Proof I'm Not A Robot

I'm kind of in a bad mood today and we are snowed in, so I find myself stewing about all the things that are irritating me.  It's the kind of day where I'm torn between counting my blessings that we have heat and a roof over our head as the blizzard rages outside or yelling at the refrigerator because it still insists on being a side-by-side.  Cory is currently stranded in Missouri due to flight cancellations on account of the weather, so the only thing sparing us from utter ruin right now are the 6 episodes of Duck Dynasty currently stored on our DVR and a box of girl scout cookies.  Hmm...I'm actually feeling better already.

But before I get too crazy seeing silver linings and stuff I feel compelled to air my grievances about word verifications these days.  Is it just me or are they getting increasingly complicated?  I understand the whole "prove you're not a robot" concept, but proving you're not a robot is one thing; it's quite another to eat a can of Alpha-Bet soup only to poop it out and ask me to decipher the letters.  Is it that critical to prove myself?  'Cuz if it is, I think I have a few other strategies.

Take RoboCop for example.  

I am nothing like him.  For one thing, he has probably seen the movie.  In addition, he was a "HE", and I am a "SHE".  What, you want me to prove I'm a woman?  Fine, once 20 years ago Cory told me I had that "outdoor smell" when I was giving him a hug and I have never forgotten it.  Boom.

Next, R2D2 is probably one of the most well known robots that has influenced many generations.

But guess what?  I AM NOT HIM.  I've never had a flashlight for an eyeball and haven't walked like that since my hysterectomy.  I've also never spoken in bleeps so I can understand if you get R2 confused with Jersey Shore, but not me.  Also, this robot is really popular and I...have a really sweet spirit.  Let's just say nobody has ever tried to turn my physique into a camping chair...  

OR A SLUTTY TANK TOP...

OR A COOKIE JAR.  Although, genius.

It hardly seems  fair to discuss R2D2 without mentioning his indispensable sidekick, C3PO.  

This is a trick example though, because everyone knows C3PO wasn't a robot he was a DROID.  Geez man, don't you know anything?  Proof that I am DEFINITELY not a robot but possibly a droid:

Finally, WALL-E.

Listen, just because people fall asleep while watching me too doesn't mean WALL*E and I share the same DNA.  Obviously, because robots don't have DNA and I do.  *I* DO!  There it is boys and girls, I am not a robot.

Perhaps I should have lead with the DNA argument.

Be Mine

Around 10am this morning I noticed the lonely brown paper sack sitting in the fridge.  It was someone’s forgotten lunch, so I texted my daughter to ask if it was hers.  It was.  Her lunch break was only 45 minutes away so she asked if I would drop it off.  I was headed  out anyway so I said, “of course.”  I took it out, folded over the top and stapled it shut.  Catching a glimpse of the pink highlighter nearby I picked it up, popped off the lid and spontaneously filled in a pink heart on the front of the bag above her name.  Several minutes later it was waiting for her at the school’s front office.

I’m familiar with this routine – getting the call, “I forgot my (homework, folder, flute, Xanax, just kidding, Advil, not just kidding, underwear, still not kidding, running shoes etc.)” so I grab the item, jump in the car and make my way to the school.  Sometimes this exasperates me, other times I’m happy to help.  It usually depends on whether I’ve showered yet.  I’ve shown up in various forms of impressiveness/shame at that front office but today was extra special.  I was on my way to help my friend do some painting so I had not showered, was wearing paint stained overalls (overalls!) (with paint ALL over them) (they're going to make a comeback I just know it), had no make up on, and then, because it was cold I threw on a fleece jacket OVER my OVERalls just to help me get that female lumberjack who needs lap band surgery feel.

Rare form guys, RARE FORM.

Later tonight we decided to run through the drive thru at Chick-fil-A before dropping Drew off at basketball practice and on the way home, the girl who forgot her lunch just started talking.  And talking and talking.  She prattled on about school, boys, friends, teachers….  At one point she paused for emphasis before adding, “Mom, I LOVE ENGLISH.  I mean, when have I EVER loved English?”  Her teacher is someone that she adores, who went so far as to cheer for my Samantha when she spotted her after school running drills with the track team today.  I love teachers who root for their kids, especially when “their” kids are mine. 

The car ride monologue eventually transitioned to the kitchen as we arrived home.  I set to work unloading the dishwasher and just listened as Samantha analyzed her high school life and I marveled at her awareness and ability to dissect the psychology of it all.  That girl is paying attention to the world around her – she knows what she wants, and she knows what she doesn’t want.  She gets it when people are being manipulative, and her senses warn her when someone is being inauthentic. 

I’m just listening. 

I squirted some detergent on the dishrag and started to move it in circles around the counter as she talked about some of the decisions she is making and why she’s making them.  This whole time I thought she was just cruising along but no, she’s making conscious choices - freaking awesome conscious choices.  As I stood there and relished this seemingly out of body, glorious moment she suddenly stopped, looked up at the clock and gasped, “Oh!  I have to go!”  I checked the clock also and confirmed, “Yes, you do.  Drive safe, have fun.  I love you!” I called out as she grabbed the keys and headed for the door.  Seconds later the door reopened and she re-emerged from around the corner.  “Can I just give you a hug?” she asked as she came toward me.  “Of course, baby girl,” I answered as she threw her arms around me and told me she loved me.  I kissed her head and reminded her, “You know you never have to ask.”

After hugging her tight I released her from my grip; she started back toward the door and turned around before shutting it behind her and explained, “You know, when I went to pick up my lunch from the office today the security guard saw the heart you drew on the bag.  He commented about it then told me I should go home and give you a hug and I thought to myself, ‘Yep, I definitely should.’  Anyway, ‘bye Mom.”  And with that she was gone.

I stood motionless and stared at the freshly closed door, soaked in the lingering presence of that child who is mine and my eyes began to sting.

I’m so glad she’s mine.

