Wisps of thought

Lessons from the PICU

2012-01-18T21:18:00.000-08:00

So, when I decide to have an emergency, I am not content to merely have one or two major incidents. Anyone can have an emergency c-section leading to a preemie baby and a painful recovery. I like to step things up a notch and have another child admitted for a rare random disease, just for the bonus points. As I was being prepped for my surgery my cell phone rang, and since I was on scared-out-of-my-mind auto pilot I answered it. Mia's pediatrician was calling to tell me that she needed to be admitted to the hospital IMMEDIATELY. My hysterical laughter alarmed both of us so I handed the phone to Charlie and let him deal with it while I went to my happy place in my head and started humming The Girl From Ipanima.

Long story short, Mia wound up on the other end of the hospital while Claira and I were there recovering. I guess she doesn't like to be left out of things. She somehow managed to get osteomyelitis in her hip. Honestly, who does that? So here's what I learned from that whole experience:

PICU nurses deserve hazard pay. NICU nurses are saints, I'll give them that any day. But the PICU nurses have to deal with the kids when they are old enough to fight back...and be bored...and try to escape. Not that my perfect angel of a daughter would do any of that. Mia very quickly learned that if she pushed the pretty red button on her bed, a magic fairy would answer and grant her every desire. Another movie? No problem. Mint brownies at 2 a.m.? Brilliant idea! New sheets and jammies because you managed to spill paint all over, again? Don't even worry about it, I am here to serve you. At least that is what Mia heard. I'm sure the conversation sounded a whole lot different from the nurses station.

Numbers are hard. Ok, put yourself in my place for a minute. There is a special code to get into the NICU, a special code to get into Pediatrics, and a special code to get back to my room, which is where I have to be in if I want my drugs. I know I could probably handle that for a short period of time when I am focused and wearing my own clothes. But put me in a hospital gown, ply me with hormones and sleep deprivation, and it was like they were making me do quantum physics in order to pass through any doors. After a couple days the nurses knew who I was and the tale of my improbable adventures in family health care were whispered in reverence in the hallways, so they would let me struggle for a minute trying to remember where I was and who I was trying to visit then they would chuckle and just buzz me in, shaking their heads in pity. OH! And the security bracelets! By my count I had 5 of them semi-permanently wrapped around my wrist by the time I crawled into bed that first night. As I am not a jewelry type of person that was a massive irritation.

Kids adjust pretty quickly to anything. Now, if I had to have a PIC line in my right arm with a tube leading to a medicine pump in a giant fanny pack around my waist and was told I would be wearing that for over a month, I would probably throw at least one or two massive tantrums...a day. But not Mia, she just shrugged, then figured out how to accessorize her pump with massive amounts of glitter and self-fashioned arm warmers. I kind of want to be just like Mia when I grow up.

And finally, mother-daughter bonding can take place in the strangest of circumstances. It's been a couple months but Mia still cuddles up with me and talks to me about how cool it was that we had matching IV's. And she would call my room phone every couple hours to see if my magic red button was working properly yet (she was very upset that the only thing the nurses brought me when I pushed it was more pain meds). She would call and we would discuss what we would order from the cafeteria for lunch, then when our food trays came I would call her back and we would talk on the phone as we ate. I have a lot of memories from that whole experience, but listening to Mia giggle on the phone as she figured out that she could make her bed go up and down will stay with me forever. And sitting in the chair next to her bed and watching her patiently show her little sister how to work the buttons to Eliza's amazement and delight is one of my favorite moments ever

Lessons from the NICU

2012-01-17T12:04:00.000-08:00

I recently spent some time in the NICU with my baby, Claira. She's just fine, but was a month early and had to be taught to do normal newborn things like breathe and eat. Luckily she was a quick study and got to come home after a couple weeks. I was delighted by that (and maybe just a twinge regretful since that meant I no longer had a room full of nurses to take care of her while I blissfully slept ALL NIGHT LONG. Seriously, when does a new parent get to do that?) (I also went out to movies and to dinners as much as possible during that two weeks. Does that make a horrible person? I know I should have spent all my time by my baby's bedside fretting and worrying, but that got old really quick, and my kids at home were not happy with that arrangement.)

I did spend some hours there every day, holding little Claira and doing whatever mom things the staff would allow me to do. Mostly I sat in my appointed rocking chair and observed. I learned great tricks from the nurses, such as a rice bag on a sleeping baby's stomach is magic, theirs were actually elbow length gloves filled with rice and sewn shut so that it looked like disembodied hands were holding the babies. Awesome, and creepy. Also, the nurses there are human and have to do whatever they can to make their day more tolerable. One nurse had a picture collection of babies with ridiculous hair (yes, Claira has the same male-pattern-baldness curse her sisters had, so she made the collection). One nurse liked to make molds of all the newborns hands as gifts to the parents, or more likely, it was a devious way to play in the mud while keeping a technically sterile environment. Hmmm...more disembodied hands...I'm noticing a theme.

I also learned some things about the other parents, and myself. First off, I am totally able to control myself and not point and laugh when the young parents of the infant in the next door bassinet sang I Can Show You The World in harmony at regular intervals. It was difficult, but I managed to keep a straight face, that is something I never thought I was capable of. Secondly, I learned that at some point parents are way too comfortable talking about breast pumps and bowel movements with complete strangers. And news of a good bowel movement can make cheers erupt through the whole nursery. Parenthood does strange things to a person.

Signs of a stroke?

2012-01-12T11:32:00.000-08:00

I think my brain has finally broke. I have a secret addiction and I am so ashamed to admit it I can only talk about it here...on the internet where only my closest friends will read it. I've started to do crafts.

I blame this.

Apparently the postpartum hormone swing has lead me to glue gun abuse. And spray adhesive...that stuff is awesome. How come no one ever told me about it's magical powers? I almost feel the same way about it as I do my Shark steam cleaner, I practically get giddy when it's time to clean my faucets and I get to spray all the gross gunk out from under the tap and watch it fly all over the mirror...Sorry. I'll try to focus.

So, this new obsession is alarming on many levels. When Charlie came home from work to find me covering old diaper boxes with fabric and ribbons he immediately started calling a neighbor to watch our kids so that he could take me to the emergency room for my obvious mental breakdown. But, I explained to him that I was NOT crafting. I was simply getting around to decorating the house (yes, we've lived here over 4 years, what's your point?) since the magic decorating fairies were obviously not ever going to show up. (I'm calling their union rep.) This got him to put the phone and his car keys down, but he still eyes me suspiciously whenever he sees me attempting to make a roses out of bits of ribbon I find in the girls room as I clean.

Now here's my problem. I have no clue what I'm doing. It's like I skipped the multiplication table of the crafting world and skipped straight to mod podge algebra. So I need lots of advice. For Valentines day I have issued Charlie a challenge: Only homemade gifts, and only spend 10 bucks. Since the medical bills of our past couple months have started pouring out of our mail box I decided this was a reasonable challenge for us...well for me anyway since I have Pinterest. He has no clue what to do.

So, here's what I want to do. Decorate my bedroom (Yes the walls are still bare after years of being here, lay off man.) I want to frame sayings that are meaningful to us and hang them artfully above the bed. I know what those of you who know me well are thinking and no, I'm not a pod person, there are mushy sayings like "Eye you(that's how Mia used to say I love you and Charlie still uses it on a daily basis) but there are other sayings like "So's your face" which is an integral part of our ongoing courtship. The good news is that I do have a bunch of frames laying around empty because for some reason Charlie's students keep giving him them as end of year gifts, I guess a lot of mom's figure it's the only male-teacher-appropriate gift in their teacher-gift arsenal.

OK, so how do I go about this? Is there a computer program that makes pretty things? Do I go find scrapbook paper (and where would I find such a thing?...stop laughing, I told you I have no idea what I'm doing.) What other ideas can I incorporate? And where does one get vinyl sayings to put on the wall? And how does one put it on the wall?

Maybe I'll just make him a cell phone charging station out of an old lotion bottle.

It's a girl...again...Yay!!

2011-08-12T08:26:00.001-07:00

I like my girls, at this moment Eliza has an old lady scarf perched on her head and is doing her best pirate impression, She's trying to say "Arrrgh", but since saying her r's isn't quite a skill she has yet, it's kind of more like "Awww", maybe she's a bashful pirate. Anyway, as I was saying, I love my girls. And we're going to have another one...oh boy.

I was absolutely positive this bun in my oven was a boy, my crazy old neighbor lady told me it was a boy before I even knew I was pregnant. She would come out of her house, in her night gown, followed by 13 of her cats and say in her trance like voice "your pregnant, and it's a boy", then turn back around and disappear. If you can't trust a prediction like that then what is this world coming to? Also, my doctor would listen to the fetal heart beat and spout off all the old wives tales that said that the slower beat meant it was a boy, and he's delivered a bajillion kids (Seriously, he's old, he wears a bow tie). So you see, I had it on pretty good authority Charlie was finally going to get a boy that would play in the dirt with him (my girls don't like dirt, Eliza gets up several times during a meal to wash her hands...I'll worry about that later.)

But then the ultrasound day came, with me on the table with that gross jelly all over me, Charlie and the girls trying to stare at the screen and pretending they knew what they were looking at and the doctor announced that we were getting girl #3. I breathed a sigh of relief because what on earth do I know about boys? Charlie laughed, because what else can he do? Mia's response? "Darn!" We all looked at her for a second and she said in her really disappointed voice "little sisters are too much work". Then we all looked at Eliza, who was busy trying to shove a latex glove into an outlet...she didn't really care what else was going on in the room. And I've mostly gotten used to the hormonal uncertainty that is the established mood at my home. (Do any of you remember a vignette in the old Animaniacs cartoon called Katie Kaboom, where the daughter of a family was all sweetness and light, until she got mad, then she made the incredible hulk look like a sissy and destroyed the house with lasers coming out of her eyes and tossing Acme bombs with abandon? Yeah...Mia...) hmmm. I guess I at least have the stuff for a baby girl already.

Let the fight over names begin!!!

I need to pick my vacation destinations more carefully

2011-06-20T11:31:00.000-07:00

I took the soul crushing van of doom on a road trip last week. And, it did not, I repeat, did NOT, involve a soccer tournament. Ok, kind of it did. Charlie was going to Cedar City for summer games. I paused and envisioned myself trying desperately to entertain my high energy children by myself in a hotel as charlie refereed soccer for 14 hours a day, and practically shouted that he was going alone. I only meant to be vehement, but I have volume control problems sometimes. Then, I had another vision of me with the two bored girls here at home for four days, while I was in the throws of morning sickness(oh did I forget to mention I am expecting again? Well, there you are.) Most days I have about 3 hours in the morning where I feel human, then I crash into a ball of nauseous slime on the couch until bedtime, only to rise to hurl once in a while. Charming, I know. My world is a glittering palace of glamor and excitement.

Where was I? Oh yes, so I was thinking about how much fun that would be, then for a split moment I envied polygamists. (in no way do I agree with their doctrine, but when you feel awful, you kind of wish you had a back up housewife around to entertain the kids and do the dishes. That's all I'm saying.) Then I thought of my awesome big sister, Wendy, who loves me and is nice to me even when I am whiny and gross. So I announced that while Charlie was gone, I was taking the girls to see their Aunt. He mostly looked confused at this point, taking the girls on a car trip longer than 10 minutes is something I avoid like the plague. But he just shrugged and said to have fun. Then I sat down and realized I had just planned a trip to VERNAL. Wendy has very few faults, but one of the major ones is her choice of hometown. Come on, Vernal. Hmm. I suppose there are good things about Vernal, so I will end my rant here.

All in all, it was pretty awesome. The girls behaved reasonably well. I was right in assuming that Wendy would keep my kids safe and entertained while I crashed on her couch for a few days, she's like the really cool version of Mary Poppins (but with less singing.) And the girls introduced her to Phineas and Ferb. I'd call everyone involved a winner. Even the van, it contained us and transported us just as advertized. Hmmm.

vehicle induced identity crisis

2011-06-18T11:58:00.000-07:00

The day finally came. My tenuous and distant grasp on anything associated with my carefree youth has finally slipped away from me. I drive a minivan. How those words have crushed my soul with their enormous weight. I knew this day would come. The moment the phrase "Hey, lets have kids" passed between Charlie and myself, the minivan of doom has hung with its soul crushing mass over my head. Like the proverbial cartoon piano hanging precariously from a fraying rope out a window waiting for me to pass by, it has been there. Hounding me relentlessly from the edges of my subconscious. And now it is here. Parked in my garage. Mocking me and my self image as a carefree, relatively cool person. I stare at it as I go to lock the doors at night, and for just a moment we stare each other down. It always wins. I'm a middle aged mom who drives a minivan, there's no denying it anymore.

I will write more and make it amusing later, some day...when it doesn't hurt. I thought it wouldn't be a big deal. I learned to drive in a minivan. My mom's minivan was the only vehicle available to me until I had bought my own car. Why is this so hard for me to accept? I'm not even a car person. It shouldn't bother me. I should accept it as just another marker of the passage of time in my life. Like the first time I bought eye cream, or waited patiently for food storage items to go on sale. It's the way life goes, and I will accept it. I can still be me as I drive down the road in my shiny, silver dodge caravan. Just give me time. And perhaps a drink.

Martha Stewart takes a holiday

2011-06-14T10:59:00.000-07:00

So, maybe it's just me, but sometimes I have days when I wonder why the universe has allowed me to be a parent. Most the time I'm ok, I give myself a B+, which is fine, I'm not striving for hall of fame or anything, just survival.

So imagine my surprise when I woke up Friday and had an itch to sew my cute little girls cute little matching sun dresses! I don't know what happened. Sewing generally thrills me about as much as wading through pools of spiders. But hey, who am I to resist a completely innocent urge? I dragged the kids to the fabric store (mia was in tears because that was not what her plan for the day was) and forced them to pick out fabric as I slyly asked the clerk what the easiest pattern in the store was as I am a what I like to refer to as a special needs seamstress. Anyway, long story short, here's what we ended up with after 3 hours of me cursing my machine

Yes, they are freaking adorable, thank you for noticing. This picture was taken Sunday morning about 10 minutes before we left for church. Approximately 13 minutes later, Mia's dress, hair and dignity will lay in shreds on the kitchen floor. (Aha! you were wondering when I would get to the "Amy is a massive mom failure" part of my story!) We wandered to church, my cute little matching girls holding hands and giggling, me trailing behind with tears of self satisfaction glistening in the sunshine. We selected our usual pew and settled in for the chaos we accept as sunday worship with kids. Here's where I made my fatal mistake, I asked Mia to (Brace yourself) Move to the END OF THE ROW! I know, how dare I say such things to her? Her screams of indignation echoed through the chapel as I tried to calm her down and explain that she can't sit in the middle because she puts her feet on the hymnal holder thingy and refuses to let anyone squeeze past her. This lead to more hysteria and a violent outburst. Charlie finally noticed that he was dressed and at church with his family just in time to raise his eyes from his smart phone and see his angelic 6 year old take a swing at me with her remarkable right hook. I've always been proud of that right hook. Anyway, he dragged her out of the church, all the way back home with her scratching and screaming and clawing at him the whole way. By the time they reached the safety of the house she had ripped her dress, reduced her cute curly hair to a hopeless birds nest and worked herself into such a frothy mountain of rage it took her nearly 2 hours to get a hold of her emotions and return to church (charlie had sewn her dress strap back on with a needle and thread and tried his best to salvage her hair, because he is adorable.)

