nap screaming and threw up when I went to check on her.  Waterfalls of snot poured from her nostrils and her sniffs to relieve the constant dripping sent the mucus down her throat, upsetting her stomach.  What a great start to such a pivotal week.

I asked Paul for a priesthood blessing.  I was told to be comforted and was promised I could accomplish what I've set out to do.  Andrea's fever broke the next morning but the snoterfalls did not.  Monday night was my second night on the couch listening to my daughter's sick moans and coughs.  Naturally, I also started to show symptoms, and Andrea decided to skip some afternoon naps.  Tuesday evening as I drove to school, I tried hard to stay awake.  The setting sun streamed into my car at eye level, and squinting only proved to be a reminder of how desperately my eyes wanted to close.  I turned on some loud music and began to sing as robustly as I could muster.

Sitting at a stop light belting One Thing by One Direction, I realized that with my broken A/C and rolled down windows the car beside me (also with rolled down windows) could hear every off-pitch note.  Not to mention they could see my snoterfalls and I suspect a few rogue mustache hairs.  Great.

But upon arriving to class I realized how amazing my philosophy teacher was.  He told us we wouldn't write any papers, our tests would be open note-open book, and the weekly quizzes are impossible to fail if you've done the reading.  I left class on a scholastic high until approached the end of the sidewalk and faced the parking lot.  In my delirium on the drive to school I forgot to pay attention to where I put my car. . .

I called Paul and talked to him for about fifteen minutes before I realized how bad my situation was.  I told him if I wasn't home by ten o'clock he needed to call the police.  I hung up my phone and tried to focus as I walked down each row of cars scanning for my little white clunker.  I could feel drips threatening to rain from my nose and my eyes.  I was going to die in that parking lot of old age looking for my car.  Then I realized if I waited long enough all of the cars would go home but one.  I wondered how long that would take because I was out of tissues, and the vast concrete wasteland was lacking some emergency foliage. . . if you know what I mean.

As the hours minutes passed, the parking lot began to empty, and (as if illuminate by the heavens) my car came into view.  I had already passed it FOUR rows of cars ago!  I think it's safe to assume I meticulously counted the exact coordinates of my vehicle on day two and three.

Packing

I’m not very good at packing.  I discovered this today as I almost put an entire roll if plastic wrap in my suitcase.  You just never know when you’re going to need some plastic wrap, amiright?  I wasn’t always like this.  Girls Camp would roll around and I’d only pack a couple pairs of socks and reuse them all week.  You can’t avoid stinking up there so why not embrace it?  But I didn’t have a child with me then either.  There must be something in those mothering hormones that trigger some preparedness OCD’s.

For example, I am paranoid I won’t pack enough clothes.  This week I’ve been trying to launder all of my favorite articles of clothing, as well as some essentials, so I’d be able to pack on Saturday and relax on the Sabbath.  However, this week was also my birthday, which means it is Andrea’s half birthday, and we had doctor’s appointments, birthday engagements, and celebrations galore.  Because I didn’t want to overbook my weekend with travel preparation, I began my laundry festival early in the week.  Monday and Tuesday I washed a couple loads of colorful clothes.  Wednesday I took the day off because, hey, it was my birthday, and Thursday I did my very last load.  Whites.  Which in my house is mostly complied of underwear.

My little OCD brain took over when I stared that load and told me that although there will be a washing machine available to me in Illinois, I must pack as much of my undies as I possibly could.  So I put every pair I owned into the wash, including the ones I was wearing, and hopped into the shower with the intention of transferring the load to the dryer as soon as I got out.  But as I stepped out the shower, the door bell rang.  I wrapped up in my towel, threw on a bathrobe, and peaked through the peep hole.  There stood my two visiting teachers.  I opened the door, dripping wet and asked them if they could wait outside in the blistering heat for just a minute while I got dressed.  They kindly agreed.

But you may remember I had no dry underwear.  It was still sloshing around in the washer.  And the time of month made going commando out of the question.  I streaked through my apartment searching for something to wear underneath my clothing, and Andrea followed me, clearly amused by my desperation.  When I finally found a solution, I threw on some smelly pajamas and invited my visiting teachers into the house.  While I wrestled the soggy towel on my head, they gave a sweet message and politely left before I became too embarrassed to breathe.  No, I will not be making eye contact with them on Sunday.

