Tuesday, December 15, 2009

Not Hyperbole

So, you probably thought I was being, you know, dramatic when I announced that I look like I'm carrying a Volkswagen instead of a baby. I'll agree there's precedence. But just so you know that I'm not exaggerating, consider this:

This weekend Veevs attended a birthday party at a beauty salon (gag--don't get me started). I drove her there, and just for the record, I was actually dressed (Well, I had on pants AND a coat! You couldn't really tell I was wearing one of Rhett's old shirts, promise!). When we pulled up, she looked at me with cool appraisal and said, "Um, Mom, is it okay if you just drop me off at the front of the store?"


"Well, it's just since you're so big now, it's kind of embarrassing."

Oy vey.

Saturday, December 5, 2009

Wouldn't It Be Funny?

Wouldn't it be funny if I started writing on my blog every day again?


But I'm in the middle of finals, have a baby due in two and a half weeks, and am so large that it looks more like I'm carrying a Volkswagen around in my belly instead of a baby.

So don't hold your breath.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Minivan Music

When we get into the minivan, everyone has a request.

Veevs wants to listen to High School Musical (don't ask why we own this--long story).

If I turn on High School Musical, Spe will unfailingly say, "This is junk. Let's listen to some rock and roll!" And by rock and roll, he means The Doors. Particularly the song "Whiskey Bar". It is his dad's influence, I promise.

Veevs doesn't mind The Doors, either. She said to me the other day, after I confessed that no, I don't love The Doors, "I don't want to like The Doors, either, Mom, but their songs just get stuck in my head." Her current favorite is "Hello, I Love You".

But Jakers is my kid. When we get into the minivan, he says, "Mom, can we listen to some disco?" I think it's quite discerning for a two year old.

And then he sings along to "Shake, Shake, Shake (Shake Your Booty)", because if I've taught him one thing in this world, it's that if you've got it, you should shake it.

Thursday, November 12, 2009

Celebrations! and Others . . .

I don't know if you've noticed, but pregnancy, as a state of being makes me turn decidedly inward. I just don't feel the need to connect with other human beings as I do when I am not lugging around another human being inside of me. I remember when we first moved here to Texas, I found out the week before we moved that I was pregnant. I remember sitting in church on Sundays thinking, No, don't sit by me. Keep walking. I don't really want a friend right now. The idea of making small talk and being chipper and upbeat is just too much work for me. As a sidenote, these negative vibes worked pretty much throughout my whole pregnancy. I didn't make a single friend until after I had given birth.

But today there are a number of things to celebrate:

1) I finished my most pressing item of homework with time to spare for a nap before I go and fetch the kids from school. Sure, sure, I could complete less pressing items of homework and get ahead of the game. But that would mean that I would have to completely change my personality.

2) I also remembered that I had hidden a package of Grasshopper Fudge cookies in my cupboard. They aren't all gone yet, but thanks for thinking that might be a possibility (it really is a possibility, you know).

3) Veevs is reading Little House in the Big Woods. This gives me all sorts of nostalgic joy that I can't even begin to express.

4) I am starting to nest. If you think this means that my house is clean, you would be wrong. What it means is that I pull out all the contents of random cupboards, half organize them, lose the energy that I had, and leave half of the contents on the floor/counter. You're welcome, Rhett. But I like nesting because it leaves me feeling like I've accomplished something.

HOWEVER, there are also a number of non-celebrations that we can just file under "Other" in an attempt to be positive and chipper (I'm not):

1) I am large with this pregnancy. REALLY LARGE. So large, in fact, that my hips go to sleep after fifteen minutes of resting. So I'm up constantly at night.

2) My house. Oy vey. My house. (And it's only partly because of the half-organized cupboards that have found themselves emptied on to the floor/counter.)

3) My sense of humor. Where has it gone? Seriously, I can't imagine why I ever thought I had one in the first place. This brings me back to why my postings have been so infrequent and so frequently unfunny--I just don't have it in me to be funny these days. I'm not even sure I can muster mildly amusing.

4) This baby is an iron-sucking monster. I have been more anemically challenged by this child than any other child, and quite frankly, some days I feel good if I only take two naps. Because three naps a day is not an unheard of phenomenon around here. My doctor called me to let me know I was iron-deficient after my last blood test. I was so relieved! I just thought that my inherent laziness was overcoming all my other good qualities.

So now, having done my duty by my blog, I'm off to nap/celebrate/other.

And now you know what I mean by unfunny blogging.

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

How We're Making It Through . . .

I'm not going to lie. I'm still a little bit disturbed by the fact that Rhett and I have been happily married for almost ten years and I just barely found out about our divergent evolution opinions. Obviously, we're talking about the wrong things over the dinner table.

So lately we've had a lot of conversations like this one:

Me: So when you see representations of early hominids in the museum, what do you think they are? Like some giant hoax against humanity perpetrated by evil scientists?

Rhett: (pursed lips, vague air of disapproval) You are going to hell.

But I've finally figured out how to keep this difference of opinion (or total disregard of scientific evidence, depending on how you look at it) from ruining our marriage.

Every so often, Rhett will try to explain to me about how the streaks of white cloud-looking material trailing behind jet planes is not, in actuality, a jet's exhaust, which is what I always claim that it is.

"Heids, it's actually . . . blah, blah blah." I wish I could tell you what it actually is, but I always tune out at this point, because hey, look at that plane's EXHAUST! We've had this conversation several times and I always tune Rhett out. Not because I don't believe him (I sort of don't) but mostly because I don't want to be bothered to learn something new about something that interests me so not at all.

For Rhett, this fascination with airplane exhaust systems (please, please imagine the eye rolling that he's going to do when he reads that phrase) is in his blood. He and his dad (and now my kids, too) are jet fanatics. His dad has been known to sit on the porch with a pair of binoculars to better identify the military aircraft flying overhead (how fortuitous that he lives so close to an air base!). Rhett takes our kids every year to the local airshow, and has embarrassingly been known to tell me the manufacturer and make of anything that moves in the sky. I went with Rhett one year to the air show and discovered hey! Rhett actually wanted to look at planes. And hey! he also wanted to stay for longer than an hour, so ever since then it's been one of those things that I let him enjoy in peace. I think it's good for him to have his own interests.

So, my point here, and I do have one surprisingly, is that if evolution is Rhett's equivalent of my airplane exhaust, more power to him. I won't even bother talking about it any more, because I know he'll just tune me out.

But just for the record--I still don't think I'm going to hell.

Thursday, September 24, 2009

Something Serious

I have all these serious thoughts in my head today, but my brain won't quite let me release them to my blog in an unedited fashion (Did you know that I hardly ever edit my stuff for my blog? First drafts, that's what you're reading here. I know some bloggers work on certain posts for weeks or days at a time, and I admire them for that. I just don't have it in me.).