Anyway, my point is, within about 3 minutes my "I am the worlds best mom with adorable girls whom are worthy of a magazine cover in dresses I sewed with my own hands" mood fell to "my whole ward just saw what a miserable failure of a disciplinarian I am and my children are secretly abusive monsters that should be locked in the basement for the safety of the whole neighborhood" kind of mood. It happens that fast. Eliza and I sat through the meeting with shame hanging over our heads (well, I did anyway, eliza mostly was irritated that her dad wasn't sitting next to her, she likes him lots.) Yep, that's how it goes. Kids. Hmm.

Hello?

2011-06-12T08:39:00.000-07:00

Is anyone still out there? Charlie finally had time to sit down and figure out why I was locked out of this account this morning, so I guess I'm back. Woohoo!

Man am I relieved, the voices in my head were beginning to be really obnoxious without this particular creative outlet. I've been telling my kids my rants instead, and quite frankly they don't really care. Anyoway, I promise to start writing again, even if no one is reading this anymore, in fact that may be a good thing, no pressure and all that.

A real vacation?

2010-04-20T17:59:00.000-07:00

I've been meaning to write about my valentines day experience this year, but it's taken me a while to process it all. Here's the best I can do.

We had a "vacation". Yes, it is once again soccer season. This tournament was in St. George/Mesquite, and I was feeling saucy so I decided to pack up my girls (have you ever packed for a baby? You basically have to take everything. I finally stopped myself at the 6th recieving blanket and after packing every burpcloth in the city of Spanish Fork. Oh, and water, who knows what kind of water they have in Mesquite, how can I feel good about feeding my baby Mesquite water?) and headed out to the fields with my husband in his cute little referee shorts. (Yes, they have to be that short, otherwise the socks would look ridiculous.)

So St. George was the same as usual, dry, forsaken looking palm trees, people who wish they were in California, yada yada. And Mesquite...not so much. Apparently if you don't golf there is no reason at all to go there. And to make things even more adventurous we got to stay in a hotel that was actually closed...and perhaps haunted. I decided it was haunted because then the disgusting, dirty decor was ambience, not a health code violation. It seems our hotel was used as an "overflow" hotel when the real hotels just didn't have room. It was kind of fun, in a life risking sort of way. The up side is that none of us got bit by mystery bugs, unlike our poor soccer-referee neighbor. He looked like a bedbug buffet.

BUT! It weasn't all bad. Here's the awesome part. All the soccer games got cancelled for the last two days so Charlie actually had to SPEND TIME WITH HIS FAMILY ON FAMILY VACATION. Sorry, it still gets me a little excited that he was finally able to experience that. Because he is an over achiever, and it was Valentines weekend, he even came up with a plan all on his own for family fun. Vegas was only an hour away, and he had 48 hours to spare, so instead of packing up and heading home like everyone else we headed south to Las Vegas for a romantic Valentine's get away...with two kids in tow...Brilliant!!

I don't want you all to get the wrong idea. I was impressed by his gumption. He even got us a big fancy suite at the Luxor so we had panoramic views from our in-room hot tub of the glittering city lights. We went walking around the various casino's trying to see everything we could (I had Eliza in her Moby wrap. You get some good comments when you take a 3 month old into a casino.)

Mia's favorite thing was the volcano in front of the Mirage. She made us stand and watch it at least 3 times before we were allowed to go back to our room and crash. My favorite thing, and possibly the most romantic thing Charlie has ever done for me, was that we got to spend an hour at Sephora. I frantically searched for my favorite eyelash curler (refer to my previous entry about my love affair with the Shu Umera eye lash curler). Alas, it was no where. And I gave up in a wave of self defeat and sat down next to one of those people pretending to be a statue outside on the side walk. Charlie quietly got up, and went in the store with Mia happily trailing after him (although he previously made it clear that he would rather eat lint than step inside a Sephora...boys are weird). Ten minutes later he came out holding a large bag and Mia came out smelling like she tried all the perfume samples. He handed the bag over and said "They don't carry them anymore, but I got the lady to give me all the ones they had left in the stock room". Man, I really love my husband.

Later that night, as we were in our romantic hot tub, watching the view of the strip through our slanted, pyramid-corner windows, I glanced over my two children, splashing around and giggling in the tub like it was their own private pool, to my adoring husband and was completely content and happy. Best Valentines day EVER.

My new friend Kip

2010-03-27T19:13:00.000-07:00

I had a birthday a few weeks ago, so no whining that I haven't written, I'm an old lady now with arthritic hands so this takes a lot of effort. I've been on a stupid diet and exercise kick since then. Charlie bought me Wii Fit Plus for my birthday and I got a membership to weight watchers....because apparently we both hate me. So I am old AND unpleasant. Gosh, are you sure you want to read this? I may insult you because I can't have a brownie, so all of my brownie hormones have converted into yelling-at-random people hormones.

Since the blessed anniversary of my birth, every morning I turn on my stupid Wii and pull out my stupid balance board and say good morning to Kip. He is my cartoon personal trainer. I could have picked the chick one, but I may have called her names that I don't think my kids should over hear at their tender age. So, Kip....yep. He's my buddy. And I hate him. Stupid Kip. I named him Kip because he looks really perky and slightly effeminate. I'll bet he was a cheerleader in his computer animated high school. He tries really hard to be in my good graces, but then he says something dumb like "your balance is a little off, do you find that you trip a lot when walking across a room?" Then I have to let out a string of not so nice words at him, but he doesn't care. He just goes on to the next torturous yoga pose as if he is impervious to my pain and insults. But if I stop, he yells at me. Yesterday in the middle of the palm pose I had to leap off my balance board because Eliza was screaming at me that she had flipped over on her stomach and got stuck (this happens a lot and I usually just sit there and laugh at her....because I need a brownie). Anyway, I jumped over to grab her and Kip shouted, as if I was across the room in the kitchen eating a brownie "HEY! THOSE MUSCLES AREN'T GOING TO TONE THEMSELVES YOU KNOW!" So I jumped back on the balance board, scared that he would make me do more lunges if I didn't shape up. I don't like being yelled at.

So, in my old decrepit age, I am being bullied by an inanimate object. I'm not sure what that says about me. I could just not turn on my Wii, but then he would get all mad at me for not working out. And he would probably yell at me. And then I would cry. So for now, I just deal with it, but some day he is going to push me too far. Then I'll do something, I don't know what. I may...put the disk in the freezer....that'll teach him. Oh yeah Kip, you have it coming. Just keep pushing me.

Cute kids

2010-03-03T11:14:00.000-08:00

Alright, you know how all kids are cute? Even the ones that are kind of funny looking are adorable in that E.T sort of way? Well, my kids are cute, dang it. But I will be the first to admit that they have had their less than glowing phases. Even little Eliza in her short three months has had a few less than stellar looks.

For example, she was born with male pattern baldness. Not completely new baby bald. Oh no, the only bald part was right in the front and center, the rest was almost 3 inches long, all around the perimeter.

You can see the hair in back sticking up like a mad scientist...tee hee. See, cute, even if it is funny.

I almost considered just buzzing the rest off and letting it all grow out together, but I couldn't bring myself to do it, so I just tried to camouflage it with a comb over. Yep, I had a little baby girl with a comb over. I also tried head bands, but they never stay put. Now the bald spot is just grown in enough that I have started to do things with her longer hair, like pigtails and stuff.

I actually mostly do this for my own amusement. I tried a mohawk, but that seriously didn't work since it only went to the middle of her head and the front just had that "new baby chick" fuzz. Maybe I'll try putting it in curlers and see what happens. (Can you tell I am not working right now? I need a hobby. Perhaps I should try knitting again to spare my kids from my boredom.)

I had a similar problem with Mia. When she was born, she had a mullet. A serious mullet. Plus, she had white hair, so she was like an albino baby with a mullet. It was pretty startling at first. But, I got used to it, and by the time she was about 18 months it all sort of worked itself out and now she has this gorgeous mane of golden shimmering hair that would make women in shampoo commercials seethe with jealousy. I don't have any pictures of her mullet on this particular computer, so she is going to be spared the embarrassment of those being published. But here is the lustrous current state of her hair.

So, when I see funny looking kids on the street or at the store, I just smile. Because I understand. It isn't their fault. Even if it isn't something like their hair, or being crossed eyed, it isn't their fault. It's probably because their mom dresses them funny or has no idea what to do with their hair. So, make fun of the parents if you must, it's all their doing, but spare the kids. They just do their best.

Love song for Macey's

2010-02-02T11:44:00.000-08:00

I do have my share of happy places. I love my circle couch, sitting there with a remote (or novel, because I'm well rounded) and a diet coke is pretty much my version of bliss. Also, I have made it a habit to hang out at Macey's, my local grocery store. Yes, I know, grocery stores are not known for their relaxing amenities, but bear with me, it makes sense in a round about Amy-has-a-unique-albeit-skewed-outlook. (albeit is an interesting word....I'm going to have to use it more.)

Here is the play by play: First, you go in, you coral your 4 year old into a grocery cart so she can't run around and drive you crazy, and you put your infant in a front carrier because then she falls asleep and you can just pretend you have a horribly misshapen growth on your chest and ignore her. You take a deep relaxing breath and proceed into the store.

There, you are visually assaulted by "The Wall of Bargains", but in a good way. Chocolate covered pretzels, four for five dollars? Brilliant! Hunts spaghetti sauce for 1.09? Don't mind if I do. You leisurely work your way through the displays of consumable wonders and notice that you are working up a thirst. Just when it seems palpable, you wander smack into the Deli section and gaze longingly at all things deep fried. The deli wins a place in my heart because it houses a magical fountain drink dispenser. So, of course you mosey over and help yourself to a diet coke (you also may need to get a drink for the child in your grocery cart, depending on her noise level.) But, if drinks aren't her thing, never fear, because the Bakery is next, and the wonderful bakers in their baking aprons will give your child a cookie, because Bakers are like the Santa Claus's of pastry and cute kids get what they want. While you sip your beverage and your cart-caged child eats her cookie, you can stare in amazement at the cake being decorated by the woman in the glass-enclosed cake decorating area. (Mia can watch her for hours...I wonder if she feels like a zoo animal because I sometimes get the urge to throw treats at her for her performance. Maybe she would rather be thought of as a street busker and have me throw change into her white baking hat, I'll have to try that line of thinking next time.) Then you walk past the donuts and play the "What would I eat if I didn't have to lose 30 pounds" game.

And this is just the first corner of the store. At Macey's wonders await you around ever corner! Visit Tim the produce dude and get his advice on pineapple selecting. Sample ladies and candy bar displays lurk around every corner, like the proverbial trench coat wearing alley loiterer...except friendly and safe. Yep...this is one of my happy places and I am not ashamed any more. After all, don't people always say that happiness is where you find it (I never really seem to get platitudes right so feel free to correct that if you must.)

You owe me big time Jake.

2010-02-02T11:21:00.000-08:00

I have had to add a few things to my list of stuff that has made me lose my faith in humanity. Now, along with Oprah, Celine Dion, and techno remixes (why oh why must they go on for so long and be so repetitive??? Who enjoys that? It's like being pounded over the head with a drum machine.) Last night I had to add the Bachelor to my list.

I watched this juggernaut of a show in it's first season, when it was a novel idea, finding love on national television? How on earth will that pan out? But now we all know, it doesn't. No way, no how. So why is this show still on? How have they managed to find women who are willing to pretend that they think that finding the love of their lives equates dressing in skanky cocktail dresses and fighting over some rose happy guy who is willing to go on national and make out with 20 women to find the love of HIS life...honestly, there aren't this many stupid people in the world, are there? Oh and last night I made a drinking game out of it (I couldn't find the remote, hence my being subjected to this show). Every time some idiot woman talks about having a "connection" with Jake (the current Bachelor) you take a shot of the beverage of your choice. I drank protein water because I am trying to lay off the hard stuff (diet coke). Also, every time Jake cries because he has to send someone home. Has he not ever seen the show before? Why is this taking him by surprise? IF he is really there to find his true love he should be thrilled to whittle the pool of bimbos down to one so that he has found her. Come on. Quit your bawlin' pretty boy.

So, after last night I am banned from watching that show. Apparently Jake the pilot + protein water makes me a little bit violent. Charlie was afraid I would throw some projectile through his pretty new TV and removed all hard objects from my reach. And also, apparently the rage that show has created within me has made me tense my muscles in my back and today I cannot stand up straight or lift my 12 pound baby up without tears of wretched pain springing forth. Stupid Bachelor.

Merry Christmas!

2009-12-24T13:48:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas Everyone!!!

Writer's block?

2009-12-19T09:06:00.000-08:00

So, many of you have mentioned my novel that I was once writing. I was doing this when Mia was a baby and I was stuck at the house most of the day while she slept, which is a magical and really boring time of motherhood. I got about 50 pages written of a delightful murder mystery that I never really thought I would try to get it published or anything, it was just for my own amusement. After that point, however, Mia grew into the "hey, what's up with you ignoring me? aren't you suppose to be interacting and doing mom type stuff?" phase. So the book got put on the back burner and mostly forgotten about. I tried to find it a couple of years later, when she started to go preschool and I had a few minutes to myself every day, but it was gone, I couldn't even remember if I had written it on my current laptop or the previous one. So sad.

Here's the kicker though. I thought maybe I would just start over again, because i had a really good, intricate plot all thought out with lots of twists and surprises and many fabulous and amusing characters....but I can't remember how it ends. I've been wracking my brain for weeks and weeks and I have no idea who did it and why.