You see, none of this would have happened if I wasn’t so bad at packing.

Another loss in our family

Warning: This post contains some rather graphic photos.  If you are squeamish and faint at the sight of dismembered bodies you probably should not read any further.

Experiencing death in a family is a natural thing.  It's that whole "circle of life" bit we learned watching Lion King.  However, natural doesn't always mean easy or beautiful.  My hair color, for instance. . .  Sometimes were are given warning of an impending loss like spiritual promptings or the slow decline of health.  Other times it occurs when we least expect it.

Today I didn't expect it.

The day began rather normally.  I was awoken by a text message from my sister, Andrea ate oatmeal for breakfast, I unloaded and loaded the dishwasher, changed the sheets on my bed, started a load of laundry, sang in the shower (loudly and off-key), and dealt with an 18 month old meltdown when I made Andrea stop digging through the bathroom garbage.  The productive morning was lifting my spirits and, combined with the anticipation of my grandmother's arrival from Illinois, I thought nothing could really get me down.  That is. . . until I lifted the lid to washing machine and found a most gruesome sight.

Yes, dear friends, what you see before you was once my pillow.

My pillow and I have been together for almost 14 years now.  My mother brought him home to me shortly after we moved to Utah.  I hated him a first.  He was so fluffy that I had a sore neck every morning.  But the more accustomed we got to each other the more he softened up and the more I began to love him.  When I was twelve I named him George.  No joke.

He was the pillow that listened to my first private prayers.  As a ten year old they were mostly about bugs and to please not let my sister throw-up tonight, thankyouverymuch.  But he was still with me as those prayers matured and became less about myself and more about others.  He heard the deepest desires of my heart, my biggest fears, my greatest joys, and he was my secret keeper.

He absorbed so many tears as I cried on his soft, polyester shoulder during a punishment, after a personal failure, or after having my heart broken.  He cushioned my cranium as I drifted off into dreamland on peaceful nights where the world was right.  He harbored my head when sleep was elusive and thoughts overwhelming.  He never complained.

Even when I drooled on him. . . daily.

Aside from the emotional connection we shared, George was a part of every event in my life.  He went to Clear Creek, girl's camp, Snowbird, family reunions, sleepovers, and was even there for my honeymoon.  Paul learned one of the quickest ways to sour my mood was to take away that pillow.  (He like it too, probably because it smelled better than his. . .)

Paul sleeping on my pillow

I know the "experts" say you should replace your pillow every other year or so, but would you replace a child every other year, or a parent, or a spouse?  No, George was family, and although I battered him with the occasional spin cycle and dryer tumble, I loved him.

As I vacuumed his remains that had scattered about the floor, I wondered if I'd ever have another pillow like George.  No.  I don't think I ever will.

Farewell, George.  I hope you are happy up there in inanimate-object heaven.  Say "hey" to Loona for me.

The most awkward bridal shower

Today I went to a bridal shower.  Actually two.  Funny story.

Today was the bridal shower for one of my oldest friends.  She and I met in sixth grade at school. (Although we went to church together too and didn't know it.)  We went to the same junior high, carpooled together every morning, and were known to have occasional weekend sleepovers.   We went to high school together also, but started making different groups of friends. Then, she started college, moved to Provo, and we only contacted each other a couple of times a year.  She is getting married now, and I was so pleased she thought of me when making a list of people to invite to her bridal shower.

The shower was in Provo.  If you've never been to Provo, YOU ARE THE LUCKIEST PERSON ALIVE.  Seriously.  It is largely a student town where gazillions of BYU students live in the surrounding areas of campus.  In this area traffic is usually ridiculous, there is NO, I mean NOOOO, zero, zip, zilch, nada, and again I repeat, NO parking.  The streets are lined with red curbs, and all apartment lots are plastered with signs indicating the inhumane torture you will undergo should you decide to park there.  But, I was going to a two hour bridal shower and didn't want to walk nine blocks clinging to a huge present.  So I drove along the street, unsupiciously pulling in and out of little lots, until I found one large enough and vacant enough to hide my white car.  I said a little prayer that I was not taking a tenet's prime parking space, and that I would not get towed or booted. . . or Chinese water torture (which I recall seeing in the fine print on the hostile sign near the entrance).