Some of these serious thoughts have to do with:

Religion and Faith

Divisive politics

The Intersection of Religion and Politics

Why Rhett Doesn't Believe in Evolution

If I'm Going to Hell for Believing in Evolution (Rhett says yes! I am going to hell for believing in evolution! He also says he'll stop by with his five replacement wives to say hi [That's a bad Mormon joke, of course]. I only found out two days ago that we disagree on this issue. Obviously we should have gone to pre-marital counseling. This issue could destroy our happy home!)

Parenting (This is only on my mind because all my children are away at school today. If they were here I wouldn't have the leisure of self-reflection.)


Gender Roles in Developing Countries

There's more roiling around up there, but no wonder I can't get any laundry done. In the big scheme of things, what's my laundry? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Now I sound like a nihilist. Add that to the list.

Saturday, September 19, 2009

I'm trying to raise an independent, strong-minded, feisty girl over here (heavy on the feisty).

So on a feminist scale, how bad is it that she knows (and belts) all the words to "It's Raining Men"?

It's okay because the song objectifies men instead of women, right?


Thursday, September 17, 2009

Tales from the AT Room

When I was in elementary school, I qualified for a program called "Academically Talented" (the old 80s equivalent to the current Gifted and Talented program, wherein they pretend that if your child plays the saxophone well they could hypothetically be included in this program, but which in reality still functions in the exact same way as the old Academically Talented program did: you have to take a test to see how "smart" you are to get in). Back in those days, those of us who were "smart" enough to be in the pull-out program called it "AT", because even then we were hipsters with our own special language.

My brothers called it Animal Training (which AT could also stand for, get it?). I don't want to say they were motivated by jealousy, but . . .

The most awesome thing about this is that I almost got kicked out of AT in the fifth grade, because I couldn't remember to do the big projects we were supposed to do (this refrain would follow me throughout all my schooling years), and apparently when they named the class Academically Talented? What they really meant was Academically Responsible. After a rather serious meeting with my mother, Mrs. Bealls decided I could stay. But only if I made up that special project on ancient Egyptian makeup that I had failed to complete satisfactorily. Because, dammit, how was I supposed to become a well-informed, responsible, intelligent human being if I didn't know the ingredients used in ancient Egyptian cosmetics? It's still a quandary I wrestle with, let me tell you.

Anyway. My point is this: in sixth grade, one of our super-awesome, this-will-keep-you-engaged-in-schoolwork-so-you-don't-become-bored-and-act-out-project was to create a comic book that showed a new superhero dealing with a current social problem in a fresh and innovative way.

My superhero?

Prostitution Pam. She took on illegal prostitution while wearing a teal green miniskirt and fishnet stockings. Her teased and ratted hair and heavy rouge was just her way of letting the girls know she "got them"--she herself had gotten out of that racket years ago and had now dedicated her life to changing the shadowy world of prostitution. Her novel solution to this pressing social problem? Well, she passed out condoms like they were candy, as well as informing the girls of the counties in Nevada to which they should move. You know, counties where prostitution was legal.

And despite the fact that like most of my other AT projects, this one was completed almost entirely on the school bus on the morning it was due, I think it turned out very well. I think the teacher might have had another opinion, however. I got a 'C'. Maybe for chlamydia?

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

Insult to Injury

We don't have cable. First, Rhett is too cheap to get cable, but also really? Like we can't waste enough time on our own? This means that when the big digital switchover came it totally doubled the number of channels we received. My kids previously only had PBSKids to watch, but now they have Qubo (?). The only drawback is that Qubo has commercials.

The other day I was flat-ironing my hair and Veevs said, "Why are you using that flat iron? It just crushes and burns your hair. You need the Instastyler--it locks moisture into your hair."


Bump-its (Bumpitz? Bumpits? Bump-itz? I clearly have not been paying enough attention!) have become kind of a family joke.

The other day Rhett said jokingly to me, "Hey, Heids, I saw they are selling Bump-its at the Wal-Mart now. I was going to pick you up some."

Spe asked, "Why does Mom want Bump-its?"

Veevs replied confidently, "Because she has flat hair, Spe."

Apparently I'm now lazy and flat-haired. What else is that girl thinking about me?

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

The One Bad Thing About School Starting . . .

In my haste to kick my kids out of my house for a good portion of every day, I forgot the down side to releasing your children into the world.

Today Veevs came home and we sat at the table eating a cookie together, talking about her day. I noticed her fingernails were getting long. Okay, actually not getting long. They were like already Elvira long. I'd like to blame this motherly oversight on pregnancy but let's be honest: how much can I get away with here in the pregnancy-blame department? I've probably used up my quota.

Anyway, I said, "Wow, sis, we really need to cut those nails."

She said, "I know. Someone asked me today how come I get to keep my nails so long."

"Did you tell them it's because your mom is neglectful?" I asked.

She swallowed her cookie and shook her head. "No. I told them you were too lazy." You guys. She was serious.

I laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed. Because what else do you do when the truth about your lackadaisical parenting is broadcast out loud like that?

In my defense, the cookies were homemade.

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

It sounds good, but . . .

I just read another blog somewhere wherein the author made a lovely list of things she wanted to do in the course of her life.

For the most part, I was nodding along: yes, yes, I would love to visit Australia, too, yes, yes, I agree . . . and then I read this one:

Make my home the kind of place where everyone else's kids want to hang out.

What? Honey? Do you know how crazy that is? I have a hard enough time keeping it together with just the three who I actually have some semblance of control over hanging around here, underfoot, always asking for food, or snacks, or spilling drinks, or whatever. And you seriously, seriously want to increase that to include all your kids' friends?

I'm just saying, I think I would rather die. I'm not saying I don't want my kids' friends to come over. But seriously, I would rather have my house be the place where just my kids want to hang out all the time.

Because I'm mean and antisocial like that.

Monday, July 27, 2009

Things Are Looking Up

You know, I have to say, life is looking much, much rosier around here. There are one hundred reasons why I shouldn't say that (Hello, summer. I hate you after two weeks. I hope fall, most specifically school's opening, comes soon.) but I'm feeling so much better. Finally.

I'm sure that during my absence you would think I stored up all sorts of little gems to write about, but no, I'm sitting here just as clueless about what the real topic of this post will be as I always am. So I'll give into random blathering in the usual fashion. My literary standards are very high.