The Cape And Drape

Back when I had all my “parts” I had the luxury of letting my annual violations lapse.  I know we’re supposed to get them every year but I’m also supposed to aerate my lawn every fall, make a vision board and swear off saturated fats.  There are only so many hours in the day people, and the Property Brothers isn’t just going to watch itself.  But then my epic hospital stay happened and I emerged without parts.  I also emerged with the notion that I was heretofore released from all future GYN visits.  Nothin’ to see here folks, go force someone else to sing “Moon River” while staring at the ceiling.  It was the silver lining around everything I had been through.  

Until I needed a refill on my prescription.  A year into my recovery with no apparent side effects from my hormone replacement therapy, I called in my refill to the Pharmacist who called back to tell me I was not eligible for renewal until I had a visit with my doctor.  I couldn’t understand what could be gained from this, seeing as I had nothing left to check.  I imagined the following scenario:

Dr:  Hey Vern, how’s that uterus?

Vern:  Well, see this 8 inch scar?  You put that there when you took it out.

Dr:  Oh, right!  That’s healing up nicely.  I did an awesome job.  

Vern:  Yep.  Hey, how did you spend that $30K?  Nice college fund for the wee lass, I hope.

Dr:  *chuckle* Silly Vern.

Vern:  No really, how’s the new car?

Dr:  She sure is a sweet ride but I’m due for a little extra window tinting.

Vern:  So THAT’S why I’m here!

The point is, now I have to go back every year whether I like it or not because I NEED THOSE PILLS.  Without those pills I could refill all the reservoirs with my night sweats and take down al Qaeda with my mood swings.  So against my will I made my appt. and went last week.  Even after 20 years this experience still sucks, but I like how they try to ease you in gently by telling you to first step on the scale and then go pee in a cup.  I want to say, “I thought this was the doctor’s office, not a sorority hazing ritual.”  While we’re on the topic, could someone please explain to me how we are able to grow babies in a Petri dish but we haven’t figured out a better system for collecting urine samples?  Like that little basket of wet wipes next to the Dixie cups is supposed to make me feel any better.  All that does is make me pine for BBQ ribs and fried chicken.  First I’m demoralized, then I’m inconvenienced, and now I’m STARVING.  

The nurse escorts me to the exam room where she casually tells me to undress and then gestures to the pink tissue paper on the table and adds, “And there’s your cape and drape, pink for the top and white for the bottom.”  Her tone is so deceitful, like a Nazi saying, “Oh here, go on into this lovely SHOWER!  You’ve worked so hard today, go relax and get nice and clean.”  It's a conspiracy, I tell you.  And now I'm to the part where I wonder, just how much time do I have before the good Doctor knocks on the door and comes in?  I have this fear that one day I won’t change my clothes fast enough and he’ll walk in on me, and I’ll be standing there in all my glory and 7^th grade PE will all come rushing back to me.  Then again, what am I hiding?  I’m wearing half a tablecloth with armholes the size of manhole covers forcryingoutloud.   

Having said all that, I’m really looking forward to getting that postcard in the mail telling me that my tests came out normal.  I can say, “No Duh,” my doctor gets his tinted windows, and the world gets the version of me that doesn’t require a pickaxe to relieve stress.

Everybody wins.

'88 = Not That Great

Are you gonna make me say it?  Alright, I hated high school.  I don't expect you to care, I just expect you to listen to me talk about it ad nauseam.  Apparently.  To sum up, I guess I grew up thinking I was special and the only thing middle/high school taught me was that I was, in fact, invisible.  Blah blah blah, crocodile tears, puppies die, cheese goes bad, and Channing Tatum won't always look like that.  I spent over a decade of my life living happily before high school and 25 blissful years since its anticlimactic finish, so what I can't figure out is why on earth these people are so excited about the prospect of getting back together to reminisce over "old" times; as if a half rate buffet at the Radisson is the ideal spot for that.  (Gee Vern, bitter much?)  Hey, you would be bitter too if you waited for four years to get acknowledged in the yearbook and this was the picture that made the cut:

Nerds' Wives Rule Too. - OR - Nerds' Wives Rule Too!

I don't know if you know this, but selling off hundreds of cards to pay for a family vacation is a lot of work.  Sure, Cory gets major kudos for being willing to part with his beloved collection, but I should also get points for doing the ground work.  In essence, I am turning into the ebay master.  The Ebay Master!  (Do you see the difference there?  First I said I was the ebay master.  Period.  Then I said I was the Ebay Master!  Exclamation point.  Doesn't the 2nd one sound better?  Like we're ALL having fun now.  You'll see in paragraph 3 how this is relevant.)  I have my own cubicle and everything.  I'm waiting for my cape, but in the meantime I'm making do with sweats and fuzzy slippers.  Just you watch, it will be all the rage at Halloween.

We've narrowed it down to a routine - Cory researches the value of the card, then I list it, keep tabs on the auction, and ship it to the highest bidder.  See how I just made it sound like Cory does one thing and I do three?  Don't be deceived, because you may recall that he is a CPA so when I say that he, "researches the value of the card" it means that he looks up the reseller purchase price, compares it to the market value, calculates the difference and formulates it all into a spreadsheet.  This, he can do.  It's Valentine's Day that he struggles with.  Speaking of Valentine's Day I gave Cory his gift a little early last week when I commented on one of the auctions.  "Did you see that Nether Void is up to $84?" I asked him when he walked in the door.  Then, shocked by my own words I steadied myself, looked up at him and said, "Have you ever been more attracted to me?"  I imagine it would be similar to Cory nudging me awake after a nap and saying, "Would you like some chocolate molten lava cake with vanilla bean gelato and caramel sauce?" followed by, "Are you always this pretty?"  This is why imagination is so important, kids.  