I still had to walk a block clinging to a huge present.  As I approached the front door, I made note of the matching address and knocked.  A squinty-eyed girl answered. She welcomed me in to sit with the already gathered girls, instructed me to help myself to a stale sandwich and some chips, took my present, and added it to the pile forming beside the table.  I looked around the room and noticed that there wasn't a face I recognized.  I expected this though.  After all, my friend and I don't see each other often and have completely different social circles.  And by that I mean she actually has a social circle.

I tried to make conversation with the young lady next to me about how horrible parking in Provo is, and another girl came over to learn our names.  Every one sat awkwardly, I assumed waiting for the bride-to-be to show up.  I took an instantly-regretted bite of my stale sandwich and ask the girl beside me how she knew my friend.  She at once looked shocked.  "Who?"  She said.  I repeated the name and asked if this was her bridal shower.  The silence was palpable.  Twelve girls stared me down until a few looked away, feeding off of my discomfort.  I tried again.  "Isn't this [such and such] address?"  The hostess confirmed, but politely asked me what apartment number I was looking for.  Clearly not use to being in apartments that required extra numbers I said I thought it was two.  Hesitant chuckles began to emanate from some of the guests and the hostess told me I could stay and finish eating.

I was already running late for the REAL bridal shower.  So I asked for my present back and exited the silent scene, sandwich and all.

I walked around the corner of the building nearly in tears.  You see, when I said apartment number two, I was merely guessing.  But considering my invitation was in my car parked down the block (and I'm still caring my HUGE present, people!) I geared myself up for knocking on every door in the building until I found another bridal shower to crash.

Apartment number two had a large front window, and as I ascended the steps leading to the door I noticed a table with neatly place finger food just inside.  I said my second prayer of the adventure, spun around in a circle three times, wished upon a star, ate a four leafed clover, had an asthma attack, and then rang the doorbell.

You can imagine my relief when the door swung open and my friend excitedly called out my name.  I entered explained why I was caring a stale roll and old lunch meat, had a good laugh with the new bridal shower group, and was treated with tasty hummus and cucumber sandwiches.

When the party was over I stepped outside and called my husband.  I didn't want to be alone in the event that I stumbled upon a booted car or no car at all.  Or a creepy Chinese guy with a pitcher of water.  He talked me down the street until I came to my car, unscathed and just as I'd left it.

Take THAT, PROVO!

I'm glad today is over.

A dream is not always a wish

I've been recently rifling through some old pictures on my computer, and I stumbled upon my trip to the Jay Leno show.  That had to have been one of the most crazy, exciting, and embarrassing things I've ever done.  Upon reliving that event, I drifted off to sleep to the sound of Paul's homework and had the following dream:

Being a couple of years since the Jay Leno experience, I assumed/hoped no one in the entertainment industry remembered the event.  However,  a producer from Saturday Night Live calls up my mother-in-law and tells her he saw us on Jay Leno and though we were so hilarious that he'd love to do a skit about us on his show.  Most importantly, he'd like us to star in the skit about ourselves.  She talks it over with the family, and we agree to go.  Because we are all masochists.  Apparently.

The dream cuts to our arrival in California.  We immediately head to a studio to begin rehearsals.  We're given scripts and matching blue shirts.  However, when rehearsals get underway, the SNL producers begin to realize that our little stunt on Jay Leno was not in jest, but that we were serious about the performance.  Embarrassed for us and themselves they decide to not do the skit.  It would be too mean.  Because they'd already flown us out, they decided to give us tickets to watch the show.

I've not seen much Saturday Night Live in reality so my subconscious compensated.  The women of the family, so afraid of seeing something inappropriate, sat backwards in their chairs.  The SNL producers were mortified.  This awkward family was in the front row, and the audience was staring at them more than the show.  One producer came out and discretely invited us backstage for a chat.  Once backstage, they offered us another chance to participate in a skit.  The final skit actually, where we'd play an audience to a balloon artist.  They told us there was no script but that we should just play along with the scene.