Right this instant, I'm a little ticked about something someone said to me, so Rhett is trying to help me feel better by playing me an entire playlist of music full of revenge and hateful feelings. He has gone to this extreme because when I first told him about what happened, he tried to convince me I was being too sensitive and that it didn't matter. Of course, this is true, and this is the conclusion I will come to within a half an hour, but for half an hour, I'd really like him to join in my indignation. So after I told him he sucked at being sympathetic, he played me "I Hate Everything About You" by Ugly Kid Joe, "Stupid Girl" by Garbage and Carrie Underwood's "Before He Cheats" (which has nothing to do with the incident but which was accompanied by a suggestion that we go key this person's car). He also tried to play me some song by a heavy metal band, but I couldn't understand what they were saying, so he gave up in exasperation. Rhett clearly has a difficult time with moderation. It's all extremes or nothing. Thank goodness this marriage has me to keep us on an even keel. I don't want to say I'm Rhett's emotional rock, but . . .

Clearly, next time this happens, I will know to call one of my girl friends or one of my sisters, instead of telling Rhett about it.

I cannot, for the life of me, find my wallet. It is somewhere in my house, and I even have a vague, hazy memory of seeing it someplace weird and thinking Wow, I'll have to remember where that is or that could end in disaster, but now of course, I can't remember where that weird place is and so I'm driving illegally and stiffing my babysitters with the promise of future payment. They love it.

I keep sending my kids out to collect our chickens' eggs (because I think I have mentioned before that I am scared of our chickens, since they like to peck human beings). Don't think I'm being careless with my kids' safety, though. I equip each of them with a plastic cup to throw at the chickens in case they attack. It's the same system I use when I'm forced to go out myself, and trust me, it works. But then, of course, my yard gets littered with plastic cups and we don't have anything to drink out of. I think it's a small price to pay for safe passage.

Well, this is a most glorious return to blogging. One of my students emailed me recently and we talked about how all this technology allows us to think that our mundane thoughts are important enough for the world to hear about, and boy, Justin, is this post a fabulous example of that or what?

Anyone else have any world-shattering mundane thoughts they would like to share?

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

Why Rhett Can't Win

Rhett has it bad these days.

I am not a suffer-in-silence kind of person. (You knew this already, yes?) I am really a complain--moan-whine-and-then-blame-it-on-the-person-who-donated-half-the-genetic-material kind of person. Because it just seems so UNFAIR that he feels nothing (except for my wrath, of course) for nine months whilst I deal with nausea, sharp, stabbing abdominal pain and exhaustion. And then he kind of wants to hold the baby at the end of my misery. Mitts off, little man, you did NOTHING!

Anyway, some days Rhett just ignores me (this makes me more crazy). Other days he tries to sympathize without actually having idea what I'm going through (my male OB/GYN makes this same mistake, and it's not just annoying--it's condescending).

A few days ago I said something like this: "I hate being pregnant! I HATE IT! I HATE IT! I HATE IT!" Because I've told you I'm trying to be more positive about life these days, right? I know this kind of attitude is really annoying to people who can't get pregnant, and I'm so sorry. But I'm still allowed to feel how I feel, and what I feel right now is miserable.

He responded, "You know, maybe if you want more kids after this, we should think about adoption."

What he meant for me to hear from this was that he loves me so much that he doesn't want me to have to suffer through pregnancy anymore.

What I heard, of course, was that I'm such a miserable human being when I'm pregnant that there is no way in HELL he is going to endure this one more time.

And then he said, "And then maybe we could adopt a little Hispanic baby because they have such beautiful black hair and are so cute."

And then I said, "What, because the babies I make aren't cute enough for you?"

Poor Rhett. He just can't win.

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

What? I Have A Blog?

It's been so long since I've posted that I actually forgot my username and password for Blogger, which is surely a sign that I'm a loser of a special kind (especially since I use the same variations of the same usernames and passwords for almost everything).

As always (or not), I've got a great excuse for not posting: the nastiest, most vile first trimester of pregnancy. It's not that I couldn't post because I am too physically ill, but instead, all I've felt like doing is complaining. And really, do you want to hear about how much I hate being pregnant? Do you really want to hear about how big I'm getting?

I know I should be writing down these beautiful milestones of pregnancy for posterity and to treasure up in my heart in later years, but this is my fourth pregnancy, people. The wonders of my expanding waistline and shrinking bladder are just not as amusing this time around. (Were they ever amusing? Really?)

So anyway. On the bright side, we invested in a four-CD disco set and I don't care what people say: I LOVE DISCO!

Saturday, May 23, 2009

On Wishing

Remember my one wish? The one about having confidence about this really being Rhett's last degree?

Today he told me that the thought he would probably, at some point, you know, when the time is right, go for a degree in employment law, because, you know, it just seems like a natural progression for his career.

I didn't tell him that because of all the schooling he's done, he doesn't really have a career at this point.

Because one wish dying (MINE)? That's surely enough for today.

Thursday, May 14, 2009

What I Wish

I wish I had posted recently so that the blogging guilt cloud would stop raining on my parade.

I wish I had confidence that this really, really, really is Rhett's last degree.

I wish I didn't have to threaten my kids with extra chores to make them listen to me. But I do, and it works, so now I'll write a book advising all the other mothers in the world how to use my crap philosophy on raising obedient children and then I will sign your copy of my book for you, because even amidst all that fame, deep down, I'm still just Jenny from the block. Or Heidi. Whatever.

I wish some of my favorite authors weren't dead.

I wish I weren't so tired tonight. How was it possible that I used to stay up past midnight every night when I was in college? Seriously, how was that even physiologically possible? (Was that too hyperbolic? It was, wasn't it?)

I wish I slept so deeply I didn't wake up to snoring. This would make it possible for my husband and I to sleep together in blissful peace every night. Or, alternately, I wish my husband didn't snore. Yeah. It's his fault.

I wish I had a child old enough to load the dishwasher. Seriously, grow up, kids. Mom's got some chores with your names all over them.

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

I'm Back . . .

I'm back. I survived my trip to the land of alligators (but not without several panic attacks). We had a wonderful time. I got sunburned, because hey, when you expose your bare legs for the first time in a year, you're bound to get a little crisp.

I'll write more later. Unfortunately, these bags don't unpack themselves.

Saturday, April 25, 2009

Here with Heidi (figuratively) OR Keeping Kenny Away (literally)

So Heidi left with the kids for the week to head to the fun and sun of oceanfront property. Again, I’m not joining them for beach fun and sun due to work and school commitments. No, no—I will not accept your pity because sometimes it’s nice to work until 8pm and not feel that nagging sense of needing to get home to spend time with your family. It makes it easy when your family doesn’t want to spend time with you.