Nevertheless, I will admit there was a bit of an adjustment period because I am using Cory's already established ebay account, so I'm kind of trying to pretend I'm him.  Not only that, but I have to pretend that I speak this other language that includes words like "Tolarian Academy", "Earthcraft" and "Mox Opal" (just to name a few).  I'm trying to sound legit but let's be real here people, I am a stay at home mom who watches excess amounts of HGTV, appreciates the comeback of the color gray and understands that to love Pinterest is to love burlap.  I don't know how to communicate with boys who don't capitalize their sentences or use punctuation.  After a few encounters I asked Cory his opinion while responding to a query.  I wanted to sound friendly and accommodating, so I answered this guy's question and ended it with an exclamation point.  "Does this sound like something you would say?" Cory peered over my shoulder as I sat at the computer and the following conversation ensued.

"What's with the exclamation point?"
"It's supposed to make me seem nice."
"You're making me sound like a GIRL."
"So you just want me to end it with a period?  That seems so...cold."
[Cory shakes his head.] 
"I mean, really," I defended.  "This is a good card!  He should be excited about it!"
"You're lame."
Ok fine, Cory didn't say I was lame.  Not with his words anyway, but his body language was screaming, "You are a lame spice, lame nugget, lame-a-licious lamehead." 

Robots Periods it is.

Nerds Rule

I was born the 5th of seven children, so when I hopped in a car and left my home of 18 years to go to college my mom was like, "Peace out" and waved at me from the driveway until we were out of sight.  I pretty much love(d) that about my mom, because it allowed me to move forward and go live my life without feeling guilt that it was somehow causing her unhappiness.  How could it?  She was probably too busy throwing a party that the last of the estrogen producing spawn had left the building.  Besides, she had a retaining wall to build and whole wheat chocolate chip cookie bars to make.

I would like to say I learned from her, but I would also like to say I can do a pull-up.  You can't have everything.   And this is where it gets touchy, because I only have two children and one daughter; one daughter who just wrapped up 1st semester finals of her junior year in high school which means she only has a little over a year in this house and it is only causing me shortness of breath and "HOLY CRAP WE'VE NEVER TAKEN HER TO THE GRAND CANYON!" moments about 7 times a day.  It's not like I haven't known this, it's just that it's practically HERE!  I've got about 16 months to have her read Reviving Ophelia, get her those self defense classes, teach her how to budget and show her how to identify irregular moles and that's all before I've even attempted to teach her the art of a good buttercream.  That's a lot of pressure.

The other day I was thinking I would like to do some type of major family trip before she leaves our nest, so I started to casually browse the internet for possibilities.  As I narrowed down what I wanted to do, I looked at all my options - Fall Break in October, Winter Break in December, Spring Break of next year - none of them worked out.  I spent two weeks searching what to do and suddenly realized that if we were going to be able to make this happen it would have to be this summer.  This summer!  It wasn't as much time as I had hoped to have in order to save money so we could, you know, pay for it and stuff.

That's where Cory comes in because as I've mentioned before, Cory kinda has a unique hobby.  It's the kind of thing where he can sell off some of his stuff and make a profit (not that kind of stuff!) except this time, instead of using it to pay for a set of golf clubs he's willing to part with enough of his cards that we should be able to pay for the whole trip.  I gotta hand it to him, I've never had a hobby this lucrative.  I mean, I'm sure that the hundreds of dollars of unused scrapbooking crap in my basement is someone's treasure.  I don't know who that someone is but I bet they have a cow themed kitchen and still think gingham is all the rage.  In the meantime, Cory is the winner.  The one stipulation is that we can't tease him anymore and from now on we will have to refer to this summer extravaganza as The Trip That Magic Bought.  It seems kinda hard right now but as soon as I'm sitting on a beach drinking a pina colada and watching the kids frolic in the waves, it will slide right off my tongue.  The Trip That Magic Bought.

Nerds Rule.

If It Wasn't For 2012

It's a good thing that I established low expectations for New Year's Eve a long time ago.  I could try and make it sound like Cory and I are really fun by telling you we're going dancing tonight, and it wouldn't be a complete lie, but the truth is we get to have to chaperone a teenage dance.  If I was a good person I might find some sort of positive spin to put on this, but the way I see it I'm like the guy at the Carnival who has to clean the port-a-potties; you're not really there to have fun, you just have to make sure everyone else is taken care of.  Having said that, I think if I play my cards right I still might end up taking a hot guy home with me.

Say what you will about 2012, some of you might have wished the end of the world to happen as predicted by some on May 21st.  And then October 21st.  No wait, DECEMBER 21st.  As for me, there were a few days I wouldn't like to repeat but for the most part, I will shut the door on 2012 without slamming it and saying, "I HATE YOU!" and stomping away to my room.  After all, if it wasn't for 2012 I never would have seen my daughter turn 16 and start driving and dating.  I never would have seen my son grow 7 inches and win his first basketball game in 3 years.  (Seven inches!  THREE.  YEARS.)  They are the reason I don't have a career making four figures.

If it wasn't for 2012 I never would have learned about Smashburger, seen my brother on National Television, or run into an Anime Convention with Cory on our date night:

If it wasn't for 2012 I never would have gone to Vail and ziplining with my friends:

I wouldn't have seen two nephews get married, danced Gangnam Style in my brother's backyard dance floor or learned these important tips at the Salt Lake City Airport:

I never would have discovered A&E's Duck Dynasty.  This thought actually causes me to panic and have shortness of breath.

If it wasn't for 2012 I wouldn't have been in the middle of nowhere for Thanksgiving when Cory was awakened with a pain that seemed to be competing for a "How Do You Like Me NOW?" award and had to drive him to a hospital an hour away to get him help.  The doctor wouldn't have given him morphine, and he wouldn't have passed a kidney stone, and he wouldn't have been advised not to show it off to me.  (On a pain scale, the kidney stone is often compared to a woman giving birth.  It's not much to look at, and hard to believe such a small thing caused such immense pain, but I will say this - ever since it joined our family it has never asked to borrow money or left its shoes in the hallway.)  Oh, and Cory never would have caught this fish.