What they didn't tell us was the balloon artist was planning on making a lot of wiener jokes.  Being pure heart and of mind, no one in our family realized what he was doing.  He began to make his first balloon "animal"  and I asked him if he was making a worm.  The camera zooms in on me, and in my nervous state I start rattling off every fact I know about worms. "Over a million earthworms can live under an acre of land.  When cut in half an earth worm can grow back it's segments.  The longest earthworm ever found was 22 feet long."

The balloon artist stares at me blankly for a while before creating another balloon figure.  This time my sister-in-law asks if it's a sword and proceeds to lecture on sword making.  Feeling like he's lost complete control of his skit, the balloon artist drops his balloons and walks off stage.

Since the show is LIVE the cameras continue to roll.  Confused and mortified, we sat nervously for a moment hoping they'd send someone back out to finish the skit.  But when the silence grew to be too much, my mother-in-law began singing, "Love at Home."  One by one we joined her and then some audience members who were familiar with the song joined in as well.  The cameras kept rolling.  We finished all of the verses and the audience applauded.  I guess it was so awkward they found it funny after all.

I woke up completely embarrassed and entirely amused.  I never cease to be amazed at some of the things the subconscious can concoct.

My business

I've never considered myself much of a business woman.  In fact, I'm probably an anti-business woman.  I'm so uncomfortable with selling product that I instead insult the product I'm trying push.  No, I've never actually worked a sales job, but I find my reaction to giving away food I've cooked quite illuminating.

Example:  Paul comes home from school and I greet him at the door wearing my apron, looking oh-so-domestic, and holding a silver platter of freshly baked cupcakes.  I say, "Welcome home darling husband! (I call him that all the time. . .)  Have a cupcake.  I made it so it's probably nasty.  Yeah, the batter was a little runny so I added some oat bran, and then I forgot the pinch of salt in the frosting, so I just sprinkled it on top-- which made it totally gross.  I had to scrape off the tainted part which is why these look so ugly. Enjoy!"  And he'll eat seven because that's what he does.

I can't even sell my own cooking, and that's only the beginning of my pitchman problems.  Despite my long list of business flaws, an idea came to me today that I could not sweep under the rug.

I was making soup for lunch.  Bean and pasta soup, if you must know.  I burnt the onions a little, added too much basil, and the noodles turned into cement on the bottom of the pan because I didn't stir often enough.  (Do you see?  Do you see what I'm talking about?  AHH!)  Whilst I cooked, my little child toddled and crawled below.  Once she became sufficiently bored with all there was to see in my vicinity, she ventured over to the garbage can and had to be relocated to the living room before she started plucking out the moldy contents.

On my way back to the kitchen I stopped in front of the fridge and stared down at the multitude of magnets scattered about the floor.  "If I had a dime for every time I picked these up in a day. . ." I mumbled under my breath.

And that was it.  My new business.  It was like lightning struck and brilliance was born.  I'm going to call it, "Dimes for Magnets."

Here's the master plan: I will count every time I pick up those magnets and get paid one dime per pick up.  Simple, clean, no coworker drama, perfect.  As my business grows I will purchase a second fridge and another set of magnets.  Perhaps I'll hire another little toddler (following child labor laws, of course!) to help Andrea with her work.  I can create a website dedicated to "Dimes for Magnets."

I'll find a ribbon color that's not being used and donate half of my proceeds to the Paying Off the Master's Program (POMP) Fund.

On the website there will be a link to live footage of my kitchen floor so you can be a part of the action.  I will have sponsors who will get a custom magnet, placed loving on my fridge(s), which will not only advertise their business to my live audience, but for every time their logo hits the floor I will donate $. 05 to POMP.  I got two words for you: tax deduction.

Once my company is worth a substantial amount I will go public and sell my shares for an incredibly lucrative amount.  I will then retire due to some astonishingly mysterious back problems.

Now I just need an initial investor to with a lot of dimes.  Any takers?