I’m going to let you in on some little gems from living with Heidi day-to-day. I know Heidi is trying to run a family show on this blog, but she’s not here anymore. If this blog post were a TV show, it would have a rating of HYTGTBE for “Hell yes there’s going to be expletives!” and PKRSC for “Possible Kenny Rogers sexual content” and OSYWC for “Obama says ‘Yes we can!’ ”. If you are offended by expletives, talk of possible sexual conduct, or Obama, then go to Hell!

Let’s discuss Kenny Rogers......although I know that Heidi loves me dearly because I’m such a wonderful husband, I also know that Kenny Rogers is the only man that Heidi would leave me for. In fact, every day when I arrive home from work, I put my keys in the lock in the front door and try to jiggle the keys just enough for fair warning to produce the, “Hey, I’ve got my key in the lock and I’m coming inside in a split second so Heidi if you are in here in the heat of passion with Kenny you better cover up or run away naked” noise. You can imagine my relief when I walk in and find Heidi sitting alone, reading quietly, on the couch, without Kenny—no passion, no infidelity, no home wrecking. Upon finding Heidi not in the heat of passion with Kenny, I can immediately wipe away the moist beads of sweat forming on my brow with relief and thank God for another successful day keeping Kenny away.

Let’s discuss the, “It’s upstairs”……..Come on Heidi! We’ve been married long enough that if you don’t know where something is located, then just say it. I’m certain that every misplaced child or possession that we own is not upstairs. I bought this crap for the first couple of years but now I know that you are just feeding me a line. For the sake of all that is holy and dear, if you’ve lost something, then just say it. Let us practice—“It’s lost!” There—that wasn’t too bad was it? One more time now, all together—“My wedding ring is lost!” See that wasn’t too difficult was it? One last time because good things come in threes (like the trinity or the Back to the Future trilogy or the number of dollars in our checking account)—“My cell phone is lost!” I feel better already, don’t you?

And last but certainly not least by any statistically significant measure (gotta love the p-value. Wait, maybe it’s the f-value? Both maybe?……I was never very good at statistics anyway)…

Let’s discuss you Piles…..oops! Sorry Heidi—I let your little secret slip!!! I know that this might be a little embarrassing for you, and not the best forum to reveal this little secret, but I figure that there might be others who are suffering with the same issues. It’s not easy to discuss such a private matter in public, but it’s not right to have to suffer with hemorrhoids alone either. I’m not talking about hemorrhoids people, but the little piles of stuff or junk or garbage or clothes or kids that Heidi loves to leave lying around the house. In fact, I’ve spent the better part of this morning de-piling. Much like Preparation H Cream sooths real rhoids, I am the balm for Heidi’s piles. I don’t know how all these little landmines pop up but it is really starting to make me uncomfortable and sweaty….I don’t want to talk about it anymore.

Despite these little (and by little I mean major) idiosyncrasies, I’m still here with Heidi. In fact, we recently celebrated our nine-year wedding anniversary. What did we do to celebrate you ask? Olive Garden? The Cheesecake Factory? Oh, no—much too romantic and clearly not expensive enough considering the $3 in our checking account. To celebrate properly I sat at home, alone, on the couch, in my underwear, watching PBS. Where was Heidi you ask? Heidi had class that night and was on campus until late. She did however bring me home a new 3-piece set of anniversary luggage! Who knew that the nine-year anniversary is the luggage anniversary? I can’t wait for the thirteenth-year anniversary when I’ll get new tires on my car! Oh, wait—the new-tires-on-car anniversary is actually the first-year anniversary—sorry Heidi! However, I digress……

Despite these little (and by little I mean major) character flaws, I still love Heidi. After nine years of marriage it is clear to me, now more than ever before, that I love Heidi because of these character traits. They are not simply endearing quirks but represent who Heidi is—and I love who Heidi is. As our lives become more and more connected and intertwined, I can’t think of anyone who I would rather be with (go to Hell Kenny!). Heidi is a strong, dynamic, and intelligent woman who has much to offer those around her and especially me. I have been fortunate to participate in her kindness, grace, humor, and lack of humility when it comes to her profession—I think you’re the best damn teacher as well Heidi! You don’t have to keep telling me—I agree with you! Heidi, I don’t care that you twice tried to break my neck a week ago—first by sitting on me and wrenching my head back—and then by karate chopping my windpipe when I wasn’t looking. I’m still here loving you, vacuuming around your piles, and waiting for your return from the beach. Please don’t let our children drown in the ocean.

Thursday, April 23, 2009

Going, going, gone

Sorry for the blog neglect, but get used it, because I'm leaving town for like two weeks.

If the stars align, maybe Rhett will guest post again. Because that was awesome, wasn't it?

Monday, April 13, 2009

On Romance

For Julie, with whom I go way back. We taught at PG High School together, she in a urine-smelling trailer, and me in a hallway that reeked of guano. She always makes me laugh.

Julie had three choices for a topical blog and her choices were: On Romance, On Lost (the TV show), and On the OctoMom. On Lost (the TV show), I have to say the title perfectly describes how I feel when I watch. I only started watching halfway through this season, and I don't get anything that's going on, but yet I'm still strangely fascinated by it. So, I'm not that qualified to discuss. On the OctoMom, I've stayed out of this melee (surprising when you consider the kind of power I yield to change the situation, I know). Should she have had eight babies? No, probably not. But she did. Is she crazy? Yes, probably. But I'll leave the judgement call to the authorities.

So that brings me to the topic that I chose to really address: ROMANCE!

You might wonder about my qualifications, and I have to say, I understand your concerns. But you guys, you must have forgotten that I'm one of the founders of the Tingling Touches club. So I'm totally over-qualified.

Here's the thing about romance. There are all sorts of definitions, and when I talk about romance (in italics) I'm talking about what I consider a (basically false) idea that a man has to treat a woman in a ridiculous way to show how much he loves her. Historically, this has taken several forms:

1. Kissing every stone step the woman walks on directly after verbally reprimanding her so that she flees in tears (The Scarlet Pimpernel).

2. Don't get me started on Wuthering Heights
. That's all I'm going to say about that.

3. Also, if you are really romantic (historically), you might want to act like you totally hate the girl and her family, while secretly falling in love with her. And hey, make sure that disdain shows when you propose against your better sense (Pride and Prejudice).

Then there's the modern romance literature, by which of course, I mean this:

In this genre, a romantic man seems to generally be moody, mysterious, and has a strong tendency to walk around with no shirt (or worse) on. But in the end? All those rude comments he made? All the times that he seemed to snub the heroine? They actually were demonstrations of love. He had to act that way so that he didn't crush her in his arms. And those times that he did crush her in his arms? Weakness, for which he is sorry. Because he should stay away from her because she has a bright future ahead of her/has lost her memory/deserves someone better than him/has gonorrhea. I'm just kidding about that last one. I just threw it in for Rhett, who's fascinated by STDs.