If not for 2012 Cory never would have bought a new car only to hit a deer three weeks later, and I never would have walked into my bathroom to discover my shower shattered to bits.

I never would have discovered this sidewalk sign,

or been able to write these notes to my kids' school when they were late.  (Yes, yes I did.)  October 19th was a rough day.

Most importantly, I wouldn't have been able to spend another 365 days with these people. 
  

 Happy 2013 everyone!  May your kidneys be free from stones, your roadways void of wildlife, your sidewalks lined with bacon, and may the magic of Duck Dynasty fill your homes with joy in the coming year.   

xoxo - the Vern Family

I Can't Even Roll My R's

One of the concepts I've been taught throughout my life is if you want to exercise your faith, even if you don’t feel like you HAVE faith, you can simply start by WANTING to have faith.  Then, letting that desire work in you will eventually lead you to where you want to be.  That’s kinda how I feel about blogging right now.  I don’t feel like I have it in me to do it, but I WANT to do it.  So here I sit, trying to let that desire work in me to see if I can come up with anything to write.  My fingers feel rusty, my brain feels devoid of wit, wisdom, charm, or anything else that would invite you to sit and stay a while. 

Did you catch that joke I just made?  I just wrote that my brain was devoid of “charm” as if they were once well acquainted.  Charm is a word I guarantee will never appear on my epitaph.  The day I wax charming is the day Prince William passes gas at family dinner.  I don’t know why but I always think of the Royal Family when it comes to gas.  Did you know that the average person passes gas at least 14 times a day?  That’s a lot you guys, and while the Royal Family is anything but average they are still human.  So maybe for them it’s just 7 times a day.  Still.  Where do they go?  What do they do?  Are there aides who pack travel size Febreze in their pockets JUSTINCASE?  This is what I think about at night when I can’t sleep.  HOW DOES THE QUEEN LET ONE?!

Did you see how quickly I transitioned from “charming” to “royal (gas) pains?”  It’s a gift, people.  Moving on.  (How do you think this is going so far?)

Here’s something else.  A few months ago I was asked to accept a new responsibility in my church community and because I am so nice need something to counteract all the times I drop minor cuss words, I said “yes”.  If you speak Mormon I am a counselor in the Stake YW.  If you don’t speak Mormon it means I go to a lot of meetings, nod my head in support when the teenagers suggest pumpkin bowling for an activity, and periodically raise my hand to say, “How about instead of taking 500 youth to Wyoming to reenact the Pioneer trek to Salt Lake City we just make some foil dinners and watch Brokeback Mountain?  Wasn’t that a nice family western?”  I’m a very integral part of the process.

As part of this job I’m also responsible for occasionally speaking to other congregations.  Recently, for example, I had an assignment to speak in a Spanish Ward.  In other words, no speaky the English during their meeting.  In cases like this they would normally provide a translator for guest speakers such as myself.  That didn’t appeal to me, because it seemed like that would be too distracting for everyone involved.  So, I thought (first mistake), “Hey, I took Spanish in college twenty years ago, I’ll just speak in SPANISH!”

Here was the problem with that.  Nowhere in my talk did I need to tell them I was going to the library (la biblioteca!), or that I needed to buy some lettuce (lechuga!) and milk, or that the bathroom was “over there” (¡El baño está allá!).  And despite the fact that I know a good empanada, make Mexican hot chocolate all the time and have seen all 4 seasons of Ugly Betty, I realized that I was not, in fact, qualified to speak for 20 minutes about Jesus in Spanish. 

ENTER:  My nephew’s new, cute wife.  We had just come home from celebrating their wedding nuptials in Utah – she had just received permission to leave her native Mexico for America to marry my nephew.  She didn’t speak English, but she DID speak Spanish and my nephew spoke both.  They rescued me using their gifts of translation, and I delivered my talk as planned in Spanish.  For all I know I announced that I was pregnant and told them all they were going to @#!*% if they didn’t start worshiping false idols but I haven’t heard.  It’s probably best.

Well, this was fun.  Was it good for you too?  If not, try WANTING it to be good.  You gotta start somewhere.

Off The Wagon

Sometimes after a hard day, even a good Mormon girl could use a nice, tall pint.  Hello lover:

What?  It was a small spoon, I had to improvise.

MSNB...SEE?!

One of my gifts is that I can read people's minds.  People's minds that I've never even met before, and that's how I know you're thinking, "If I could just figure out a way to make this election last a little longer we might actually make it to see the demise of those Suite Life twins...."  Enjoy the journey folks, 'cuz we have two more excruciating weeks to go.  But wait!  Don't go yet, this isn't a political post.  This post is actually about Shrek, and news anchors, and women in real life who look like men in animated life.  Intriguing, yes?

As Cory and I sat and listened to the final Presidential Debate last night, the first thing I wanted to do was wash it all down with some brownies.  Because let's face it, nothing goes better with Syria, Iran and gas prices like a 9x13 pan of chocolate.  But then I remembered my promise to Samantha - I told her I would spend this week before her State Cross Country Competition not eating sugar with her so she could be nice and purged of impurities before she attempts to run 3.1 miles faster than I can walk to the mailbox.  And since I couldn't wash down my emotions and frustrations with a Ghiradelli mix from Costco I was forced to use other coping skills, like laughing at others' expense.  That's how it happened, as Cory and I flipped around to different channels to watch the After The Debate critiques (kind of like "After The Final Rose" episodes of The Bachelor where the happy couple reunites only to break up 3 weeks later) and we saw this woman interviewing various camps for their opinions.  Cory looked at her and said, "Is it just me or does she look like Prince Charming from Shrek?"  I immediately began to chuckle because you guys, it wasn't just him.