As frustrating as this is, I think it points to a bigger problem. What other incredibly brilliant things have I forgotten? Who knows, I may have cured cancer and solved world hunger on a lunch break a few years ago and just forgot to write it down. I've always embraced my absentmindedness and tried to convince those around me that it was a charming quirk that just made me more lovable. But no, it is a serious character flaw that will probably lead to my demise, and maybe even the destruction of the world someday. Man, try walking around with that burden on your shoulders. Being me isn't for the faint of heart.

I've tried to correct this problem by buying various PDA's and calendar systems, but the catch is that you have to remember to use them. I once got this awesome day planner from the UVU bookstore, that had lots of Mormon and Utah themed jokes and quotes that cracked me up and kept me awake while I was in my really boring physiology class, but I never remembered to write anything down, other than the family birthdays and stuff that I really didn't need reminders of. And it isn't even that I forget everything. I can remember completely trivial and useless details to a fault. I am a genius while playing Trivial Pursuit and if you ever need to know any details about the career of Danny Kaye or the use of Jello throughout history, I am a handy person to have around. But for actual, useful information that is relevent to anyone's life, you may want to ask that Mom-mannequin that I wrote about in the previous blog.

stylin' mom

2009-12-16T14:17:00.000-08:00

Alright, so I am not one to buy into all the latest trends, by nature...plus you have to actually be paying attention to stuff, which I don't normally do in order to be trendy so, whatever. But with all this new "mom gear" you are suppose to have I have been doing a little research and have come to the conclusion that people are dumb.

This is not a new conclusion, I will admit. But come on, do people really need all this stuff? I mean honestly, has anyone ever been in desperate need of a diaper stacker? This is my second kid (a little girl, named Eliza, for those who were wondering) and I have yet to actually use one of these. There are a bunch of other things, like bedside bottle warmers and wipe warmers which seem like a good idea, except that you actually have to be in a state of mind to remember to use these things, which doesn't happen when you have a baby screaming at you at 3 a.m. so, those are also off my wish list.

Ooo, here is one thing that I love though. The Moby Wrap ( I tried to insert a link to it right here, but I am still a technological idiot and it didn't work. Sorry)
Granted, I had to look it up on youtube and watch a bunch of instructional videos to figure out how to put the dang thing on, but as I do have a baby that insists on being held all day, and a job that requires the use of both hands, not to mention the need to brush my teeth once in a while, it's pretty darn useful. Now if only someone would invent some sort of shield so that when I eat while "wearing" my baby I wouldn't drip and get crumbs all over the poor kid. Or, maybe someone would invent some sort of mannequin (except not creepy) version of a mom so that the mannequin could wear the baby and the baby would never know, and I could just take a nap. Hey, maybe it could even somehow trick older kids, like Mia, into thinking that I was playing with her at the same time so I could take a real nap, not the kind where she comes in every 10 minutes to explain to me that she is bored and the TV does not count as a playmate. Hmm...yes, inventors of the world need to get right on that idea. I'll be here waiting.

I figured out my password!!

2009-12-01T12:17:00.000-08:00

Sorry, it's been a while, having a baby and all that. But mostly it's been a while because I couldn't remember my password and had to spend a couple weeks hacking into my own account. Woo hoo! I will write a real post soon, I just needed to let you guys know I am still breathing and stuff. Love your guts!!

Hiding the Crazy

2009-10-25T12:10:00.000-07:00

I apologize. Not for abandoning you for so long, oh faithful blog, but for unloading all the crazy that I have been trying to conceal for months now. As you know I have previously hinted that I may not be in my right mind due to all these lovely pregnancy hormones so I have mostly kept my sporadic thoughts to myself as much as possible. But today I am bored. And I can't watch one more episode of Backyardigans with Mia or I will beat my TV.

Yesterday was a fun day. It started off with Charlie getting up early with Mia so that I could sleep in (Charlie is so awesome) and then 30 seconds later my darling unborn baby started kicking me in the bladder, again, so I had to get up anyway. So, I ventured downstairs and realized that I had to clean my pigsty house up because there was a BYU football game on that night. No, I am not a crazy superstitious football fan who thinks we will lose the game if my house isn't spotless. It's just that Charlie (who is very friendly and sweet) invites people over at random to watch the game with him and I never know how many are showing up expecting a party. So, I pleaded with Charlie and Mia to help me scrub stuff. I cleaned the kitchen as they vacuumed all things that would hold still.

Then I decided to make cinnamon rolls (shut up it makes sense). Except about half way through the baking time I remembered I have a horrible cold (courtesy of stupid charlie and his germs) and I can't smell. What is the point of baked goods if you can't smell. So I screamed at the oven and decided to go hide in the shower until I calmed down. So I locked my bedroom door, and then locked my bathroom door and hopped in, enjoyed the steam and tried to chill out for a few minutes. It lasted all of 2 minutes until Mia, with a nail file in hand, picked through both locks (who taught my 4 year old to pick locks? Dang Charlie) so that she could come tell me, with her face full of fury, that her dad had sprayed her with cold water. I asked her calmly, (while inwardly chanting a soothing yogic phrase that I made up because I don't speak yogic) to tell him that was very mean and that I would be down in a few minutes to talk to both of them. She sounded satisfied that her dad was going to get in trouble and ran away (Man, I really want some seven layer bean dip right now.) Then, she came in again to say that dad was in bigger trouble now because he was tickling her when she was yelling at him. Then he came in to say that Mia was totally just trying to get him in trouble and was only crying when I was around to hear it. (I'm still in the shower at this point, trying not to scream). No wonder I am so freaked out to have another kid, I already have two of them that I can barely handle.

So, after my super relaxing shower (man I really want bean dip....I don't have any chips though. And now I am going to cry, Darn Charlie and his non-chip buying). My dad and Charlie's mom and brother showed up for the game. I served my cinnamon rolls with tears in my eyes because I wasn't even tempted to eat them. Then I got a lecture from my mother in law on random and various things such as daring to schedule my induction, delivering at the wrong hospital. Why was I so thoughtless as to breath in Charlie's germs and get a cold? Oh, and my favorite was "why on earth are you naming your daughter Elijah? How do you spell that? is it a family name? (for the record, that isn't happening, but I was having fun with this topic so I let her go on for a good 20 minutes, even arguing that Elijah was my great grandmother's name and she was an amazing woman, before Charlie decided to step in and explain that no one had even considered that name and she must have made that up herself.) (Ok, bean dip is gross, never mind)

So, dear blog...you see what you are missing? Not only are my emotions random and inconsistent, but they aren't even particularly entertaining. Oh, we lost the game last night, but that is ok.

total cop out

2009-09-30T12:37:00.000-07:00

Ok, I know it's been a while, but honestly, I am one grouchy grouchy hormonal woman right now and I have been afraid that if I write something it would be horribly offensive to someone and then I would have to gravel apologetically and that is irritating.

So, in lieu of an Amy post, I have hijacked a recipe Russ sent me. He figures that since he lived in France for a couple years he has magically absorbed the ability to bake. Those of you who know my cute little brother understand how this is completely logical in his world. Those of you who don't...enjoy getting to know a truly individual character.

Title: Russ's French Bread Bowls

Description:
Bread Bowl Recipe- Made with patience and love. He just emailed it to me because he is super helpful

Ingredients:
5 ¼ cups of flour

1 Tbs of Kosher Salt (or normal salt if you are poor)

1 Tbs of yeast (good yeast)

1 ¾ cup of warm water

1 Tbs of Sugar

Directions:
Put hot water in your mixing bowl. Add the sugar, then sprinkle on the yeast. Let the yeast yeastify for like 5 or 10 minutes- you will know when it has yeastified. Okay, now you put in the salt and add the flour a cup at a time. Mix until beautiful. Cover and let rise for an hour. Okay, an hour has past…move on. Now you want to divide the dough up, I have no freakin clue how many bowls you can make from this recipe, but just make the dough balls an adequate size, maybe about half the size you want the final product to be. Kind of roll and tuck the dough balls until the top is smooth like a nasty mushroom. Let it rise. You can glaze the dough with your favorite glaze. Egg whites work well with a pinch of salt. Even just salt water works. Some people like milk, milk will make it a softer crust. Okay I should have told you earlier to preheat your oven to 445 F. you should have done that dang it. 445 you say? Yes, I say 445. You see this will cook the crust good, what you do is cook it at 445 for 10 minutes, then reduce the heat to 390 degrees and continue cooking for another 15 minutes or so. If you tap your bread and it sounds hollow, then you are done. …but are your done? NO!!! let your bread cool until you can touch it without swearing. Cut the top off, scrape out the middle, then, if you want to eat paradise then you will mix garlic etc with butter or olive oil and brush that inside the bowl then place it back into the oven at a reasonable temperature to toast it. So you get a garlic bread bread bowl. Fill the bread bowl with your favorite bread bowl filler and eat. Perfect way to show your family that you love them.

Number Of Servings: some

Preparation Time: a while

First day of preschool, part II

2009-09-01T10:11:00.000-07:00

Yes, it is that time of year again, even if the 90 degree weather doesn't know it. Mia just made her first trek of fall to her preschool class. And yes, she was just as giddy as last year, but somewhat more confident since she had done this before. In fact, she tried to get me to stay home and let her walk the half a block by herself. She said that I could watch her through the window, but that was all the supervision she would need. I didn't fall for it, don't worry. We walked together, stopping every 20 feet or so because Mia needed another picture taken of her cute new school out fit. Once again, she stopped me at the door of the classroom and stated firmly that preschool was for kids, not mommy's. I wonder if I'll ever get used to that.

As she walked into the class and greeted her teacher I lingered by the doorway and listened to her instruct Miss Nicole, the lead teacher, that this year she was to be addressed as AMELIA,not Mia, and she would really like to learn to read this year. She carefully placed her backpack in her cubby hole and sat at a table with her hands folded as Miss Nicole met my bewildered gaze from the doorway. I guess she was trying to decide if she should just let AMELIA take over the whole class as she sat in the back and played with the classroom pets, a small tank full of frogs. I understood as I have had this feeling when dealing with AMELIA several times in the past few months.

Make no mistake, I am happy that my daughter seems to be turning into a confident young lady and stuff, but she isn't the boss of me, Gosh! So, while walking home thoughtfully by myself I decided that perhaps I should spend as much time trying to instill confidence in myself as I do my child. Then I thought that sounded like a lot of work so I probably will just fake being in charge like I normally do. Plus I can still be in charge of bribing her because I am taller and can reach the cookie stash. It's going to be ok.

Maple Syrup Tidal Wave

2009-08-28T18:29:00.001-07:00

You know how every once in a while you feel like you actually have a grip on life and may actually be getting into somewhat of a groove, and then something comes along and, not unlike Nelson in the Simpson's, trips you and points and lets out a hearty "Ha Ha!" That happens to me a lot. I had just begun feeling that I had somewhat of a grasp on how to do this working pregnant mommy gig until yesterday. I forgot to feed Mia and myself breakfast before making our daily trek to my place of employment to pick up tapes to transcribe. At first blush this didn't seem like much of a problem. I knew we wouldn't starve in the 30 minute round trip, but then I thought, "Hey! (always my first mistake) Let's go to Sonic" So I took a quick detour and ordered up a breakfast sandwich for me and French Toast sticks for Mia (Kids like dipping things, it's a whole sub-culture). This seemed like a brilliant plan until I opened the bag and pulled out the packet that held two tablespoons of maple syrup and started handing it to Mia. A nagging little voice in my head tried to stop me, because syrup + child + car ride did not seem like a brilliant move. But I shrugged and handed it over thinking "so she gets a little sticky, we'll be home soon and it's only a smidgen." I'm an idiot.

20 minutes later I was hauling Mia, covered from head to toe in syrup up the stairs to the shower peeling maple soaked clothing off her as we went. And once that chore was done I got to attack the entire back seat of my car with the steam cleaner...twice. It still smells vaguely like an all night diner, but at least there is no sticky residue left.

So, now that the wind is out of my sails I have given back in to the feeling of merely muddling through one alarming incident to another. But that is ok. It keeps me humble.

Bad clowns=Bad hair?

2009-07-23T10:00:00.000-07:00

So, today my hair looks as though it has been struck by lightening and then tenderly styled by a blind psychopath. I blame the rodeo. Don't look at me like that, I could have blamed Celine Dion, but that would have been weird.

So, last night I got to go to the Spanish Fork Fiesta Days Rodeo. Woo hoo!! In theory a rodeo is lots of fun. Lots of cowboys and the summer crowds swarming around you while you eat deep fried things, plus the added bonus of the chance of mayhem should an errant hoof connect with human flesh. Sounds pretty awesome, right? Well, now add 100 degree weather, three cranky preschoolers, two fighting married couples, a cute but sticky baby boy and a generally hag like pregnant lady. Yep, that was my night. Kind of takes the awesome out of it. And so does that stupid rodeo clown who thinks a urinating car is funny....you had to be there. Needless to say, Boom Boom the clown is not on my list of favorite performers ever. He was pretty lame. And he didn't even get attacked by a bull, so he was lame without a purpose, which is even worse.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Before my clan struck out for cowboy heaven, Charlie and I painted my living room. I've been trying to decide on a color for the better part of a year, and finally I just closed my eyes and picked a grayish blue. It is very nice. But, when Charlie and I do projects together we generally aren't friends for a while afterward. We have good intentions, but after about an hour of working we both are pretty sure that the other one is completely wrong in their approach and bossy beyond reason. And neither of us is ever willing to back down and apologize so we are not the most fun couple in the world for a day or so afterward. Apparently my brother and his wife had some sort of ordeal going on as well because there were dirty looks being thrown in all directions. Poor Dad was trying desperately to make this a joyous experience for us all so we were pretending (with varying degrees of success) that we were thrilled to be sitting on medival torture devices they call wooden stadium benches.

Oh, so back to my hair. When I finally crawled home at about 11 p.m. (which is about 4 a.m. in a pregnant lady's world) I dragged myself into the shower because my lower extremities were covered in spilled snow cone (courtesy of my loving daughter and nieces). And promptly started crying because I then saw that my feet resembled a kindergarteners efforts of shaping clay into a human form. Stupid heat and hormones. So I just crawled into bed, with no forethought of what my half wet hair would look like in the morning. I blame Boom Boom and his dumb rodeo clown ways for all of it.