My point here is this: Romance, in italics, is ridiculous.

Because for me, the real romance of our marriage occurs when things are tough. It occurs when we choose to support each other when we don't really want to. It occurred when Rhett took such tender care of me after the birth of my babies. It occurs when he calls me from work to see how I'm doing. It occurs when we forgive each other for the stupid things we do when it would be easier to stay mad.

So, romance? Eh, not so much. But real romance? I'm such a fan.

Oh, who am I kidding? I love me a romantic story as much as the next person. But let's pretend I'm not that shallow, okay?

Friday, April 10, 2009

My Newest, Cleverest, Interactive Idea

So, here's what I'm thinking. I'm thinking it's time for you to be a little more interactive with the content of this blog.

So, you know my ongoing series of topical blogs? What? You didn't know I had an ongoing series of topical blogs? Well, actually neither did I, but then I noticed that when I'm lazy I just title a blog "On _________," and it's turned out pretty awesome. For example, this series includes On Chickens, On Rain, and of course the previous post, On Barbie.

Maybe it's not exactly awesome, but it's all I've got, people. So here's what I'm thinking: in the comment section give me your top three choices for the next "On ______" blog that I should write. I plan on doing a bunch of these, because really, have you seen my life? Not exactly rich writing material these days.

Here's what you'll get in return: I will visit your blog and comment! (I know I'm not so good at that lately) And I will write honestly about my opinion/experience with your topic and I'll link to you at the beginning/end of the post. So make 'em good, okay? The prizes available here rival any giveaway I've seen anywhere. Right?

Does that sound super bossy, or what? Well, now you know how Rhett feels.

Wednesday, April 8, 2009

On Barbie

Most people think I would be opposed to letting my daughter have a Barbie (because apparently, in this blog I come across as a raving-borderline-bra-burning-feminist). But, I'm not opposed to my daughter having a Barbie, because you know me. I look at all this stuff as just another opportunity to have deep, meaningful conversations about society's unrealistic expectations for women and their bodies.

Veevs has actually never asked for a Barbie. When we went to the store to pick out her toy that she "earned" for completing her good girl sticker chart, I held my breath as we went down the Barbie aisle. She paused for a minute in front of Pediatrician-who-apparently-practices-medicine-on-the-beach-because-look-at-that-killer-tan-Barbie.

"You can pick that if you want." I said off-handedly. Because secretly, I was only glad it wasn't Cheerleader-who-got-a-boob-job-in-high-school-Barbie.

She picked Littlest Pet Shop Hamster Wheel of Death instead.

But you guys, I have great memories of playing Barbie. And sure, my Barbie was a little bit slutty, passing out her phone number to random men on the street and going on three dates a night with different men. For someone who did this every night, she didn't have a very good grasp on logistics. She got caught every time. See, sluttiness doesn't pay off. Even then I knew it.

I had two Barbie-playing phases. When I was little, I played Barbie with my older sisters, Ginnie and Heather. Back then my Barbie was a secretary named Linda by profession, and she liked to go to the disco and do fantastic splits.

But then when I got a little older (okay, thirteen) I was playing Barbies with my two younger brothers, Dan and Josh (and while I can't imagine them having any problem whatsoever with my outting their Barbie habit in this forum, maybe I should apologize in advance?), and my two younger sisters, Lindsey and Courtney. It was during this time that my Barbie, now named Trixie, became such a slut.

But compared to everyone else, my Barbie was living the conservative Christian lifestyle. My brother Dan commandeered the old Barbie-sized GI Joe (remember those?), who would accost the girl Barbies constantly. He was always drunk, and he always thought every girl Barbie wanted to be with him. Trixie hated how he would always follow her around when she went jogging.

Josh, on the other hand, created Deedee. She was an old Barbie whose glam hair had been cut off into a flat top. She wore Rocker Ken's jumpsuit with an elastic around the waist to accentuate her tiny waist. She had an annoying desire to move in with Trixie. Also, she tried to steal Trixie's boyfriends, and if you think that's appropriate Barbie behavior, then you've obviously played Barbies before. Deedee was a stalker, and worse! she always tried to borrow all of the other Barbies' outfits. If you did loan her a dress, she would find some way to make it tacky. We all hated Deedee.

See? Why wouldn't I want my daughter to play with Barbies? I can't imagine there's anything unhealthy in that kind of creative play, can you? Guess who's getting a Barbie for Christmas!

Monday, April 6, 2009

The Loveliest Thing

I don't cry very often anymore. I mean, sure, I was a passionate, moody, stormy adolescent and I cried all the time as a teenager. Usually when I cried then, I did it in the bathroom looking at myself sadly in the mirror, because the tears really made my eyes pop. I believe I thought I actually was prettier when I was crying than any other way, which is probably good, since a good 70% of my adolescence was probably spent crying in the bathroom. Nothing like a little self-esteem!

But these days, I just don't see much to cry about. My laundry pile will still be just as big whether I cry about it or not. My dishes still have to be done whether I cry about it or not. I just don't have the energy to give to a good cry.

But today I went and took my kids to McDonald's because our McDonald's has kids' meals for a dollar on Monday nights, and hey, why not? (Don't mention childhood obesity, or the inhumane slaughtering of cattle or anything, please)

The line around the McDonald's was forever long, you have to circle around and then come at it from the right angle. A lady pulled in from the other direction and I let her in ahead of me, which was no big deal, because our McDonald's is an assembly line and they move us through fast.

So I order my kids' meals and pull forward to the first window and hold out my card to pay.

"I don't need that," the guy says, "The lady in front of you just paid for you. She said to thank you for letting her in."

And just like that, I was in tears. How simply lovely.

I felt kinder all day.

Saturday, April 4, 2009

Talk About Overwhelming

Wow. You guys really hate Kid Rock.

I understand, really I do. That's why I called him "strangely attractive".

I imagine it's the same feeling that Julia Roberts had about Lyle Lovett.

Except, of course, I would never actually marry Kid Rock.

But that's mostly out of respect to my soulmate, Pammy.

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

Can You Settle This for Me?

Rhett and I have a small disagreement.

I find Kid Rock strangely attractive.

Rhett thinks I'm crazy.

With whom do you side?

Friday, March 27, 2009

What I THOUGHT I Taught My Kids

For the most part I think I work pretty hard to teach my kids good things. You know, they say "pardon" when they let it rip, they (usually) say thank you if you do something nice for them, and they believe we are all family in God's eyes (Veevs loves to remind me that in God's family I'm just her sister, not her mommy.)