I give you EXHIBIT A:

Better With Age

There we were, sitting across from each other in a booth at Chipotle trying to quickly chow down some lunch as we hurried to Samantha's Cross Country meet.  Cory was dousing his burrito with hot sauce and I was inhaling my diet Coke, rambling on about some inconsequential information for sure.  Suddenly I realized that Cory had paused and was now staring at me so I looked up, met his gaze and said, "What?"  He just smiled at me and responded, "You know, I think you get prettier the older you get." 

(....)

I kept waiting for him to follow it up with something bad like, "Did you hear that Netflix is going out of business?" or, "I saw on the news that Pottery Barn has been acquired by JCPenney."  But nope - he just went back to eating his burrito.  And just like that he made up for all the times he has farted on me in his sleep.

Cory's declaration, however, was a bit of a revelation because I was like, "WAIT.  I thought I peaked in the 1st grade."

Actually, no.  It was 7th grade, the year my brother's friend sat down next to me at my nephew's baby blessing and introduced himself by asking, "Sooo...are you Mitch's little brother?"

Or maybe I was getting that confused with the golden years in high school when my self esteem really began to take shape:

Then again, there was that time I dressed up as a rap star for a Primary activity:

 (it's a scan of scan folks, deal with it)

But Jill looked way worse than I did, so at least I had that going for me.  Not that dressing like a Jamaican at a political rally doesn't have its place:

Certainly, we can't overlook how stunning I can be when someone takes a picture of me yelling at them in the dark:

I think when Cory told me I was getting prettier all the time he was forgetting that my friends and I had this photo taken at Wal Mart once:  (can you spot me?)

 (Teeth - courtesy of the $1 section.  Wigs - courtesy of our costume stash.  Boas - well, Wal Mart provided those.)

Or perhaps he was reflecting on this doozie taken after Drew was born and he wanted to express how far I've come.  You guys, I don't even know what to say about this except "you're welcome", "I'm sorry", and "this hurts me more than it hurts you."

Things That Make Me Uncomfortable

1.  The words “fluids” and “shmear”

2.  Men shopping in Victoria’s Secret.  Seriously, what are you doing here?  When I am being fitted for a bra I should not be able to hear a man’s voice within at least 11 miles.  Are you there by yourself?  CREEPER.  Are you there with your wife?  Ew.  Are you there with your girlfriend?  Come on, there’s a Sports Authority across the street go make yourself useful.  

3.  Being fitted for a bra.  Strangely, not as violating as the airport security pat down but still.  Having a stranger come in my dressing room to check out my girls in the mirror is about as natural to me as asking my Gynecologist to gently scratch my back.  

4.  In my defense, I was enjoying the brilliant evening air during one of our last 80 degree days before the Fall weather rolls in.  And while it did make me uncomfortable it turns out that gnats do not actually taste that bad.

5.  Glancing out my bedroom window and seeing that my husband and son who were supposed to be long gone to play Basketball were pulled over just down the street, walking slow laps around the car.  It was dark so I couldn’t see what was happening – I threw on some sweats and headed out the back door to find out if my boys were ok.  Halfway down the stretch I spotted the injured deer in the middle of the road.  After that I spotted the injured bumper of our brand new 3 month old vehicle that is so important to Cory that he almost ordered it a birth certificate.  We are all a little sick about it, but at least the deer limped off in one piece.

6.  Pictures of women and their bare pregnant bellies.  And cupping your hands in the shape of a heart over it doesn't make it any less weird.  In fact, MORE weird.

7.  When my kids asked, "So Mom, what's been one of your lowest parenting moments?"

8.  Stores that charge $50 for a burlap throw pillow.  First of all, scratchy.  Second of all, $2.99/yd at a fabric store.  Which means some shmuck out there is making BANK for stamping the Eiffel Tower on your home decor.  Hey, I wonder where I can get an Eiffel Tower stamp?

9.  When I'm running and I say to myself, "I have to go to the bathroom" and myself answers, "you're 2 miles from home or 5 inches from that bush...."

10.    People who are too nice.  They're hiding something. Like the lady filling my tacos at Chipotle yesterday - calling me "Dear" the first time was fine, but by the 5th "Sure thing dear" I was all, "ARE YOU POISONING MY SALSA?"

Top 10 Things You Shouldn't Say To A Depressed Person

      10.  “You’re going to need more flaxseed.”

9.  “No ma’am, I didn’t stack 7 invisible bricks on the scale before you got on.”

8.  “Season 3 of Downton Abbey doesn’t start until January.”

7.  “Do you usually wear tie dye to Wal Mart or is this a special occasion?”

6.  “You should try these soy based potato chips. If you swallow really fast you can hardly tell that they are cardboard’s distant cousin.”

5.  “Sorry lady but you’ve got the wrong DMV.”

4.  “When I say ‘try again tomorrow’ what I really mean is ‘that’s my day off’.”

3.  “We’re all out of chocolate chips.”

2.  “If I squint really hard and turn off the lights I can’t even tell that your age spots mimic the galaxy.”

1.  “Hey, wanna watch Sophie’s Choice again?”

I’ll See Your Mole Removal And Raise You A Bladder Infection And 6 Trips to the DMV

At first I stopped blogging because I was having too much fun. Now I’m not blogging because I’m not having any fun at all. Which would you NOT like to hear about first? I’ve made several attempts to sit down and break my non-blogging streak but I haven’t been able to muster anything that rings true to my normal tone here, so I kept walking away from the computer. At this point, however, I’ve decided that even though I’m not capable of posting something pretty and all wrapped up in a bow, perhaps there is value for someone out there to hear my truth. And the truth is I have spent the better part of the last few months having a fabulous time with my family, both immediate and extended. I’m very blessed that way and I don’t take it for granted. But the other half of that truth is that I have spent the better part of the last three weeks alone in my home on the perpetual verge of tears, staring at blank walls and willing them to speak just to break the silence. If silence was deafening, I could mentor Helen Keller.