Idaho and Michael Jackson

2009-07-08T06:58:00.000-07:00

Ok, I need to tell you about my fourth of July, but with all this MJ hoopla going on I have to mention one little thing that's been bothering me...It is always sad when someone dies, but isn't this the guy we were all afraid of with his penchant for young boys and his ever melting face? Why is he suddenly beyond reproach? Ok, I've never met the guy, and I do like one or two of his songs, but he really hasn't had an impact on my life. (except in fifth grade when we named our class hamster after him because he had one white paw...or that one Simpsons episode where the 300 pound white guy in the mental institution thinks he's Michael Jackson and then writes that birthday song for Lisa because my cousin Lisa wandered around singing it for weeks "Lisa it's your birthday, Happy birthday Lisa" over and over and over until we were ready to commit her.) That's all I'm saying. Isn't suddenly being a Michael fan like suddenly liking whatever sports team just won some big title?

Ok, so Idaho. Yep, it's still there. I've only been to Idaho a handful of times in my life. Once for a color guard competition in Pocatello, and I've been to Lava Hot Springs once or twice, so I really don't have much of a reference base. It was awesome to see my Uncle Tebbs (all of my uncles have bizarre names, it's just one of those things). I love my Uncle Tebbs because he is my dad's older brother, and he is the one person who can reduce him to tears from laughing so hard in less than a minute. Also, my dad seems to revert to being a little boy when they are together and it makes me giggle to watch.

Aside from that awesome bonus, I mostly spent my weekend being irritated. Since it was all my siblings (at least the ones who care, Wendy) that were there with their families it was kind of intense with all the tiptoe-ing around my schizophrenic brother and bipolar sister and emotionally fragile brother in law....and Russ. It was downright exhausting, come to think of it. And perhaps it was because I was in a hormonal/murderous mood, but the fireworks that were touted to be the best this side of the Mississippi were just...meh.

I already acknowledge that I need to give it a fairer shot...maybe next time I'll go by myself and actually get a chance to pay attention instead of trying to keep my nieces from jumping into the Snake River every time I turned around. Or maybe when I am not pregnant so that I don't have to be cursing the fact that the bathroom was a 15 minute walk.

Better than Neil

2009-06-30T13:17:00.001-07:00

yeah yeah yeah, lots of time has gone by, lay off man, I don't need this hassle.

Here's what's going on lately. We all had the swine flu. It was fun. I (of course) just assumed that it was pregnancy + a cold of death. And then Mia got it so we went to the doctor after a week of her not getting better. (No, I am not a neglectful parent, I was just trying to not be one of those obnoxious parents that panics at every little cough, gosh.) Anyway, in the end the doctor decided that what started out as swine flu for both of us had just evolved into a harmless sinus infection. So we were appeased with antibiotics and sent home to wallow in self pity.

Then we got home, and guess what!! Charlie was passed out on the couch looking like a corpse and moaning (so I knew he wasn't dead). Since I knew that he was suppose to be at some workshop on how to teach tesselations to ESL kindergarteners (or some other such random skill set) for at least another 4 hours I had a hunch that he did not feel well. So I banished him to the spare bedroom and started Lysoling everything that would hold still. I was only slightly upset by this, firstly because I knew Mia and I were just fine, and secondly, we were scheduled to speak in sacrament meeting in just two days (WOOHOO!!! the bishop had no argument when I called to tell him we were quarantined. Totally worth the trade off.) It's been a little awkward since though, I know that the neighbors around here that have heard that we have the plague are afraid of us, but since we are all fine now it's been pretty boring to just hang around the house. I even went out with Mia on the slip n slide yesterday because I didn't dare invite any of the other kids over in case their parents shunned us. But seriously, people of Spanish Fork we are just fine with no plague any more. Thank you for your concern.

Now, here is what I actually wanted to discuss with you all. I love Nathan Fillion. And I am not ashamed, even though he is technically Canadian. I first discovered this love back on Firefly, but I recently rewatched (or listened too mostly because I am a multitasker) Dr. Horrible's Commentary: the Musical! Yes, it is a rather obscure art piece...but totally worth tracking down for one song. "Better Than Neil". It is a heartwrenching tune that delves into the unusual rivalry between Nathan Fillion and Neil Patrick Harris (or NPH as his friends in a hurry like to call him). I'm not sure why this makes me giggle uncontrollably and sashay around my kitchen, but it does. Listen to it, you will thank me.

That is it for now. I'm off soon to Idaho!!!! for fourth of July...No I am not sure why either. Hopefully I'll figure it out on the way.

2009-05-28T18:33:00.000-07:00

At this very moment I am questioning my judgement in writing a post right now. I'm a little...not myself, due to lack of sleep, and nourishment, and the fact that I just watched the movie "Honey" on VH1 out of sheer boredom which I believe has cost me at least ten IQ points. So, who knows what I might type? (Oh, speaking of typing, I just hooked up my new fancy ergonomic keyboard all by myself and it actually works! I accomplished a feat of technology without adult supervision!!! I will do a dance of superiority later when I am able to move without severe vomiting.)

So, I just got back from another "vacation". This time the soccer extravaganza was in Cedar City. So, yeah, that was just great. And I thought I would be all kinds of excited to come back to my own cozy home and be amongst my own stuff that didn't include those hideous bedspreads they always have in motels to hide whatever bodily fluid stains they are hiding. Yet, as I walked into my own, cherished home a thought struck me....the maid didn't come to my house magically while I was gone. Stupid fictional maid. The dishes that I was just too in a hurry to wash the day we were leaving were still sitting in the sink and various other little chores that I had blocked out in my four days of soccer games in the Southern Utah rain (that would be a good name for a rock band) were still waiting patiently to be done by your truly. So, instead of being the cheerful little camper I usually am after riding all day in a car with a really hot but sweaty and rain soaked referee who had just yammered on about the subtleties of corner kicks for four hours, I was a little bit...deflated. I went to my room and shut the door and started singing Disney songs to myself (because that is always what i figured I would do in the midst of a mental breakdown, it was very soothing). Apparently my eerie singing and lack of verbal response was a warning to my family to leave me alone because I didn't hear the hesitant little knock at my door until a good 15 minutes later (15 minutes is an eternity to Mia). She slowly poked her head through the doorway and said "Mom, are you ok? I think it's my bedtime and I can't read my books myself" Such a cute little thing when she is nagging.

So, I put my nevous breakdown aside to enjoy later and started a batch of laundry on the way to Mia's room to put her to bed. I must of still looked a little deranged because when I was done she asked for her dad to come check on her because she was scared...but when I asked of what she just looked at me and said "Uh, get dad please". So I did, and then I started cleaning the kitchen and went to bed without another word to anyone,

Today I feel much better, and no one seems to be afraid of me, at least not in my home, some of the neighbors have always been a little nervous around me and I don't see that changing anytime soon. And that is my homecoming story. Thanks for listening to my rant.

so nice of you to drop by

2009-05-21T18:56:00.000-07:00

While I still maintain that Jenny the visiting teacher is so unrealistically nice she probably has cartoon birds come and help her fix her hair in the morning, I have held my own today. I took dinner to a neighbor in need. And I actually cooked it...not out of a box or anything.

Here's how it went down: Tuesday night I get a call from my local compassionate service guru. She frantically explained that I had a new visiting teachee, who turns out is one of my good friends. "Yay! Lisa (names have been changed to protect the uncoordinated) already knows I'm a slacker" I thought, "but why is this pertinent right now?" Turns out this was a good question because the compassionate service chick then said "she broke both her arms last night...go do nice things and stuff." So, my first thought was to laugh, because it totally sounded like something that I would do and yet I wasn't the one in casts. Then I felt bad and called her and demanded an explanation. She fell down. Not even a good story. My heart went out to her and I did my best to not laugh while I talked to her. Because, really, it is horrible. She has a 1 year old and a 4 year old at home, how the heck is she going to handle that? It's awful, but still I was morbidly amused. So to make up for my inappropriate humor I vowed to make her an actual meal on my assigned night to feed her and her family.

Now, this hasn't happened in a while because I still have a strong aversion to...food. Unless it is a Popsicle, then bring it on. So I went to the store...three times because remembering things isn't my forte. I laid out the mise en piece (see! I am a chef being smothered by a lazy personality, I know the fancy french way of saying ingredients) and made chicken kabobs. You see, Lisa (again, name has been changed to protect the allergic) doesn't eat gluten or dairy. So sad for her. I usually get my kicks out of making cookies and eating them with milk when she comes over to visit. But, since I was being nice I decided to actually go with the flow of her diet restrictions today instead of taunting her. I grilled them on my Foreman grill and packed up a salad and was ready to go do my best Florence Nightingale impression.

My family had hot dogs for dinner. I'm aiming for niceness, not sainthood. So, yes, it was a baby step in my quest for finding my inner compassion for others, but I am still proud of me, paying back my debt to society, as it were. Now if only I can continue resisting the urge to sit on my porch and throw chips at all the cute little relief society ladies that go jogging by on a regular basis....

how nice is too nice?

2009-05-18T13:45:00.000-07:00

In general I think I am a pretty nice person...at least outwardly, on the inside sometimes I am tripping old ladies and pointing and laughing at funny looking children (not yours, of course, they are beautiful in every way). But every once in a while I run into someone that can run circles around my kindness and not even get winded while they run bake sales for the homeless. One such person that comes to mind is my visiting teacher (whom shall remain nameless, although I know that she reads this when she gets really bored so Hi Jenny!!!). A few weeks ago I was placed on bed rest for the first trimester of my current pregnancy because...umm...my doctor likes to see how far he can push me, (seriously, I used to work for the guy and he once sent me on a hunt through the hospital for a condom catheter, even though it was an OB office, just for his own amusement.) So I was really quite frustrated and bored and nauseous all at the same time and this made me a wee bit unpleasant to be around. Anyway, I shared this with my visiting teachers and Jenny decided that she was going to bring me dinner once a week, just because that is how she rolls. And she's a good cook so I only argued with her a little bit. My other visiting teacher is also filled to the brim with human kindness, but she was too busy going to Hawaii and stuff, without me.

Finally after weeks of atrophy the "Amy doing anything" ban was lifted and I was once again allowed to move. I celebrated by taking a three mile walk, which quickly taught me that weeks of laying around doesn't do much for your muscle tone. So, after caring for my gelatinous like body I made cookies so I could return some of Jenny's recent dishes full of goodies. Today, I packed Mia up in the car and drove to her house where Mia quickly spotted Jenny's son in the back yard preparing to make a mad dash down his slip and slide. That is all Mia needed to know, she bolted out of the car and made a B-line for the back yard before I could even knock on the door to announce our presence. I tossed the plastic containers at Jenny and explained that my daughter was rampaging in her back yard and I had to go catch her. But instead of rolling her eyes and helping me contain my child, she said "why don't you just leave her here and I'll bring her home when they are done getting wet." Nice. Way Too Nice. So, instead of carting a grumpy preschooler around with me on my errands for the afternoon I got to take a leisurely stroll through the grocery store and come home with enough time to write in my blog before I had to be a responsible parent again. Now, Mia is home with a huge smile on her face and a warmth in her heart, and shoulders because the poor little girl is an albino like me and shouldn't be in the sun for more than 30 seconds at a time. All of this thanks to the un ending kindness of my cute friend. I keep trying to think of ways to pay her back but I already know that if I try to do something for her she will "out kindness me" and end up re-roofing my house or something, and this has all got to end somewhere.

And Jenny, if you are ever in an actual bad mood...the kind that makes you want to kick puppies, please call me so I can come see. It would do my heart good to see that even you have bad days.

Excuses Excuses...

2009-05-08T13:36:00.001-07:00

Ok, you know how when you should really be doing something but you just can't make yourself do it? Right now I should really really be working, but I have been listening to the turtle doctor (that is what I call the particular doctor who's dictating to me today because he sounds like he is 103 years old and is covered in cobwebs and dust, sitting at his desk in a dark corner, forgotten by all office staff) and I just can't take it any more. Well, that and the violent nausea that has been caused by either trying a new Mexican restaurant for lunch or my rapidly fluctating hormone levels. It's a tough call. I really just want to go to bed, or sit on my circle couch and nap while Mia is watching WordGirl. (Have you ever watched that show? I have a crush on Chuck the Evil Sandwich Making Guy.) But instead of crashing into a coma like state I am sitting here at my computer, willing myself to put my headphones back on and type just a little bit more so I don't have to work all mother's day weekend.

Yeah, it's not going to happen. Good effort Amy. Time for a break. I did promise Mia I would take her to the smelly stuff store (aka Bath and Body Works) She likes to try on everything and comes out of there smelling like an over ripe fruit basket. Perhaps a trip to the mall will recharge my motivation to work.

homecoming

2009-04-28T08:50:00.001-07:00

Ah, my dear neglected blog. How I have missed thee. Work is finally returning to a normal pace, and all that other stuff that comes up in life has seemed to calm down a bit. I believe I am beginning to feel like my old neurotic self again, instead of like a wrung out dish rag.

Now, I must explain that today's entry is purely a writing exercise for myself because I'm fairly certain that after a month or so of silence most of you guys have stopped checking for updates. And that is ok, less pressure for me. I'm not one of those people that thrive on pressure. I mostly shut down and try on disguises and fantasize about starting over in Puerto Villarta as a bar owner on a beach that sleeps under a palm tree. I guess I would be an albino one compared to the natives due to my complete lack of pigmentation, but eventually they would get used to me and my bathing in sun block.

On the other hand I know people who are pretty much just useless masses of flesh until pressure is applied, then they swiftly meld into functional human beings who are capable of multitasking and herculean feats of organization...mostly I'm talking about Russ. He can be amazing when the impossible is demanded of him. However, if you gently remind him to pick up his socks, you suddenly feel you are talking to a lost puddle of primordial ooze. Now that I am not living in the same house as my dear little brother I find this amusing and consider it part of his charm. But when we were teenagers and I had to wait for him to be ready to be composed enough to go to school this usually created what we liked to call hostility in my family...I think in warfare they call it a massacre. Some day when I write my book I am planning a character based on my brother. Technically he is a mental patient, but a lovable one who is mostly harmless.

Is this attack on him too cruel? Probably, I've kind of lost my perspective on such things. He gets all squicked out when I am nice to him because he thinks I am planning his death, so in a weird way this is me letting him know I care.

Nothin but blue skies...

2009-03-14T11:21:00.001-07:00

Ladies and Gentlemen, I feel we are on the cusp of Spring, finally. Here I sit with a diet coke in hand (thanks for the validation Pat!!!) (actually it is not literally in my hand, have you ever tried to type with a beverage in hand? Honestly, you people will believe anything.) where was I...Oh yes, so here I am on a sunny Saturday afternoon with a bit of quiet free time thinking about how I really shouldn't get my hopes up for warmer weather because it is bound to snow at least once more and crush my fledgling spirits. Stupid winter. If you were a person I would stomp on your neck. ( I get a little violent after being couped up for a few months.)