But every once in a while they do things that make me wonder if I have actually been raising them in a barn without somehow knowing it.

Last week we went to Spe's soccer game. He loves soccer, and has started throwing elbows to keep the other kids away from the ball. Anyway, at the end of the game, Rhett and I were chasing our other kids (oh, fine, I was talking to some of the other moms) when we realized Spe was gone. I assumed he was in the video arcade, but no.

You guys.

He was just outside of the front door. Peeing. On the ground. Shamelessly peeing in full view of, well, just about anyone.

WHA? Imagine our deep shame when the front desk guy at the soccer club was all like, "Hey, is this your kid? Because he was outside taking a whiz."

Imagine, too, my embarrassment when we had to walk past the still visible puddle of urine on our way out.

Obviously, we've still got some work to do.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Am I Weird?

I don't want to implant negative thoughts in your head about me (hey, too late, Heids--should've thought about that about 240 posts ago), but lately I think I might be weird (lately? What's taken so long?). And also that I might overuse parenthetical expressions (this one's just for illustrative purposes).

A few things:

My favorite piece of punctuation is the semi-colon. All that sentence-connecting power in one little symbol gets me a little excited. Should any sane person even have a favorite piece of punctuation?

I went to my friend's house who just had surgery and had to sit down because I saw some bloody gauze. I got all light-headed and woozy. Obviously, I'm still regretting the fact that I chose teaching over nursing.

I can't seem to stop singing the soundtrack to Magic Tree House: The Musical--and I don't want to brag but I switch back and forth between the man's part and the woman's part with great skill. I mean, if staying on tune isn't really important, of course.

I have a lot more to say, but I'm getting a migraine, and I promised myself that I would post tonight. Must. Pound. Caffeine. Pills. Immediately.

But really, weird, right?

Thursday, March 19, 2009

Try Waking Your Spouse Up This Way

Every summer, my mom would pack all eight of us in the Suburban and drive us to Utah to visit her family. The drive was about six or seven hours, and we generally covered all the luggage with sleeping bags and slept for at least four hours.

Except for when we didn't and then we fought like feral cats.

One time my little sister Lindsey was asleep and everyone else was awake. So my brother Josh started stroking her face gently with his fingertips.

In a falsetto voice, he said, "Child. Sweet, prophetic child. You're in heaven now."

Because his goal here was to convince her that she had died and gone to heaven.

"Shut up, Josh!"

Apparently, she wasn't convinced.

Either that, or she thought Jesus wouldn't mind that kind of talk in heaven.

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

Breaking Silence

Hey! Long break, right? I know I should have a good excuse like pregnancy or divorce or menopause, but I don't. Wait. Is laziness a good excuse? Because if it is, that's my excuse. For everything.

While I was gone, did anybody do anything awesome?

Here's what I did:

Crafts with kids (Oh, you guys, I have budding artists! If you saw what my kids can do with cupcake liners, you'd be SOOOO jealous. You get the sarcasm, right?)
Girls' Retreat to Las Vegas with my sisters
Doctor Appointments

Jakers broke his leg today? yesterday? a week ago? It's hard to pinpoint the exact moment, but the splint went on today. I'm sure CPS will be calling any time. The doctor looked at me a little funny when I couldn't tell him how it happened. In my defense, it's a teeny tiny fracture.

Rhett chipped his front tooth and he now looks like his name should be Abner. Either that or Jeb. Also, maybe we should plant corn in the backyard and leave a car in the front yard to rot. But don't think I don't find him as attractive as the day I married him, because man, what's not to love about jagged teeth?

Veevs announced that she would like to have a birthday party themed entirely around unicorns. Unicorns that fly and are purple. And then I puked (but not in a pregnancy way).

Spe announced that he would no longer like to wear any kind of underwear, whatsoever. I purposely misunderstood and said that I would buy him a larger size since he is feeling uncomfortable in his current underwear. He insists it's commando or nothing. Wait, that's the same thing, isn't it? Commando? Nothing? Get it?

Wow. I bet you thought I saved up all this great material for my triumphant return to blogging, didn't you? Were you wrong or what! I'm still dishing out the kind of subpar family crap that I'm famous for! Or not famous for, at all, in any way.

Anyway. What's new with you?

Wednesday, February 25, 2009


I'm taking a little blog break. I almost said "well-deserved" there, but that's pushing the realms of believability, even for me.

So, I'm on break for like a week. Email me if you are just dying to keep the ties that bind us together in place.

Sunday, February 15, 2009

The Sell Pile

We're doing a little bit of pre-Spring cleaning around here. Veevs was in cleaning her room, which is always an adventure, and I could hear her making piles.

"Keep. Keep. Keep. Keep. Keep. Keep. Keep. Sell. Keep. Keep. Keep. Keep."

After I was done with what I was doing, I went in to check on her.

"So, where's this sell pile I heard about?" I asked her.

She pointed proudly to a pile on her dresser.

I kid you not, this is what was in it: two cardboard wrappers to ballet tights, two blank shopping lists, and a little scrap of paper with a hole in it.

"I thought people might want that to look through like a peephole," she explains.

She started crying when I suggested that her "sell pile" could also be a "garbage pile".

"Mom," she sniffs sadly, "you always say my treasures are junk."

Yes, yes, I do.

Friday, February 13, 2009

Sprechen Sie Deutsch?

Spe and I were discussing the Berlin Wall this morning. I explained how it was a wall that had been built to keep people from being free. He looked at me and said, "That's really bad." I agreed and told him that when I was a little girl (sort of) the Berlin Wall got taken down and people were allowed to be free again. He grinned really big and said, "And then you escaped to Texas!" Apparently I have all the markings of an East Berlin refugee.

I knew my three years of high school German would pay off some day.

Saturday, February 7, 2009

Well, hello there, little blog. Are you feeling neglected? Join the club, honey. Get in line.

Get in line behind Spe and Veevs who both need decorated! beautiful! romantic! Valentine's boxes for class this week.

Get behind Jakers who wants me to build the most fabulous Geotrax train track ever, complete with overpasses, tunnels, and straightaways.

Get behind Rhett, who for some reason, thinks that he needs to eat every night.

So, unfortunately, little blog, you're probably not going to get my undivided attention this week. Next week, maybe?

Monday, February 2, 2009


I've started this post about twenty times, but I just don't have anything to say. You want to hear about my kids' eye colds? Yeah, me neither.

You want to hear about how I'm watching The Bachelor, Rhett's favorite show, without him? Yeah, it's not that thrilling. He'll be disappointed because there aren't any totally crazy ladies left. Oh, wait--the hometown dates next week do look awesome! Unexpected craziness!