 

I think I’m depressed. There, I said it. I don’t like it, but I also don’t like election years and that doesn’t seem to be going away either. While I’m at it, I don’t like doctors cutting out my cancerous moles (I had 2), bladder infections (I had 1) or botched trips to the DMV (I had 6. As in, more than 5, less than 7, SIX. The 5^th time they turned me away I may have yelled to those congregated near the door as I left, “It’s Hell, this place. HELL!” And I pushed my way out the door like I really meant it. Which I did.).

 

Depression is very confusing. For me, much of it gets lost in all the possibilities of what “could” help.

I could get a job.

I could volunteer more.

I could serve other people instead of wallowing in self pity.

I could write more.

I could orchestrate unforgettable meals.

I could make stuff. Yummy stuff. Cute stuff.

I could organize photos! Write my family history! Clean my basement! Alphabetize my spices! Crawl naked over broken glass!

 

And I guess I could. But all the “could’s” in the world don’t appear to help, they only remind me that I’m doing it wrong. It’s confusing to know how fortunate I am (and I really do know) and still feel like I could burst into tears at any given moment, like a birthday card that opens up to say “With Deepest Sympathy”. It doesn’t make any sense, so it must be my fault, right? Probably not. Maybe? I guess that’s what I mean – confusing. How can one feel like grey stucco on a rainy day when the sun is shining, there’s enough money to pay the bills and all around you are people who want to make it better? I don’t know.

 

I’ll tell you what I do know; lighting candles and taking a hot bath while listening to French jazz music was a terrible idea. It did, however, instill a sudden urge to wear a beret, eat croissants and take up oil painting so it wasn’t a total loss. To be clear, I’m still talking about depression and not date night. For reals people, this is SERIOUS.

 

Complicating matters are the people that love you and want to help. It doesn’t sound like that should complicate things, and I’m not ungrateful for the support. But it’s difficult to talk to loved ones about a topic that is so tired, especially when there’s nothing they can do about it. It would almost be easier if I were shot, as that path of action is clear – get me to the ER, find a doctor that looks like Patrick Dempsey and save my life. There are no Patrick Dempsey’s in depression, only boxes of Zoloft, hopeful bottles of Vitamin D and loved ones shrugging their shoulders, waiting for the fun version of you to emerge again. (And for the record, my life doesn’t need to be saved. I’m okay, just not quite right.)

 

I know it will get better – experience has shown me I will find my footing and look back on this moment and feel like it happened to someone else; I’ll feel silly for even bringing it up. In no time I’ll be gleaning life lessons from Phineas & Ferb and waxing poetic about Hugh Jackman’s upcoming performance in Les Miserables on the big screen. But for now…

…it’s not pretty.

It’s not wrapped in a bow.

That’s just the truth.

The Week's Deets

My accomplishments over the past week include:  

• Samantha and I drove over 1500 miles on our first ever, girls only road trip
• Scouted out 3 potential college campuses
• Family reunion
• Broke a trampoline
• Got a parking ticket
• Fought a parking ticket
• Lost my fight against my parking ticket
• Swore under my breath at the stupid cops in Utah who have nothing better to do than to stalk an out of state visitor who is simply trying to eat her cream pie shake in peace in less than the one hour parking limit.  They chalked my car WHILE I WAS STILL IN IT.  Can't you guys start hiding crack in your glove box or something and get those guys off my back? 
• We ate ice cream every day
• (I'm not kidding)
• Wore a bathing suit in public
• TWICE
• Lost a game of Nurts
• Saw Brave
• Went tubing behind a boat and didn't break anything
• Took about 3 pictures to document everything
• Washed down some Excedrin with a little Dr. Pepper on the drive home to help me stay awake (Mormons abusing drugs. Yo.)
• Watched a lot of YouTube videos

Samantha and I took in both sides of our family on this trip and it seems that no matter where we go, we end up watching people's favorite videos.  My nephew shared one with us about a woman who took the cinnamon challenge - did you know there was such a thing?  Her video has over 17 million hits, so I feel like I might be the only one who doesn't know about this.  Apparently swallowing cinnamon is not for the faint of heart.  We laughed at the videos and came home to share all of them with our boys.  Cory was intrigued with the cinnamon challenge idea.  One tablespoon of cinnamon?  "How hard could it be?" he said.

I agreed that if anyone could do it, it would be him.  Just that morning I had been driving with Drew and I was asking him about his week of scout camp he had just endured with his Dad while Samantha and I were on said road trip.  He said, "Yeah, there was one kid who was deathly afraid of spiders.  One time he yelled to Dad for help and when Dad got there he asked, 'What do you need?'  The kid asked him to kill a spider for him that was on the outside of his tent.  Dad pointed to it and said, 'this spider?'  The kid said, 'yeah' so Dad grabbed it, threw it in his mouth and ate it!"  I burst out laughing and clarified, "Seriously?!"  Drew, who was also cracking up as he retold me the details, vigorously nodded his head in affirmation and then added, "Of course he also had everyone eating ants by the end of the trip too."

You see why a tablespoon of cinnamon would seem like no big deal, so he decided to see what the fuss was all about.  I forced him to at least do it outside and then grabbed my phone to document any potential footage.  Ladies and gents, here's how that turned out:


Sorry y'all, he's taken.

If Blogging Was My Boyfriend

If Blogging was my boyfriend he'd be asking for his stuff back.  There I'd be, standing on my porch with a small box of shirts, movies, maybe a Glo-Worm (I don't know why) and a CD teetering on the top labeled "Our Songs".  I would say something about how it wasn't him it was me, and that maybe when I got my crap together we could try again.  He might say there would never be another girl like me and...he's right.  He may never find anyone else who teaches her children not to judge on Monday, and then sits down with them on Tuesday to watch Toddlers & Tiaras and makes fun of every single person.