So, a few days ago (on my birthday, woohoo) I went to a darling little restaurant called Gloria's Little Italy in Provo. It was delightful. I'm a huge fan of eating things that I personally didn't have to cook, so I'm pretty easy to please as far as restaurants go. But I really liked this place, it was yummy. Until desert. (I need to take a moment and breathe deeply because of the bitter disappointment crushing my lungs) Ok, Gloria's has an overwhelmingly large desert selection. So much that they can't carry little plastic molds of the deserts on a tray to show you, instead you can meander (I say meander because if you walk briskly in a trattoria people assume something is wrong and might panic and choke on their lasagna, and I don't want to be responsible for that) over to and stare in amazement at the glorious little delicacies displayed behind the glass case so as to prevent any drool contamination. Now, everyone has their own happy place, and I am starting to think mine is a bakery, where you can just gaze upon the pretty pink frosted baked goods and let the sprinkles sooth your troubled soul. I stood in front of the case and just let the wave of happiness sweep me away for what could have been hours, I don't know. I went to the restaurant with the intention of ordering gelato for dessert, because I have been told by many sources that it was amazing. But when juxtapose cannolies and chocolate cake and eclairs and layers and layers of filo dough, it just didn't seem adequate. So I ordered some chocolate encased chocolate cake with chocolate dipped strawberries lovingly placed on top. It looked so good I almost cried at the site of it. Then I took a bite. It wasn't bad, it was just....meh. A huge let down. I ate it anyway, because it was there and it was so pretty, but next time I really am going to order gelato. I will not be seduced by the smell of powdered sugar and buttery flaky layers that you can just melt through with a laser like focus. I will be strong.

Time After Time

2009-03-11T06:51:00.000-07:00

On this day, thirty whatever years ago, the world was blessed by my birth...

Yeah, ok, it is my birthday. yippy. However, that is not what I want to write about today. Today I am reminiscing about articles of clothing that have vanished. I go through clothing pretty fast, between my innate ability to spill on everything and my other innate ability to rip holes in anything because of my penchant for tripping, clothes just don't last long around me. But there are certain items that have simply vanished from my closet without explanation. For example, a year ago I bought a sweater that was the cutest thing ever and I wore it all last winter with joy in my heart from knowing how adorable I was...and then it was gone. Not thrown away, not given to charity, not lent to a friend, just gone. So now I am not only left with a gaping hole in my wardrobe that only that adorable sweater will fill, but I don't have any closure of knowing why it decided to leave. (Yes, I know it is just a sweater, I'm not crazy, I just get kind of attached to certain things).

Ok, and on the other hand I have a green hoodie from my sophomore year of high school that is still hanging around my closet. I wear it whenever I am having a sick day. It's from colorguard, so it has a disturbing cougar on the back holding a rifle and flag and my name embroidered on the front. Because of it's advanced age it has a couple of holes and bleach spots, but I still cherish it, because it has lasted longer than almost anything else in my life and you have to honor that kind of fortitude...I'm not sure how you honor a hoodie, but I do try. There was a pair of green sweatpants that said ASST CAPT down one leg (I really wanted them to leave off the T(the T in ASST, not CAPT), but my advisor nixed that idea, I'm still disappointed) and it has also disappeared. I don't think I would have thrown them away since they were half of an ensemble (whenever I say the word ensemble I think about that Cribs episode with Mariah Carey where she was having a full blown breakdown, it was awesome), and who would want to borrow them? They are a particularly hideous shade of Kelly Green. I think there was a cougar paw print on the butt of them, so maybe that was what attracted whatever thief stole them.

So, this post is dedicated to items from my closet that have decided to take their leave of me, my sweater, ASST CAPT pants, flowy dusty pink blouse that was way too feminine for me to pull off (please pretend that orchestra music is playing in the back ground as these items are flashed on a big screen in a hushed theater, a la the memoriam section of the Oscar ceremony). You will be missed.

Motivational techniques

2009-03-03T06:28:00.000-08:00

yes, I know, stop lecturing me. I have had my work load double in the past couple of weeks so by the time I am done with that my poor little fingers and my poor little brain just can't handle any recreational typing. But this morning when Mia decided I needed to get up at 6:00 I could feel my blog chiding me for neglect. Sorry about that. I don't even have a topic today, I just couldn't handle the fact that my last post was over two weeks old. It hurt my heart to see. But then I started looking at all my friends blogs and realized that once a month seemed to be the average posting schedule for others. So gosh, get off my back, I'm kind of a blogging super hero, I'm just stretched a little thin at the moment.

Let's see, what did you miss in my absence...Charlie bought a Mazda6, (his last car was purchased in the year 2000 and was a 1995 Hyundai, poor little car) We sold that car to my brother Russ because apparently he needed a rally car, or he just wanted to see if his manly, bear like frame would fit into our tiny clown car, either way, at least I don't have to figure out where to park it anymore. So all is well with our transportation needs...

Ok, see, I told you my poor little brain was overtaxed from too much transcribing, I can't even think of a decent post for you all. But at least when I post this I can ignore the guilt for another week. If only I could do the same thing with dishes, half heartedly put a few token dishes into the sink and call it done for the week.

Amelia the Ballerina

2009-02-12T19:15:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago I enrolled Mia into her very first ballet class. Despite the fact that it was through community ed and there were pretty much no expectations besides that she would show up and probably stand in the middle of the dance studio at the local high school staring into space, perhaps picking her nose, we were both very excited. We made a day of going to Shopko (or maybe Kmart, it had to be one of them because those are the only stores in Spanish Fork) and bought her cute little pink tights and the whole ballet she-bang. I even bought the sparkly pink legwarmers, just because I knew I would never get away with wearing them, so I had to live vicariously through my daughter. Want to see the adorable picture? Ok

Tee hee....

Ok, so here was the surprise, from the very first class Mia had a laser like focus reminiscent of one of those freaky good Chinese ping pong champion players. She was going to learn everything that poor overworked teacher was going to throw at her and then do some kind of Vulcan mind meld and learn some more. It's kind of adorable, that she takes it all so seriously when all the other girls in her class are just happy to stare at themselves in the mirror as they slide on their leotarded booties across the wooden floor, or stare at their parents sitting along the wall and wave at random intervals, just to make sure they are still conscious. I'm expecting Mia to correct her teacher's posture any time now.

And it isn't just in my "my-child-is-a-prodigy" mother blinded imagination either. Her teacher actually stopped me after class and asked if Mia was really only three ,firstly because she is as tall as most adults by now, but also because of her amazing concentration and coordination (which must be a result of a genetic mutation because I once tripped over a leaf and dislocated my shoulder). Of course, she just meant that Mia has yet to run head first into the mirror like some of the other girls and in my logical mind I knew this was just a mild observation. But in my latent stage mother mind I started planning her career, starting with her playing Clara opposite Mikhail Barishnikov (I know he is really like 60 years old and retired,but he is the only ballerina boy I know.) Yep, it turns out I'm one of THOSE mothers. I will try really hard to suppress this, but my sudden certainty that Amelia (that is her name in ballet because Mia says it sounds more like a ballerina name, whatever) is a brilliant talent just waiting to be formed kind of came as a surprise. I'm going to have to check out Brittany Spears' mom's book out at the library and read it for pointers.

"Vacation" Time

2009-02-11T07:39:00.000-08:00

This weekend I get to go on another "vacation". Yippy. At least this time the soccer tournament is in St. George, so it will be a good 10 degrees warmer than here. Not exactly laying out by the pool weather, but beggars can't be choosers. This time I have schemed to leave Mia in Salt Lake to play with her cousins for three days instead of trying to entertain her in a foreign city while not spending any money. So this means I will get a lot of reading done. And maybe I could even go see a movie or two...by myself.

I actually don't mind seeing movies by myself. I mean, you can't really have a conversation with someone else during a movie anyway, but it is kind of creepy to see someone sitting alone in the dark glow of a movie theater. So here are my tips on attending a movie by yourself without having security escort you out.

1. Try to go to a crowded movie, then no one will even notice you're alone.

2. If you end up in a deserted theater, put your coat on the seat next to you so people think your date just went to the bathroom...and then ditched you, then they will pity instead of suspicion.

3. For heaven's sake, do not go to a kid's movie alone, ever.

4. Show up after the previews have started, then it is a little bit darker and most people aren't paying attention anyway. And then leave the minute the movie ends, don't wait for credits and make sure you sit on an aisle so you aren't sprinting over old ladies and their giant purses in the dark.

5. If you accidently arrive early, keep checking your watch and looking around you, then people will assume you are waiting for someone again, and that you got ditched. Which is pathetic, but again will not creep people out.

6. Rent a movie and stay home, theaters and kind of sticky and gross anyway.

So there you go, you can go see whatever movie you want without having to wait for someone to consent to go with you. You could go the more risky route of taking a dummy with you, or piling a bunch of paraphanelia in the seat next to you and talking to it like it is a really short person, but that takes a lot of practice, so that isn't really something I would recommend for novices.

The month of love

2009-02-01T13:30:00.000-08:00

Happy February everyone! February will always be known in my mind and the month of freezing cold disappointment. Let me first clarify that statement by stating that this is in no way my husbands fault, he makes a herculean effort every year to make Valentines day special. It's just that Valentines day sucks no matter what. There is too much pressure on one little mid-February day. (February has too many r's in it.)

In my youth I always made it a point to not be in a relationship on Valentines day, because that was just too much to plan and execute, and you know, care. There's no way you could meet expectations of a grand sweeping romantic gesture that your partner is sure to have. Especially for guys, poor little fellas. And when I began dating Charlie, I made a point of letting him know that I really wasn't a fan of flowers, because they cost lots and then they just die, and not to buy me a heart shaped box of chocolates because that was just way too cliche and I am too cool for cliches.

So, really it's my own fault that the flower delivery guy never knocks on my door. Now that I have a little more experience in my relationship with my husband I know that he will never magically understand that while my logical, non-emotional mind I think flowers are a huge waste, in my I'm-a-girl-and-want-you-to-buy-me-pretty-things-anyway state of mind I really want to be showered with lame over-sold gifts. He's a guy, and therefore doesn't know anything, unless I tell him in direct, monosyllabic words. But, this won't happen, because I am a woman. I never tell anyone what I actually want, but I reserve the right to be ticked off if I don't get it. That's what makes us so intriguing, and none too scary.

with deepest sympathy

2009-01-24T18:42:00.000-08:00

You know how you never react to tragedy the way you think that you will? Well, I'm the exception to that rule, because I am pretty predictable. The first thing I did after my mom died was invest in a new tube of waterproof mascara, because you know, that is how I roll. Then I wandered around Walmart and had an anxiety attack and frightened the old ladies in front of the popcorn aisle. So, to calm myself down I bought a hot chocolate maker, because I could hear Wendy's voice in my head telling me it was cozy. Yay for schizophrenic hallucinations, because she was right, it is very comforting.

Now that I am armed with my mascara and sugar fix, I need a plan to make it through the viewing and funeral. I HATE viewings. Alot. So very very much. So far my best idea has been to create an elaborate chart assigning points to every platitude people try to comfort you with on these occasions. For example, "She is in a better place" is worth two points. My siblings and I can discreetly keep score and whoever has endured the most comforting phrases, and thus collected the most points, at the end of the evening will win a special treat, perhaps an extra helping of funeral potatoes.

Yes, I know that this makes me sound callous and a bit jaded, but we all grieve in our own way and my way happens to involve distracting myself with ridiculous games, which I will totally win and rub all my siblings faces in it.

Resolution This

2009-01-10T13:42:00.000-08:00

On the whole, I think New Year's resolutions are lame. Why suddenly strive to fix your flaws just because you turned the page on the calendar? I say embrace your flaws at all times, even in January.

However, I have to admit I have actually attempt to make and keep one resolution this year. Usually I make a few token ones just to join in the fun. One year I gave up shellfish.(I hate any sort of fish, especially those that come in a shell, because shells freak me out, they are an exoskeleton. Eww.) So...where was I? Oh yes, I have resolved to give up Diet Coke this year. Not completely, I just finally admitted to myself that it has gotten out of hand. I usually polish off my first can by 8:30 a.m. and then just keep going throughout the day. And last week my darling little brother came up to me with tears in his eyes and told me that I need to stop it. I felt like I was having an intervention. I was waiting for him to pull out the letter he had written to me about how my substance abuse was tearing our family apart. Darn him and his Maybelline lashes.

So, since I am not a fan of migraines, here is my plan: Last week I limited my Diet Coke intake to three 12 ounce cans every day. This week I am down to two cans, next week is one can a day and then maybe one can every other day. Yes I am a woman with a plan. Nothing can stop me...except maybe the refills for 25 cents on Tuesdays at my local Texaco.

Now. On to more pertinent topics. My mother died last night. I only mention this as kind of an excuse as to why I am a bit incoherent and basically absent from this blog for the past few weeks. It has been a rough time, especially for Charlie whom has had to feed himself and figure out how the washing machine works for the past two weeks while I was at my mother's bedside. More on this later, as soon as I can compartmentalize it and make it a bit more palatable.

I survived In-Law week and all I got was this T-shirt

2009-01-03T13:18:00.000-08:00

So, Charlie's youngest brother got married yesterday...Yay! But because of this event there were Hanoseks swarming the greater Wasatch front area for the past week. They were everywhere, like in a horror movie, except not really that scary and generally more eloquent than your run of the mill horror movie monster. We kicked off the week with Charlie's sister and her family coming to stay with us. I love Charlie's little sister and her kids are so well behaved it's kind of unnerving, so that was exciting. But then, the festivities began in earnest with more relatives arriving every day and with each family that showed up we had to have another celebration. By Wednesday every meal was proceeded by an intense round of negotiations about what, where and when we would eat that stretched out to about four hours and involved at least 67 phone calls, some to the Vatican.

In my philisophical musings I like to ponder the difficulties of merging with a new family. I know most people have to tread lightly when it comes to their in-laws, but I have found it particularly difficult to delve into the culture and secret world of my husband's family. There are nine siblings spread out over the continental U.S. They only see each other once every two or three years but when they get together they suddenly meld into a giant unit that moves and thinks with an unsettling single-mindedness. Like a beehive. Or military clones in a sci-fi movie. Or victims that have survived some intense catastrophe together. The rest of us that have married into the family all sit on the outskirts of their activities with a bemused look on our faces listening to them speaking in their own specific dilect of english. It is kind of like when you are in a foreign country and you don't want anyone to know that you don't speak the language or understand what it is you just ordered for lunch but you can't admit to locals that you need help, so you end up with a cow tongue and pickled gnats, but you pretend that is exactly what you wanted.