You want to hear about what I did today? Let's see, I did laundry. I played games with my kids. I did the dishes. I made dinner. I read books to my kids and sent them to bed at 7:00.

You guys, I live a glamorous life. Don't be jealous.

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

Take That, Crappy Disney Princess Franchise

I've got all sorts of conflicted feelings about raising an emotionally healthy daughter, which feelings generally lead to situations like this one, where I try to convince Veevs the Disney princesses aren't God's gift to womanhood, or this one, where I try to help her see the problematic gender portrayal in Swiss Family Robinson. Thank heavens for Disney, or we might never have anything to discuss.

The other day Veevs said, "Mom, I think I'm fat."

I say carefully, "Really? Is that a problem?"

She sighs and says, "I don't want to be fat, Mom."

And insert here the crazy diatribe wherein I talk ad nauseum about how society tries to tell women that they have to look a certain way to be happy or to fall in love or whatever, but that it's just not true.

And then insert here the look that Veevs gives me whenever I go off in the above manner. Oh, fine it looks like this:

So then I conclude by totally undercutting my whole message. "And plus, Veevs, you're not fat."

She perks right up. "I'm not? I thought I was." And then she pranced off, probably to dress up as Jasmine, since she knows she has the belly to pull it off now.

Anyway. I'm not going to lie. Sometimes I despair that anything I say is getting in past the Disney media filter. Although, obviously not enough to stop showing her the Disney media. You guys, I have to nap.

So today I was getting her ready for dance class. "Mom," she said, "Last week Hannah kept following me around and trying to do the dance exactly like I was doing."

I wasn't fully focused on what she was saying because I was trying to hike those pink tights up so she didn't get those bunches around her ankles. There's nothing worse than a bunchy-ankled ballerina.

"Uh-huh." I said, "So what did you do?"

"Well, I told her, I said, 'Hannah, you don't have to try to be like me. You can be your own kind of beautiful.'" She wriggles around a little bit, because I have accidentally wedged those pink tights between her butt cheeks.

I smile at her. I've only told her this about fifteen times.

Now that is my girl.

Monday, January 26, 2009

Rhett's Birthday

The kids have been trying to figure out the perfect way to celebrate Rhett's birthday. They are trying to get Rhett to relive his last birthday, where I convinced him to celebrate it as a family at Chuck E. Cheese.

Rhett, on the other hand, is not amused.

Spe came downstairs today and said, "I want to go to Chuck E. Cheese."

I said, "Well, Dad said we can go in a couple of weeks on his day off. We're just going to go somewhere else for his birthday."

Spe said, "Chuck E. Cheese sucks. But I like it."

I'm pretty sure Rhett has something to do with that . . .

Saturday, January 24, 2009

The Flibbertigibbet

I've suspected it before, but now I'm sure. I'm totally a flibbertigibbet. I've resisted this label previously out of a healthy respect for the practical, sensible heroines of Louisa May Alcott, whose books I read when I was younger until the pages fell out. I was properly shocked when Tom got engaged to that fast Trixie in An Old-Fashioned Girl. She might as well have been a whore, compared to angelic Polly. She was, well, a flibbertigibbet. She even painted, and I'm not talking about beautiful paintings. I'm talking about her face. Shocking. I rejoiced with the rest of Alcott's readership when Trix dumped Tom and he was free to realize that sweet, pragmatic Polly was his one true love. I kind of thought, "Hey, I'm more like Polly than Trixie."

Except, my true nature prevailed. I'm a flibbertigibbet. I just don't have the brain for responsibility. I volunteer at Veev's school every other Monday. I mean, I'm scheduled to volunteer. I've actually only ever done it twice. I keep forgetting.

Through my church, I have two ladies who come to visit me every month. I mean, they're scheduled to visit me. Actually, I've stood them up twice in the last three months. I keep forgetting.

I've been like this my whole life. I just can't keep things in my head. I can already hear you saying, "Trix, I mean, Heidi, seriously, you just need to write stuff down on a calendar." I already do. The problem is I forget to look at my calendar.

So whatever. I'm a flibbertigibbet. Thanks to F. Scott Fitzgerald it's not the curse it once was. I mean, who doesn't admire and love Daisy from The Great Gatsby? Hey, wait. Don't answer that.

And seriously, if you want to set an appointment with me? Let's make it at a restaurant. Some things I make a point not to forget.

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

What You Do When You Are Lazy . . .

You know, I'm kind of feeling lazy. So please, please, please, enjoy this reprinted patriotic post in honor of our newest presidential inauguration. I don't want to brag, but I'm pretty sure people have cried from the beauty of my patriotic past. I'm just saying.

It's come to my attention that my last post on patriotism (sort of) caused no feelings of inspiration whatsoever. I can't imagine why. What could be more patriotic than "Freedom's Pitter-Patter"? (And yes, I'll work on getting a clip of it for you. It will change your life.)

To right this travesty against patriotic people everywhere, I'll pull another inspiring story from my own life that is related to Our Country's Great Heritage. What could be more representative of Our Great Heritage than the monument that spans an entire mountain? You know, the one that singlehandedly brings more people to South Dakota each year than the number of people who actually live in South Dakota.

Yes, I'm talking about Mt. Rushmore. I have always loved this monument for several reasons:

1) It's so American to have a monument that is made out of a mountain. I love the hubris of the whole deal.

2) Who doesn't love a monument that is dedicated to George Washington (the father of our nation), Thomas Jefferson (the primary author of the Declaration of Independence), Abraham Lincoln (who freed the slaves and kept the Union together), and Teddy Roosevelt (who is primarily famous for taking a staid name like Theodore and making it cute by shortening it to 'Teddy'. Oh, and the teddy bear is named after him. Why is he on the monument, anyway?)? What's not to love?

3) Until I was in the EIGHTH GRADE, I believed the sculptor of this monument was GOD.

I really believed God loved these presidents (and yes, even then I was confused as to why he loved Teddy, but whatever. Some things you just have to take on faith.), and made the wind sculpt their faces on to the mountains.

Imagine my deep disappointment when I took US History in the eighth grade and stumbled across a picture like the following in my textbook:

The sculpting of Mt. Rushmore involved blasting dynamite, followed by the process of honeycombing.
(Yeah, I don't know what that means, either.)

WHA? That certainly wasn't how I pictured God. Did this mean God didn't love those Presidents? Did this mean God didn't care how the teddy bear got its name? Did this mean he loved the people in Holland as much as he loved the people in America? How could that be? Did this mean God didn't love me enough to let the Holy Spirit whisper in my ear (before I made a fool of myself in JUNIOR HIGH) that maybe, just maybe, there had been some other force (like dynamite, for example) at work here beside divine providence?