Mercy, a month is a lot to catch up on.  Should I start with my groin injury or my suspicious rash?  Or happier topics like how I discovered "Smashburger" and a boy named Andrew gave us a free milkshake?  I also had a mammogram yesterday.  When I came back and told my kids where I had been my daughter asked, "What's a mammogram?"  I said, "It's when they squish your boobs between a machine to check for tumors."  She replied, "You keep your clothes on though, right?"  Poor thing.  Reminds me of her mother who used to think there must have been some kind of invisible film covering people's lips when they kissed in movies.

It's been so long we should probably crunch a few numbers. 

• Drew is averaging 1 inch of growth every 3 months.  
• Samantha got 1st chair for the flute section next year.  (This was a big deal at our house - there was tough competition.)
• A moth set off our house alarm at 4am
• Cory and I celebrated 19 years of marriage.  That is if you call waiting out the tornado sirens crouched underneath the stairs in our basement celebrating.
• Drew played 12 lacrosse games.  Drew's team lost 12 times.  
• Samantha ran 800 miles.  Or something. 
• No really, I'm quite thrilled that she has cross country practice for 2 hours every morning in the summer beginning at 7:30 am.  THRILLED, I say.
• Samantha doesn't get her license for another 31 days.
• On the first day of summer Drew had a friend over and I heard him ask, "Hey, you wanna watch Dance Moms Top 10 OMG Moments?"  AND THEY DID. 

And that doesn't even cover the big stuff.  First, the abbreviated version for those of you who are sick of reading already:  Cory almost died, we went to Vail, I got pulled over by a cop, we bought a car, I went to Vail again, and then I almost died. 


And for those of you who haven't had enough yet, read on.  It's true, I personally think Cory is very lucky to be alive.  A few weeks ago he was driving on a freeway when a semi truck went to change lanes behind him, but the semi cut it too close and clipped Cory's bumper, sending him into a 180 spin that flew him across the far lane of traffic and crashed him into the center median.  And then?  THE SEMI TOOK OFF.  Beautiful.  Our car was totaled, the perpetrator got away and as for Cory...he didn't even get whiplash.  Not a scratch, not a bump, nada.  It can only mean one thing: God is not done with him yet.  I guess God and I have something in common. 

Just like that we became a One Car Family (how spoiled are we that this conveys hardship?), and the next day Cory and I went to Vail.  When we got back I began my search for a 2nd car - it was during a test drive that I saw the flashing blue and red lights in my rear view mirror and I pulled into a McDonald's parking lot.  "Yes officer?" 
"I notice you don't have any tags, ma'am."
"I'm test driving sir, the plates are on the dash."
"I see.  So, how do you like it?"
"The car?  It smells funny."
"OK then, here's my card.  Good luck."

We didn't buy a car that day, but we bought one at 11:00 am the next morning and by 2:00 pm I was on the road to Vail again to celebrate my friend Ganelle's 40th birthday.  We ate pasta and fresh beignets, lounged in terrycloth robes, watched a guy slackline over a river, and then went ziplining over a canyon.  "Zipline" is a fitting title, but I find "The Crotch Killer" to be equally appropriate.  Still, we had a blast - right up until we were driving home in the rain and began hydroplaning on I-70.  We managed to avoid incident after several close calls, so I guess God isn't done with Ganelle or me either.  One more thing God and I have in common.

The busy isn't stopping but we're working it out.  And as for that boyfriend of mine?  Oh, he'll be back.

El Dia De Las Madres

The truth about Mother's Day is you rarely get what you actually want.  When I was a mom of younger kids what I really wanted was to sleep in, skip church, eat ice cream in my bed alone and pretend to not have kids for 24 hours.  Not that waking up to the sound of kids fighting at 6:30 am so you can have breakfast in bed by 7:00 am isn't great too, but....  To be fair I've had some great gifts to mark this day in the past, but in my experience a gift seems to lessen the responsibility of answering to my beck and call and I prefer to be waited on.

Besides, what I really want for Mother's Day this year isn't possible.  Sure, a maid would be nice, maybe a day at the spa, perhaps a double header of Dancing With The Stars to watch William Levy muster up a Cuban salsa number would rock my world - all good options to show your beloved your gratitude for ALLTHETHINGSTHEYDOFORYOU, but what I want?  What I really want?

No.
Homework.

Is anyone out there shouting out a "hallelujah" or an "amen" in this regard?  I'm telling you, having older kids is much more suited to my psychological well being but the homework has a tendency to kill my happiness.  I mean, don't reel me in with tales of sleeping through the night and trips to Disneyland where everyone is tall enough for EVERY ride and then give me Holy Crap I Forgot To Major In Math So I Could Get My Kids Through High School.  Sure, our kids are old enough now that we don't need babysitters.  But they are also old enough that they have to read War & Peace over the weekend and write a 15 page summary about how it reminds them of their family by Monday.  Which means a date night on Saturday only drags out the meltdown through Sunday.  Total buzz kill.  It reminds me how I felt when I got all excited about Pierce Brosnan being in The Lightning Thief, only to find out they had covered him in facial hair and stuck him in a wheelchair for his role.  Honestly, if you're going to reel me in with "Pierce Brosnan" I'm going to need a suit, some wingtips and a steely gaze.  Don't kill it and give me the Geico caveman. 

No homework.  That's what I want.

I think I'm ready for summer.

To Do List

Most of my thinking happens in the bathroom.  For such occasions I keep a whiteboard marker handy so I can write myself notes and reminders on my mirror.  Here's what it says right now:

Mole Check
Mammogram
Glaucoma Test

And now you know why I haven't had anything to say for a month.

What? You're Still Here?

Oh, hey.  Hi!

Hi.

Want to know something funny?  This Thursday I am teaching a class on blogging.
Step 1:  Set up your blog.
Step 2:  Ignore it for weeks.
Step 3:  Feel guilty for not blogging.  Feel tempted to apologize.  Don't.  Nobody really cares.  In fact, many are relieved because now your craft (kids, spouse, home decor) isn't cuter than their craft (kids, spouse, home decor).