During these little family get togethers I tend to vacillate between my I-feel-left-out-and-therefore-cranky mood and my isn't-Charlie-so-cute-when-he-is-playing-with-his-big-brothers mood. It's a little bit draining and I usually need a day or two to recover. But this time since the festivities have gone on now for eight days with no signs of slowing down I am considering asking my doctor for a Xanax prescription. Or a month in a spa retreat.

Merry Christmas!

2008-12-23T17:29:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas everyone! I love you all.

Coping mechanims

2008-12-14T20:12:00.001-08:00

Yes, I know my blog has kind of been a downer lately. So, here is a picture of holiday merriment and cheer taken at our ward Christmas party yesterday. Mia decided she didn't trust the santa enough to sit on his lap and made him stand next to her in the picture instead. The power of a determined not-quite-four year old is a sight to behold.

Today was another relaxing (Ha!) Sunday in the Hanosek household. I was languidly aroused from sleep by a cheerful little angel insisting that she needed me to play snake family (Mia's newest rendition of playing house...thank goodness she has moved past spider family, it was icky). And I jaunted merrily down the stairs to make a well balanced breakfast, simmered in love...in my mind. In reality I sat Mia down in front of the TV with a sippy cup of pink milk and went back to bed with my full blown case of mono. Charlie eventually felt guilty enough to get out of bed and make the poor child pancakes. We cleaned ( I recently discovered that if I tell Mia that we are playing Cinderella she will pitch in a little bit with chores. Yes I am a genius, tell your friends). I started stuff cooking in the crockpot, feeling quite smug with myself since I was obviously a successful little housewife with dinner started already. Then I looked at the clock and realized that I only had about 20 minutes until I had to be at church. I tossed a dress at Mia and prayed it didn't have any stains on it and decided that I just wasn't going to have time to do my hair, or shower, or any such nonsense and grabbed my "nursery uniform" (aka a long enough skirt that I can crawl around on the floor and a shirt with a high enough neck line that I can lean over and break up fights without exposing myself) and tugged it on while running out the door. (don't worry, my neighbors are used to me.)

Once there, it became obvious that either I had buttoned my top crookedly or someone had spread the word that I was not only disease ridden, but in the process of watching my mom lose her battle with cancer. I hate pity even if it is just for an unfortunate haircut. I can handle just about anything with my sword of scathing sarcasm and sheild of inappropriate humor, but the minute someone is sweet and caring about me I generally fall apart. Sympathy quickly reduces me to a blubbering mess, and I was already a mess with my lack of shower and what not, so church couldn't be over too soon for me. Luckily I got to hide in the nursery among the three year olds for most of the time. Preschoolers don't care about the health of your mom or what sort of diseases you are carrying, they only care about who has the fruit snacks.

So, now I have three choices. I could either hide in my house and not talk to anyone until I have reinforced my hard candy coating of self depreciation and can deflect all well meaning relief society thugs, or I could just take it and allow everyone in a five mile radius to see that I am a mere mortal, and an emotionally unstable one at that. The third option I have come up with is to trip anyone who comes up to me with a somber and sincere look on their face and point and laugh at them to break the tension. So, who wants to guess which one I am leaning towards?

Ok, really, here is my moment of serious gratitude...are you ready?....take a deep cleansing breath because here it comes... I never realized how many amazing wonderful people actually care about me and what I am dealing with. I am a very lucky girl to associate all of you. And if I trip you and point and laugh it is done out of love from the bottom of my heart.

What happened to Santa?

2008-12-13T15:16:00.001-08:00

Mia's one and only true wish this Christmas it to have a flying Barbie. Yes, I know that there is no such thing as a flying Barbie, but I haven't been able to effectively convey that to her and she is generally pretty sure that she is right about everything and her mom is kind of an idiot. Now, I haven't had much practice at this playing Santa gig that all parents are suppose to do, this is only my third go at it. So I'm not exactly sure how to proceed. I got her a Barbie with huge butterfly wings ( I don't know why, but it kind of creeps me out) but I know that the minute she opens it she is going to launch it into the air and be bitterly disappointed. So, do I just not give it to her, or would that be a bigger disappointment? Or do I explain that Santa's elves are huge slackers and didn't make the Barbie properly and they will be receiving a letter from my lawyer? Ooo! Or maybe I could create an elaborate system of fishing line and pulleys all over our house and hook it up so it appears to be flying and just hope it never crosses her mind to take it anywhere else. Suggestions? Comments?

The other things she has asked for are: a puppy, an iPod, and a pony. Now I am kind of secretly asking Santa for a puppy too, but my husband has threatened something akin to a Hulk type reaction if a dog ever comes into his home. So, a puppy may be on hold until he softens up a little...or goes senile or something. And a pony wouldn't be too happy in the back yard of our little home with .15 acres so I'm pretty sure that one is dead in the water too. However, I do have an old iPod sitting around since I got my new one so I suppose I could easily download the Wiggles (and her other favorite songs that I won't admit I let her listen to) and wrap it up for her, but there is something fundamentally wrong with a three year old with an iPod. Wouldn't it be kind of unnerving to see a little girl who can't even read yet wandering through the mall with the little ear buds in? I'll have to think that one through some more before I decide what to do.

Oh, and the one thing that makes me do a little happy dance is that she has asked for lip gloss...lots and lots of lip gloss. I have a bit of a penchant for any sort of lip covering (Yes, I know that is an understatement, stop rolling your eyes) and it sort of warms my heart that I have passed that trait on to the future generation.

So, I'm wondering, does this Santa gig ever get any easier? Should I be rooting for the day she is a teenager and I can just hand her a wad of cash and say "Merry Christmas, kid" and still be a good parent?

let the breakdown commence

2008-12-08T16:53:00.001-08:00

In this morning's entry I mentioned that I was expecting a holiday induced meltdown of some sort. And here it is. In the last few hours I have had phone calls informing me of a few stress inducing incidents. For example; first, my dad called to explain that my mom has taken a serious turn for the worse (which, given her two year battle with cancer is not completely unexpected, but still it sucks all the same). Shortly after I received a call from my doctor's office informing me that my routine blood screenings have confirmed that I am in the throe's of a mononucleosis extravaganza (seriously, after high school that is just embarrassing...however, come to think of it, of all the people I know who have had mono, none of them have procured it through make out sessions with random strangers.) Oh! And then I got a call from Mia's preschool teacher who wanted to inform me that my sweet angelic little girl had kicked another teacher in the shin when she tried to help her put on her hat (Mia has a thing about not getting near her ears...touching her ears usually instigates a full blown nuclear holocaust.)

So, here I sit, with nary a present purchased or wrapped, with the energy level of a ficus, crossing my fingers that my three year old doesn't get charges pressed against her, and desperately wishing I were a drinker so I didn't have to think about the manilla envelope that has been sitting on top of my fridge for the last six months that contain the plans my mother has made for her funeral.

I may not be much for Christmas cheer this year, but I definitely throw a rockin' pity party. Everyone's invited.

Oh what tangled webs we weave

2008-12-08T07:49:00.000-08:00

So, this morning I woke up way too early, did all the normal morning things, and then rushed Mia to get dressed and get her hair done so that we could go....nowhere. After I had us all ready for the day I got a text that there was no work for me to pick up this morning. I then realized there was not a real need to go to the grocery store today, and I don't have to drive the preschool car pool for another two hours. Hmmm. Free time kind of baffles me. I suppose it is now time to start cleaning my house, but sitting here checking facebook and reading all the news headlines is more fun, and no one will ever know that I was lazy on this frigid Monday morning...except you. But you won't tell, because then I will have to spill the dirt on you...you know what I'm talking about, don't make me say it.

Facebook is an odd phenomenon. I have been a proud member for a week now and I still fail to see the point. I have reconnected with a bunch of people from my past, whom I love, but I have nothing to discuss with them on a regular basis. And the ones I do have stuff to talk about with I could just call, because they're the people I talk all the time anyway, like my husband, or my next door neighbor. Weird. Maybe I'm not doing it right. Perhaps if I stopped to ask my ex-boyfriend's roommate from college why he ended up working in the coroner's office a whole new perspective on life would open to me. Or maybe the girl I sat next to in sixth grade has some vital information to share with me that would make my life more meaningful. Or, maybe I am doing it right and it is just a way for bored housewives to avoid their chores when they are feeling lazy.

The thing I have noticed is that people who communicate on the web have a very unrealistic sense of anonymity. They say and do things that a normal person wouldn't do in public, because hey, who will know right? I, on the other hand of paranoia, am all too aware of who may be reading this. I have refrained from sharing my latest waxing escapades or irritations with my neighbors (no, not you Bonnie, or Ashley, or Joy (see what I mean? You never know who you might be typing to.)), because my dad or home teachers could happen upon this little online journal.

P.S., I'm sorry entries have been a little sparse of late. It's the holidays, and I am doing my best to not have my annual nervous breakdown.

RIP selfish Amy

2008-11-20T08:35:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, disaster struck. My eyelash curler broke. Because of my monumental vanity this is akin to some sort of civilization ending tragedy. Ok, not really, it's not like I notified FEMA. I'm exaggerating for dramatic effect. Sheesh.

I am a self proclaimed product junky. I can spend hours and hours perusing all the magical potions and creams that are suppose to make me pretty. The only reason I am not bankrupt from this is because my nearest Sephora store is in Las Vegas. When I was single and could spend my money as selfishly as I wanted, I could easily spend 20bucks on a new eyelash curler without even thinking about it. But now I have a problem because my eyelashes don't rank very high on the family finances priority list. So, instead of actually buying the fancy shmancy one I have been partial to in the past I gritted my teeth and bough one from Walmart. My eyelashes survived and all is well in the world again.

Now I am making a mental list of the little luxuries I have bid adieu to over the years in the name of financial security. The monthly facials that once seemed mandatory are but a faint memory, the afternoons spent getting my nails buffed an polished are a distant dream. A few of the items on my list came as as a shock. I realized I have only bought 3 new dresses in the past six years. (This wasn't a conscious sacrifice, it's just too much work to go shopping and try stuff on now, plus it is so much more fun to buy Mia's dresses, they have ruffles and stuff). And purses...oh, how I loved to buy a new purse for no reason at all. Now when I start eyeing them Charlie rolls his eyes and ever so gently reminds me that I have a closet full of them in every shape, size, and color,that I never use (he's a killjoy but he is right...dang it.)

New bored housewife Amy now has new luxuries that are vital to existence. Yesterday I bought a case of chicken stock. I was giddy all the way home with my cache of chicken stock. I am rich in broth. And I am depressed that this makes me so happy. OH! and you should have seen me on the verge of joyful tears when I found that Charlie had bought my five cases of Diet Coke. I think I need a small vacation from being so responsible. Perhaps a quick jaunt to my old neighborhood for a vanilla steamer and a crepe with Jilaine will restore my sense of self. Call me, Jilaine and we'll set it up.

Things that freak me out

2008-11-17T12:02:00.000-08:00

Now, most of you know that I am not easily fazed. Any sort of medical trauma of blood spurting merely causes a raised eyebrow. The threat of impending doom by various terrorists? It's hard to take personally so I've just accepted the fact that it may happen, and I can't stop it so why worry. But there are some things that just shouldn't be allowed. And here is my list of them.

1. Clowns. They are the embodiment of evil and doom. Their creepy exaggerated smiles are a front to hide the dark and insidious soulless creatures that they really are.

2. The power of Oprah. Why does everyone listen to her? I don't understand why she gets to decide what everyone buys, eats, thinks, and worships. The power she wields sends shivers down my spine.

3. Christopher Walkin. if you need a reason search for the Weapon of Choice video on youtube.

4. Seafood. I don't understand the appeal of eating sea creatures that resemble grotesque insects on steroids? Why is it ok to eat a lobster but not a scorpion? THEY ARE THE SAME THING.

5. Drunk naked guys. I was attacked by one once while working in the ER, but that is a story for another post.

6. Those housewives who drive minivans with little vinyl pictures of their entire family,sometimes including their dog, on their back window. What is the point of this? We know you have a large family, hence the minivan. Why the need to publicize the number and age of your children? if the dog dies do you remove his picture and replace it with whatever your replacement pet is? Sitting behind these cars at traffic lights gives me a lot of stress, because I don't understand it, so I naturally fear it.

7. Carrot Top. Why is he allowed?

Misty Water Colored Memories

2008-11-12T11:05:00.000-08:00

For those of you who don't know, my mother is battling cancer. I am not saying this to depress anyone or garner sympathy points, but I want to explain why yesterday was spent cleaning out my parents storage room. It was dirty and gross and a chore I avoided like the plague when I actually lived in my parents home. But, as my mom has been stressed out about the state of her storage room for the past few months and was going to be at the hospital for various procedures most of the day my brilliant sister in law made the suggestion that we actually take action and clean it out instead of sitting around worrying about her for a change.

So, armed with a box full of trash bags I sat in my car, parked around the corner from their home waiting for my parents to leave their house. A few minutes later I saw their front door open and shouted at Mia to duck (she thought we were pretending to be spies so she thought this was awesome.) A couple minutes after their car pulled away I went in and raided their fridge while waiting for Russ and Amy to show up, (the prospect of being covered in dust and cobwebs all day gave me a hankerin' for doritos, what can I say) When they showed up we quickly went to work.

After a few minutes I remembered that Russ is a big cry baby when it comes to throwing things away (The umbrella stroller that only has one wheel that mom used when I was a baby!!! We can't throw that away!) So I put him and my brother David on brute duty and they carried huge boxes and bags outside to Russ's truck to be taken to the dump. Amy (my brilliant sister in law) got stuck going through old photos because I am not patient enough for that, she also was keeping an eye on the little girls so that none of them would wander into the cleaning zone and get the Hanta Virus from all the evidence of rodent life.

After about an hour we invented a game of seeing which one of us children had kept the most things at mom's house over the years. Heidi won, she even had an old laundry basket full of dirty clothes thrown in there, along with about 40 boxes of letters to and from her while in Ireland on her mission. Russ came in a close second with folders full of incompleted assignments from high school and a shoe box full of self addressed stamped enevelopes that people gave him as he was leaving on his mission to France that he was supposed to use to mail all his friends letters. I however, lost by an embarrassing margin when all I could find of mine was my wedding bouquet and a mix tape given to me by a friend in fifth grade. (I lost the arguement that the gallon jug of water in the food storage labeled from the year of my birth should count.)