Shattered that day: Faith. Patriotism. Self-esteem. (Because, really, only an idiot wouldn't have figured that out on their own.)

But don't worry. I rebounded quickly.

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

The Best Thing About This Card

We went to my parents' house in Vegas for Christmas, which was fabulous, as I think I've mentioned. Because, you know, I could neglect my kids without actually endangering them. Sweet freedom.

A few days after Christmas, my dad brought in a Christmas card that he'd just pulled out of the mail. It's one that we wait for every year, because this family really takes their Christmas cards seriously. I'm sure you know what I'm talking about. There are six kids in the family, with an overachiever set of parents, and so the whole card is all about how awesome their two-year-old is for learning to read, and how studly their fourteen-year-old is because he plays three! sports! and he's great! at all of them! Also, their twelve-year-old has been asked to join their city's professional ballet corps. Every child has an amazing accomplishment, and don't get me started on the parents. Mom has written a book this past year, started a doctoral degree, teaches at the university, and has nurtured her children waaaaaay better than you and I. Plus, all of this was presented in verse. Seriously, awesome.

My dad, after reading it and passing it around for all of our enjoyment (see, now you know where I get this mean streak from) raised one eyebrow and said, "You know what the best thing about this card is?"

"The awful rhymed verse?" I guessed.

"Nope." He grinned. "The best thing about this card is that it got here four days late."

Sometimes my dad just puts everything in perspective.

Friday, January 16, 2009

Something Cleverish

You know, when Nie's plane crashed and cjane started writing all those beautiful, reflective blogs about her sister, her sister's family, and the experiences that their families were sharing, I was so enthralled by the story. I didn't blog about it, primarily because so many of my blogging friends did such an excellent job blogging about it that I felt anything I had to say was just, you know, redundant.

But also I didn't want to write about it because I had such a strong, terrifying sense that it could have been me. I mean, of course, my husband doesn't fly, and of course, I'm not on Nie's sphere of homemaking (What? You mean I'm supposed to make a big deal about the first day of school? Damn.), but still, it brought home the tenuous nature of life (hang on, I might have some Nietzsche to drop on you here in a minute, as well) and quite frankly, that's something that's better for me not to reflect too deeply about.

Anyway, the point is that Sue (whom, as you know, I have an unrequited girl crush on), actually did something about Nie's plight, whereas I didn't even blog about it. So imagine how honored I feel to be included in Sue's fundraising book for Nie Nie. Click on the link above and buy it. It's for a good cause, and it has some of the funniest bloggers in Mormon blogdom included.

Thursday, January 15, 2009

It's Time

I just came home from the store and I hand Spe a box of bum wipes (you know, the FLUSHABLE kind) and say, "Hey, it's time for you to learn to wipe your own bum after you poop."

He looks at me with a grin. He likes this kind of independence.

I immediately add, "Dad is going to teach you. Take this to Dad."

Rhett looks at me strangely.

I wave my hand dismissively, "I have work to do on the computer."

Thank goodness no one mentioned that I don't actually have a paying job. Sometimes the joys of motherhood are payment enough, I guess.

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

On Chickens

You know, I kind of thought it was a great idea to get chickens. I had them as pets growing up (thanks to a third-grade hatching program) and I loved them. What's not to love about a pet that also produces something edible?

I'm not thinking it's so great anymore. The problems are these:

1) Chickens, while not birds capable of flight, are birds capable of half-flight. This half-flight is just enough to allow them to clear my fence. It's awesome to constantly be shooing your chickens back in to your yard.

2) I clearly did not remember how large chicken . . . erm . . . waste . . . is. Seriously, my whole backyard is like a minefield of nastiness.

3) My chickens scare me. Man, those things are vile. If I even stand at my window, they look at me. I'm not paranoid, but I'm not kidding, those chickens are looking at me. Like weird. Like they are planning an Animal Farm-esque takeover of the house. And it won't be the pigs in charge this time around. It will be the chickens.

4) My chickens peck me when I go outside. They meander over to where I am, all casual like, and then they strike. I wear my pointiest shoes to collect eggs now. Because two can play at that game.

5) My chickens were named by my children and I hate their names. Princess? Superman? (And yes, they are both female) How generic! I wanted to name them after my great-aunts, Afton and Isabelle, but nobody ever listens to me anymore.

Does anyone else think it might be time for chicken dinner?

Saturday, January 10, 2009


I probably should have mentioned that Azucar (I'm sorry, I'm too lazy to figure out how to use the "special" letters) refers to herself as pretentious. Otherwise I just sound kind of rude. Not that I'm not. I just wasn't trying to be rude in this instance.

Friday, January 9, 2009

Places I Like

I hesitate to link up because what if you don't like the same blogs that I do and then you think I'm a total tool and then you hate me forever? Also, most of you blog more than I do so you probably know all these blogs already. But whatever.

The Jet Set--I always love her blogs. She's pretentious (in a good way--she makes cuisine my kids have never even dreamed of. It might be the Marshmallow Mateys-induced stupor that makes them incapable of dreaming of normal food. I'm just saying.) but also a total realist. Is that possible?

Claire and Carol--Across the pond, you just can't beat these two ladies. Claire is rather edgy for the conservative among us, what with her talk of bra fittings and her obsession for Kenny G. And Carol, well, she always makes me laugh. I don't think it's just because I know her. She might never admit this, but she also has the longest and skinniest fingers I've ever seen. Think Jafar.

Navel Gazing--I love Sue. I worship Sue. And, hey, sure she took me off her sidebar, but I don't care. I don't need requitement (not a word!) to make me love someone. I'm totally fine with one-sided love affairs. Because she makes me laugh, and that is usually better than requited love. Requited love is overrated. SUE! I LOVE YOU!

Wednesday, January 7, 2009

Honesty Bites

Spe loves hair. He likes to rub it between his fingers and feel the texture of it. He likes to twist it around and around until his hand is encased in a giant hair knot. Specifically, Spe loves my hair. Nobody around here really likes my new haircut, but Spe cried when he saw how short it was.

"Mama," he said between sobs, "I just like your hair long!" I'm pretty sure that's what everyone, including Rhett, wanted to say but didn't. Sometimes Spe says the things that everyone else is thinking but is too afraid to say.

The other night he was restless, so I went in and snuggled up next to him, and of course, his little hand reached right up and started caressing my hair. He pinched it, pulled it, twisted it, smoothed it, rolled it, yanked it, and generally just did whatever it is he always does when he gets a fistful of my hair.

"Spe, do you just love me for my hair?" I asked teasingly.

"Yes," he said, his voice mournful as though I had discovered his darkest secret. "I do." He heaved a great sigh and kept rolling my hair between his fingers.

I might shave my head next time . . .