Part two of my tutorial will focus on how to monetize your blog.  Step 1:  Joke's on you.  I have no idea.

I think it's going to be a really good class.

***

Last Sunday Drew turned 12.
Monday his voice started changing.
Tuesday he had lacrosse practice, and as he gathered his gear from the trunk I caught his reflection in the rear view mirror.  If I squinted really tight I could see past the shoulder pads and arm guards to the little boy who used to grasp a plastic animal in each chubby hand everywhere we went, but relaxing my focus revealed the truth.  A man in the making.  He has grown an inch and a half in the last three months, three inches in the last six, and four inches over the course of the year. If I buy him pants on Wednesday, he has outgrown them by the weekend.  And yet, despite my tireless (tireless!) efforts to explain that it's "COULDN'T care less", NOT "COULD care less", he shakes his head and says I'm not making any sense.

***

Samantha went on her first date and I didn't even have to be sedated.  It was a blind date organized by another couple so they could double, so we didn't know this kid.  It took me two days to find out his first name, three more days to get his last name and about 7 seconds to search him on facebook.  Samantha said that made me a Creeper.  I say trying to make sure her soon-to-be date didn't claim serial killing or Mafia Wars as favorite past times was the right thing to do.  Her date was adorable and she had a good time.  So normal!  We are normal!  I like to celebrate the small victories.


How have YOU been?

How Stella Got Her Boobs Back

A few years ago I was at a New Year’s Eve party and as the clock struck midnight, the gentleman sitting next to me shared the following:  “My only resolution for this year is that by the end of it, I’d like my nipples to stick out further than my belly button.”  I laughed and replied, “No way!  That’s mine too!”  And then we blew our kazoos and went back for seconds on chips and dip.  I’m not sure whatever happened to that guy but as for me, I’ve ultimately managed to claim that resolution.

It hasn’t come easily.  When I was in middle school I was sized up by a serial pervert in my Science class who waxed philosophical one day on breasts.  “Some,” he explained, “are like MOUNTAINS.”  He sported a wicked smile.  “Others are like little hills,” he rattled as he curled his hands in little waves.  “But YOU?”  He flashed a cursory glance at my chest before he announced, “They’re like…mosquito bites.”  Yeah, I know.  In 2012 that’s called sexual harassment but in 1983, well, that was called 7^th grade.  And trust me, as soon as time travel becomes viable Room 201 at Del Dios Middle School will be one of my first stops and I will show that gangster what is up.  He will probably be able to take me by then what with all of his experience he likely gained from prison, but I’d at least like a go at it.

Over the next 20 years life happened, and several extra pounds happened, and that whole cupcake explosion – it just HAPPENED.  Before you know it you’re sitting on the couch with a bag of potato chips using your chest as a shelf and your son’s playmates want to know when your baby is coming.  It’s a real party.  I’ve endured several highs and lows on the scale over the years but my hopes for true reform waned as I rebelled against a life sentence of boiled chicken and low fat hummus.  Then about a year ago I decided to make one last ditch effort.  It’s been slow, but even slow over twelve months adds up and I have since lost almost 40 pounds.  I’m in a really good place.  A couple of days ago I was getting ready and as I checked my make up in the mirror I took a step back and gasped a little.

Boobs.

I had boobs!

It was like living puberty in reverse.  And to be clear it’s not that I care about other people noticing, it was just interesting to me that I noticed. 

A waist reborn.

A pervert shamed.

I have boobs.

Sixteen Candles

No dating until you're 16.  That was the rule in my house growing up.  And short of kissing Mark Marean in my back yard as my brother pretended to marry us, I respected it.  I waited. 

I waited and waited and naturally assumed that along with my great anticipation of turning The Great 16 there were certainly others anxiously waiting too.  Pathetic, really.  I guess I hadn't suffered enough disappointment in life yet to arrive at the conclusion that the world did not, in fact, revolve around me.  I still believed that what happened in the movies was possible, which is why I avoided haunted houses at all costs and fantasized about a dreamy boy showing up in his sports car to save me on my birthday and kiss me through the window light over my birthday cake.  Imagine my disappointment when November 24, 1986 finally arrived, my 16th birthday, and I sat in stunned silence on the stairs of my family home, alone and confused as to why the phone was not suddenly ringing off the hook.  I was genuinely surprised that I hadn't corralled my first date on the exact day of my eligibility.  Oh, how I want to take that 16-year-old girl and smack her right upside the head.  She was kind of a dummy.

Now, that dummy is the parent.  And today that dummy's baby girl turns 16.  That girl has been given the same rule about dating, and she has respected it.  She has used her 16 years here on the planet earth in brilliant fashion - unabashedly trying new things, facing setbacks head on, tackling challenges with determination - that girl impresses her mama.  Regularly. 

I used to hear mothers regale their birthing experiences with pride while conjuring phrases like, "As soon as I saw her I knew her and loved her."  I expected to feel that, and of course I loved her instantly.  But I didn't feel like I knew her.  Instead as I held that little girl in my arms after she was born I felt like she was on loan; like God was giving me a chance.  God was going to let me borrow her - He was trusting me with one of His very own and He was going to let me teach her, show her, love her, guide her.  And then I would get to sit back and watch what she did with all that teaching, showing, loving and guiding.  What a privilege.  As it is, she hasn't really needed me much - I'm not being self deprecating here, just telling the truth.  This girl - I have been getting to know her for a while now.  I like her.  A LOT.  She's too smart to think the world is waiting for her to turn 16, and I guarantee she won't be spending the evening on the stairs waiting for the phone to ring.  Eventually she will capture some boy's heart and I will officially roll into a fetal position and begin sucking my thumb.  I do know one thing, whoever gets this girl is going to have to get past her mama first, and when they do...

...well, I'll try to be nice.

Happy Birthday baby girl.