So all in all, it was a day of discovery. I discovered that either I was my parents most considerate child and took all my junk with me when I moved so that it wouldn't litter their house, or that they threw all my stuff away the minute my car drove out of their driveway because they really don't like me that much. And I discovered that my dad has an unhealthy amount of books that have to do with healthy eating. Seriously, I didn't know there were that many in existence. Also, Groovy Kind Of Love by Phil Collins was popular when I was in fifth grade.

IM-apalooza

2008-10-28T08:31:00.000-07:00

So, my typical day consists of being woken up at 6 a.m. by Mia, who wants to know if it is morning yet, then we fight over what to eat for breakfast until someone is sent to their room. Then I work. For those of you not familiar with me, I do medical transcription so by work, I mean I type like a little typing robot. I wear my little ear phones and play dictation tapes as I type so fast that my fingers are a blur...for 20 minutes at a time,just long enough to finish typing up one patients adventures with STD's, until Mia is yelling at me because there is a commercial on the TV, or she wants me to come see the sculpture she just created out of couch cushions, or sometimes I think she just yells to see if I am paying attention. Anyway, this goes on all day.

ME: type type type type.

MIA: MOOOOMMMMMM!!!!!! I need you!!!!!

ME: (sighing I take off my headphones and run down stairs) What, sweetheart?

MIA: Birds eat worms.

ME: Yup, thanks for telling me. (I turn to head back up stairs)

MIA: MOOOOMMMMM!!! WAIT!!!!!!

ME: Yes?

MIA: Um, let's make cookies.

At this point I give up on work for a while and do a few activities with the poor lonely kid.

If I had a nanny to whisk away my daughter when I was too busy, my job would take an hour and a half, tops. I type really fast, the last time I tested I was up to 80 words a minute. But, with our current method of working it takes about 4 hours typically. Not that I'm complaining, the whole point of being a work at home mom was so that I could raise my own child, but sometimes it feels like the TV is raising my child, and doing a pretty good job of it. She can name all the planets in order, which is something I definitely didn't teach her so I give the credit to Blue's Clues. And Yo Gabba Gabba (a show that may have been created by Satan) taught her that it isn't cool to bite your friends, so hey, thanks demonic children's programing!

Oh, but my point in writing this little entry is to let you all know that my computer is on all day, and I am usually sitting in front of it for a few hours. My sister, Wendy, has figured this out and IM's me on and off all day. It's awesome. I only get to see her a few times a year, but I can usually tell you exactly what she is wearing and why, when she has to do the laundry, what she is making for dinner, and what crazy shenanigans her teenage boys are getting into, and when she has to go to the bathroom. Or sometimes when Mia refuses to listen to me about something I have her call her Aunt Wendy on the computer so Wendy can tell her to do it, because Mia thinks Aunt Wendy is the coolest person ever. Because of this I can pretend that I actually have a social life, because I talk to her all day, and sometimes my dad and brother chime in too. Family togetherness through technology. I could do a commercial for yahoo messenger.

Long time gone

2008-10-22T07:23:00.000-07:00

Man, it's been a while hasn't it? I haven't gone anywhere or been busy or anything, I log into this site every day, stare at the blank "new post" page for a few minutes, sigh, and then click over to snopes.com instead of doing anything constructive. Yes, I have been suffering from writer's block. It's hard to imagine that I have run out of things to rant about, but here we are.

Here's a little writing exercise I remember from my Snow College days. My teacher was an overenthusiastic old dude with claw like hands and a weird penchant for ignoring all punctuation rules because he thought that meant you were creative (I don't remember his name but my roommate Alicia used to do a really creepy impression of him). But, the one useful thing I remember: When you hit a writing wall, change your format. So today's post will be written in list form, as an ode to my friend Tiffany, the queen of lists.

Things that are really bugging me right now:

1. I planted bulbs yesterday but I couldn't remember which end was suppose to point up so only half of them are going to grow.

2. I can't really grow anything so probably none of them are going to grow.

3. I have an obnoxious zit on my nose.

4. Mia wants to wear her snow man pajamas to school today.

5. I have to go to Charlie's work party which is being held at my favorite restaurant, but I will have to deal with "teacher talk" while I am eating.

6. Oprah.

7. Mia hasn't eaten anything that could be construed as real food in six days.

8. Charlie is in the middle of "State Cup", the final soccer tournament of the year so I have only seen him in passing for the last two and a half weeks.

9. Yo Gabba Gabba. Honestly, it's like they go out of their way to be distubing on that show.

10. I love my clinique free gift with purchase I got last week, but I'm not so crazy about my actual purchase.

Alright, that is it as far as complaints for this morning. Thank you for bearing with me during this little exercise. I hope to be back to my witty self soon.

Germany needs an intervention...

2008-10-10T12:20:00.000-07:00

So, a couple of weeks ago I went to Oktoberfest up in Snowbird. It's taken me this long to properly wrap my head around the whole concept in order to write about it. Attending Oktoberfest every year is apparently a Hanosek family tradition that I had escaped in the past, but this year there was no getting out of it. I tried to imagine why someone would attend who doesn't drink or own a pair of leiderhosen, but I gave up and just went. Plus Charlie told me there was lots of German chocolate cake, so hey, I was in.

We left out home on a crisp autumn afternoon, and Charlie warned me that I would have to eat Bratwurst and saurkraut before I could have chocolate cake. Then he wouldn't turn the car around...sadist. So we arrived. Mia was excited when she learned that we got to take a shuttle bus from where we finally parked our car up to the party. I was still excited about the chocolate cake. Charlie was just excited to be ummm...out. We wandered through the booths and hoards of beer swigging, leiderhosen clad partiers until Charlie's mom and brother's showed up to teach us the proper way to "oktoberfest".

Apparently you have to sit right next to the speakers when the polka bands are playing. If you don't have accordian music bleeding out your ears for the next week you didn't do it properly. Secondly you have to dance with whatever crazy old german lady wanders past your table and grabs your arm. I escaped this fate by claiming that my daughter needed me to do something (the music was loud, I'm not sure she was even speaking english to me). But a brother in law or two got caught in the old ladies german frenzy, and like a good mother, my mother in law laughed and got pictures of them. It warmed my heart.

Then the bratwurst showed up. Gross. I took a bite, and then I smelled the saurkraut and ran to find the crazy old polka lady to put me out of my misery. I hid behind a crowd of drunk college guys until everyone had eaten and then showed up magically in time for desert. The cake was totally worth it.

Now, cake aside, this isn't an activity I would recommend to many people. Especially if you are the sober type. I'm sure it is much more enjoyable when you are drunk, kind of like walking the strip in Vegas. Or maybe if you have a secret yearning to wear a german wench dress or leiderhosen and a Von Trapp hat. I guess there aren't too many outlets for that crowd.

The hills are alive

2008-10-02T13:39:00.000-07:00

Do you ever find yourself promising yourself that you will do something? I do it constantly. Just this morning I swore I would actually tackle the ironing piling up in my closet. I have had an almost violent aversion to ironing since working in a dry cleaners as a teenager. It was just so steamy and hot, and not in a good way. It was also burny. And sometimes people yelled at me. Including my brother in law, because I lost his shirt, but that is not my point. My point is that my ironing is still sitting in a pile on my closet floor, increasing it's wrinkle intensity as I type.

I also find myself promising me that I will no longer burst into song at random moments, especially in public. But, gosh darn it, what are you suppose to do when you are at the bank and you are standing in line with your little check book and the cashier gives you the strangest look (it's a Judd's song,for those of you with a slightly more narrow musical universe. Therefore, you must sing the above line with as much of a twang as possible). Now, these outbursts don't cause much alarm around my house, Charlie doesn't even look up from whatever he is doing when I burst into a musical number complete with choreography, and Mia just tries to sing louder than me. However, when you do this at the grocery store or library you mostly get frightened looks from old ladies who assume that you are high on crack. So, that is another personal resolution, stop freaking out old ladies with my uncanny ability to find a song for every situation.

The other thing I vow to stop doing every night is preparing too much food for dinner. I blame this on my mother. As a child I grew up helping her make dinner for seven people (or nine if the missionaries are coming over). Now there are just three people in my home and one of them will only eat things that a) contain cheese, b) are pink, or c) a cookie. So, I end up with a huge storage container of whatever the main dish was stuck in the back of the fridge every night until I run out of plastic containers and realize that some of my leftovers have been sitting in the dark recesses of my fridge for a month. So I clean out my fridge, making gagging sounds the whole time. Also, the storage containers are usually too scary for me to deal with so I just throw them away and buy new ones. This has to stop, I vow every night to make it stop. Yet somehow, the next evening I end up with enough food to feed seven hungry adults, again.

So, if any of you are in my neighborhood 'round about six o'clock, stop on by for dinner, I probably have plenty to go around. Also, there will probably be a floor show including me singing about whatever the side dish is and Mia singing her abc's at the top of her lungs. Good times.

TV bounty

2008-09-30T19:13:00.000-07:00

So, a friend who shall remain nameless gently reminded me that it had been a while since I have updated this blog. Gosh, you people must be starved for entertainment. Well, I'll do my best but really all you have to do is turn on your TV, it's premier season (hoorah!). I love TV premier season, it is my favorite holiday. It's like Christmas, except instead of someone giving me a scrapbooking starter kit which would end up mysteriously in the trash the next morning, I get a brand new show or two to while away my evenings.

My usual plan of attack come September is to set my DVR to record everything, even if it looks painfully dumb. Then, after Mia is in bed and all the dishes are clean I settle down into my awesome comfy circle couch and start the first show on my list (alphabetically, chronologically is too confusing for me). Then after ten minutes I either hate the show (most reality shows or shows that take place in a high school of any sort) or I am in love (tortured souls like Dexter or Charlie Crews from life make my world go round). Then, I have a formula that evaluates the entertainment value versus the time loss....ok, not really, actually I just see what I actually remember to watch as the season wears on. Usually I forget about most of them. It's just TV. I have more important things to do like go to Charlie's soccer game du jour...or fold laundry (ha!) or write my highly entertaining blog before someone wilts in front of their computer screen waiting for me to update this here blog.

Christa Tagged me...

2008-09-10T11:00:00.000-07:00

I usually just ignore these things because I assume I am too boring for people to care, but I don't have anything better to do right now and Christa has laid down the challenge.

Pertinent information about me

10 years ago I:
1. Went to UVSC
2. Lived at Belmont Apartments with some of the coolest roommates ever.
3. Started my careere in the medical industry at.
4. Met this dorky guy named Charlie and talked him into being a teacher because he would be good at it.
5. Sat around and wished I was as brave as Christa and moved to Hawaii, just because I could.

5 things on today's TO DO list:
1. Fold the laundry
2. Pic Mia up from school
3. Go grocery shopping
4. Figure out dinner
5. Figure out why my hair is suddenly so limp and lifeless (vitamin imbalance?)

5 snacks i enjoy:
1. Those tiny babybel cheese wheels.
2. Flipside crackers.
3. Chocolate
4. Chicken/artichoke lean pockets
5. Diet Coke.

5 things I would do if I were a millionaire:
1. Pay off house, car, and any debt.
2. Buy my husband his Mazda 6 that he has been drooling over.
3. Travel to Europe (Italy and Ireland)
4. Design my own house and build it and decorate it.
5. Go on a cruise a year for the rest of my life.

5 places I have lived:
1. Kearns
2. Ephraim
3. Provo
4. Downtown Salt Lake City
5. Spanish Fork

5 jobs I have had:
1. Podiatry assistant
2. Assistant to the director of Desert Star Playhouse
3. OB nurse
4. Dry Cleaner cashier
5. Pulmonary tech

Ok, that's it. Now I am suppose to tag other people, to fill this out on their blogs, so go on Amy A. Other than that I don't know who has blogs, but I think you should all fill this out. It is fun to talk about yourself.

Cozy Mornings

2008-09-07T06:23:00.000-07:00

So, it is Sunday morning, 6:00 a.m. and I am awake. Darn it. Mia's got me trained to be up every three hours or so looking for bugs, so when she actually sleeps all night, like last night, my internal clock gets all mixed up. However, the upside of this is that I actually have a few minutes to myself to do something productive before the rest of the family is up begging for attention.

This is what is known as a cozy moment in my house. My sister Wendy is obsessed with being cozy and has rubbed off greatly on Mia. We can't just have a bath, we have to turn out the lights, light a candle and have a cozy bath. We can't just drink hot chocolate, we have to get really cold somehow, turn off the lights and put on christmas music and drink cozy hot chocolate. So, I figure me being up all by my lonesome, cracking open that first Diet Coke of the day, listening to the trains go by and the Spanish Fork wind blowing in the new day would be a cozy moment too. (I don't know why but my last four placed of residence have been close to train tracks, I've gotten used to train whistles at all hours and now find them soothing.) I think I will tell Mia about this so that she will let me do it more often, cozy moments rule here.

Ok, but here is my point for the day. I feel that as a young LDS housewife I have an inordinate amount of guilt about sitting still for a few minutes. My first thought when I woke up is that I should hit the treadmill before anyone woke up to stop me. Or perhaps study my scriptures. Or plan next weeks menus. Or maybe repaint my living room. But, I decided to brave the guilt and read the celebrity gossip sites for a few minutes instead. I'll have to deal with my over active conscience later.

School days

2008-09-04T10:33:00.000-07:00

Mia started preschool yesterday. I know, I am an old lady, I don't need you rubbing it in. I have been preparing her for weeks. We bought a lunch box, and practiced using it (she loves packing up her lunch, walking around the block, and then coming back in the kitchen and eating, her grandpa would be proud). We visited her classroom the day before and met her teachers (there are four of them, which seems excessive to me but I guess if I were going to be stuck in a room with 10 to 13 three year olds I would want as much back up as possible, they might gang up on you and kick you in the shins.)

Anywho, this has been a very stressful week because when we went to check out her class room I saw where we were going to have big issues. The class potty. They have one in their room, which is great, but it is an automatic flushing one, which gives Mia nightmares. I recall the great "Vernal Mcdonald's Potty War of '07", those of you that are there are probably still having post traumatic stress flashbacks where you hear Mia's shreiks of terror ringing out from the bathroom. To this day, any time she has to use a public restroom we have to have a heart to heat talk about whether the potty is "normal" or "automatic" (my three year old can say "automatic" which probably isn't a big accomplishment but it makes me proud.) So, automatic flushers are bad, that is my point. I thought for a few minutes about warning her teachers, but then I thought that maybe if I didn't make a huge deal out of it she would forget her terror and just use the darn thing.

Finally the big day rolled around. Mia actually sat still to let me do her hair, she put on her favorite new outfit and sat by the door at exactly 9:48...her class didn't start until 11:00. So I tried to distract her with errands I made up and her favorite show of the moment. Finally it was time to go. I read over her checklist the teacher gave us to make sure she had everything in her new Tinkerbell back pack and realized I didn't pack her an extra change of clothes. So I ran up to her room and grabbed her ratty old sweat pants and a t-shirt, thinking "the class is only two and a half hours, she won't need this". And we walked to school half a block a way. Well, I walked, Mia ran like a giddy horse. We walked hand in hand down the hall and into her class room, and at the door, she turned to me and said "ok mom, this class is for kids, you need to go home now."

Oh the pain she stabbed through my heart with those words. I guess I could be happy she is well adjusted and stuff, but secretly I think she was just so darn excited to get a break from me. Yes, I have self esteem issues, what is your point? So I walked home with tears in my eyes and stared at the clock until it was time to pick her up. I ran back to the school and entered her classroom, trying to look semi-dignified and not like that pathetic mom who has no life outside of her children.

I found Mia, and one other little kid alone in the classroom with the head teacher. At first I thought maybe they were in trouble, but it turns out that all the other kids in the class had to ride the bus home so they had left a couple minutes earlier. Mia was gleefully shouting through the aquarium glass at the class pet, a tiny frog and the little boy was staring in to space picking his nose. When Mia saw me she looked a little bit perturbed that I had shown up to ruin her fun. I gave her a hug, which she gracefully allowed, and as I pulled back I noticed that she was wearing her ratty sweat pants, not the pretty ballerina outfit she had so carefully donned that morning. Crap.

The teacher must have seen my face because she quickly came to Mia's defense. She stated that she made it to the bathroom and everything, and stuff wasn't her fault, blah blah blah...I smiled and apologized and whisked Mia away. I know exactly what happened. It was the automatic potty. I have a new foe to defeat. It will be a super fun project for the year.

Super fun phone drama....

2008-08-27T17:20:00.000-07:00

So here's what happened to my phone. Charles and I are trying out having no land line in our home and just using cell phones. This has worked ok so far, but since we got our phones while living in Salt Lake, all our neighbors have to dial long distance to call us. We talked about changing them every once in a while but never seemed to get around to it. But now, Mia is starting preschool and the school does not have long distance access (I guess the district found a way to cut financial corners). So, for the sake of Mia's education we finally went in and had our phone numbers changed last night.

In a whirl of excitement, I texted and emailed everyone I could think of and sent them my new number. (This actually turned into a fun getting-in-touch-with-people-you-haven't-spoken-to-in-years exercise. Hey Jules, nice to talk to you last night, I'm glad your still breathing.) Then this morning I wandered over to a few neighbors homes and gave them our brand new local number (hoorah!! we can have friends now). And then one of them tried to call me....and it was still long distance. Grrrrr....

So, I called the cell phone company and told them that they weren't the brightest crayon in the box collectively (individually they might all be MENSA candidates, who knows). After explaining it to them three times, calling a local store to confirm the Utah County code they need to find the right phone number we had the numbers changed again. This time I sent Charlie to the neighbors house to call before I bothered everyone with more text messages and he says it works. I am half tempted to give out my phone number here but I'm not dumb...some of the time. Email me if you need it.

house of disease

2008-08-22T19:12:00.000-07:00

So here's the thing about me. I am the worst sick person in the world. I get whiny and grouchy the minute I feel any sort of sick. Last weekend I was so sick I am pretty sure I died. It was like something out of the Exocist. I won't go into detail but it wasn't pleasant, for me or anyone within a five mile radius. And since it was the first week of school I wasn't even allowed to cry on Charlie's shoulder, lest he should get the sniffles on the first day of teaching. So, I wallowed in my misery all by myself, with nary a caretaker mopping my feverish brow. Poor poor me.

Despite my best efforts, it seems that Charlie is now coming down with the flu of death. He is starting to get a glazed over look in his eye and looks like it is painful to move. He hasn't started complaining yet, but looked at me like I was satan a few hours ago, so I think he knows that I have infected him. I now amend my previous statement as I am starting to recall that I am only the second worst sick person in the world, with Charlie beating me by a mile. He needs constant sympathy for the smallest cold. So, this is not going to be pleasant. It may take a few days before I have the time or strength to write again. I may be too busy nursing my poor husband back to health...by Monday or there will be heck to pay.

The disease continues...

2008-08-20T07:41:00.000-07:00

Ok, Charlie didn't really get sick, he just had body aches and was whiny for a day. But here's the new twist. I have a disgusting eye infection. I hid in the house all day yesterday, but today I desperately need groceries so I am trying to figure out if I would creep people out by wearing my sun glasses all through the store. Maybe people will just assume I am hung over. I also need to go to the bank, but I don't want anyone to think I am a suspicious character, so I don't think my sun glasses can protect me from public ridicule there.

It's amazing how vain I find myself being. I am skipping my kickboxing class as we speak because I don't want any of my neighbors to be grossed out by my swollen left eye. Yes, the logical part of me knows that probably no one will pay attention to me enough to even notice, but there is no logic involved in my vanity. I've been known to call in sick to work when I had a particularly bad break out. (Yes, I know that therapy might help me face my fear of my debilitating fears, but who has the time).

So, for this post I am very happy that I am not in the habit of posting pictures. You don't want to see this. And I don't want to document it for posterity. I am determined that my grandchildren never know that I had human flaws.

farmer's market

2008-08-09T11:34:00.000-07:00

So, round about August in Spanish Fork the farmer's market opens saturday morning in front of City Hall. I have an unusually excited reaction to this every saturday. Maybe it's because I've never successfully grown anything,(seriously, I killed a chia pet and a cactus in quick succession) so the wonder of meeting the people who actually produced the produce gives a certain amount of reverence. Also, Mia likes to eat whatever picks out at the market, which is weird because she doesn't like a lot of stuff that isn't pink. Today she picked out summer squash and is still dancing around the house about it. So I feel like a good mom and a good citizen for supporting my local farmers today. I get a gold star.

Also, I threw away a dead little pine tree I had in a pot on my front porch. I had high hopes for this tree. I was going to decorate it with twinkle lights come Christmas time, and maybe even a few ornaments. But it died. Like everything I plant it quickly dried up and turned brown, despite being a vigilent waterer and generous with the miracle grow. My heart still hurts from this bitter disappointment.

My new idea is to just stick a fake tree in the pot of dirt and pretend. I am nothing if not great at pretending. I will plant a fake tree and dare everyone around me to tell me that it isn't real.

meditation...

2008-08-09T11:15:00.000-07:00

A few days ago I made an astounding observation. People pick weird times to meditate on the meaning and direction of their lives. For example, I was at Red Robin with my friend, Christy after a fun girl movie (Mamma Mia, still makes me giggle). Upon walking out of the restaurant I encountered another one of my "Amy's awkward navigation of polite society" foibles, a rotating door. Some rotating doors are not so bad, kind of fun in a weird way. But some of them, such as the one at Red Robin, are an odd size. I always have a moment of panic trying to decide if I should join who ever is in the stall ahead of me, or should I let them have their alone time and jump in the next stall? What is polite? I don't want to crash anyone's solitude, but it seems wasteful to no "carpool".

I know I am rambling, but I have a point. Pay attention. After I awkwardly jumped in the same stall as Christy, probably maiming her with an elbow or something I felt the need to explain my behavior and tried to explain my irrational fear of rotating doors. This got a weird look (I've known her for 10 years or so, but I guess i must be getting weirder because no one seems to be getting used to me). So I further tried to explain what I meant about interrupting someone's quiet time. When I brush my teeth I am usually so deep in thought that the rest of the world disappears. Teeth brushing is my time to think about the direction of my life and my beliefs. I know of at least three people who believe that the universe is more clear in the shower. My mom seems to completely bliss out into a zen like state when she is polishing her sink. And a certain underground mormon sub culture that I like to refer to as "scrapbookers" seem to go into a complete other plane of existence while using their pinking shears and di-cuts. To each his own. I'm not judgy. Except for scrapbookers, that gives me the heebie jeebies.

So, this is a call for all of my loyal readers to try to be more sensitive to whatever form of meditation those around us seem to observe. That reminds me, I need to buy toothpaste.

Sundance spectacular

2008-08-03T19:08:00.000-07:00

I know it has been a while. How are you? Have you missed me? I was on "vacation" in Park City. My "vacaction" deserves quotation marks because it was the Hanosek version of a family outing. Charlie refereed six soccer games a day while I sat around in the hotel room and local attractions trying desperately to entertain a three year old. FOR THREE DAYS. THREE. Soccer and a dirty hotel swimming pool for THREE days. I just want to make sure you understand the severity of the situation. THREE. (I feel I need to take this opportunity to say that I dearly love my husband, but the man has no idea how to take a vacation. Once I dragged him to Zion's Canyon for a weekend, thinking that at least there would be no soccer there, and he managed to turn it into a soil collecting excursion for his science lessons the following year. Grrr.)

Here's the thing I noticed about Park City. Everything looks the same. Police Station, Taco Bell, Library, Albertson's, gas stations, all dressed up like cabins as if they are in the witness protection program. I even saw a dumpster or two masquerading as Swiss chalets. Who do they think they are fooling? I know that Park City has gone all Hollywood thanks to Robert Redford, but honestly, I don't think anyone is walking around the town wishing they could find a dumpster to throw their gum into, saying to themselves "Oh, I better not throw my gum in that almost dumpster looking Swiss chalet, I'm sure it's just a tiny home for enchanted wood sprites."

The other thing that kept nagging at me on "vacation" was what if someone weren't paying attention and walked into the wrong rustic wood building. I could just see the same poor chap (in my head I am picturing Paul Schaffer, but you may picture who ever you want in this scenario, I'm not the boss of you, that's Oprah's job) So, poor Paul Schaffer is wandering into what he thinks is Burger King, hoping to find comfort in a Whopper, but he has accidently walked into the Post Office because all the buildings look exactly the same like a derranged woodsman was let loose on the city planning committee.

Now I am not an advocate of graffiti, but perhaps next time you are in Park City you can aid the population by doing your part to distinguish one building from another. Perhaps you could spray paint a happy face above the door of all fast food chains and a scowly face above all public offices, and maybe dollar signs above the hundreds of real estate agents doors.

* I just read my sister in law's comment on this and realized I forgot to mention that she rescued my sanity and took Mia to her house to have a sleep over with her cousins. She is my hero. I am going to build a shrine to her...later...when I get around to it.

Answers to your burning questions!

2008-07-23T12:35:00.000-07:00

Anonymous said...
Dear Miss Amy
How do I get ground in grass stains out of my sons jeans. i have all ready washed them in hot water and dried them in a hot dryer.

signed,
hopelessly stained
July 15, 2008 2:44 PM

Dear Hopelessly stained,
Throw them away and buy new ones.

Anonymous said...
any why are you so funny in your writings? You remind me so much of your sister Wendy. Is it possible she is writing your blog for you? Please be honest
July 15, 2008 2:45 PM

Dear Anonymous,
Thank you for the compliment. Those of you who don’t know my darling sister Wendy she is a true gem and one of the inspirations in my life…or at least she was before we discovered that she was in league with the local drug cartel and had been smuggling drug mules across the Colorado Border and into Utah. She should be out of prison in three to five years with good behavior, everyone keep your fingers crossed for her.

LPP06 said...
1. What do you think of this "Dr. Horrible" blog?

2. Do you wish to join the Evil League of Evil?

3. What would you do to get in?

http://www.drhorrible.com/

A must see!!! (If you want to laugh!)
July 17, 2008 9:14 PM

Joss Whedon, is that you?
How can you not be smitten with an internet show whose main bad guy is a literal horse? The thorough bred of sin. Awesome. Like Mr. Ed, but menacing.

Kirkrocks said...
A serious question...

How can a person know all of the ***gross, utterly stomach turning*** stuff involved in the physiology of human reproduction and still want kids of their own?
July 18, 2008 1:11 PM

Here’s the thing about women: Pain doesn’t faze us. We seek it out and conquer it on a daily basis. We get things waxed and plucked just for the adrenalin rush. So, childbirth? Not so big a deal. Just don’t ask me to kill a spider. That is gross.

Anonymous said...
Amy,
How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?
July 18, 2008 3:58 PM

5

Anonymous said...
If you were one of the New Kids on the Block, which one would you be?
July 18, 2008 4:00 PM

I would be Danny. He seems to be pretty well preserved and hasn’t tried to cash in on his peak teenage years. That being said, Jonathon is hot.

Anonymous said...
What are more afraid of? Clowns or spiders?
July 18, 2008 4:01 PM

Good question, Anonymous. How about a clown covered in spiders? Actually, I would have to say clowns. They still have the shock value that spiders don’t. If I saw a spider in my basement I would say “ewww, a spider” and then make Charlie kill it. If I saw a clown milling about in my basement I would have a heart attack and die.

Anonymous said...
Will you make me a cake?
July 18, 2008 4:02 PM

Yes. I enjoy making cakes. But you would have to come to my house to eat it because I don’t enjoy cake smeared across the trunk of my car.

Anonymous said...
Dear AmyLyn,
Are you ever going to answer all of these questions?

Curious in Vernal
July 22, 2008 10:50 AM

Yes I am. Stop nagging.

Nightmare on spanish oaks blvd.

2008-07-20T10:39:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time in a far away kingdom there lived a fair maiden with big dreams to be a rock star…or chef to the stars…or maybe an actress portraying a rock star…or maybe just writing a really good poem about stars or something star related like the Hale-Bopp comet …or heck, she probably would have settled for discovering a star. But, as she grew older and older and more and more distracted with the mundane details of life like paying mortgages and trying to figure out what to make for dinner, her dreams grew more earth bound and she started to dream about someday being able to sleep for a solid eight hours.

Mia has a recurring nightmare about bugs in her bed. When she had her monsters under the bed phase I knew how to handle it and armed her with a bottle of monster spray (a.k.a. sweet pea body spray from Bath and Body Works because monsters HATE sweet smells). But, I have yet to find a defense against imaginary bugs. Every night she runs in to my room in a deranged kind of panic screaming about the bugs in her bed. Every night I calmly mumble that they aren’t bugs. Every night I take her by the hand and walk her back to her room, turn on the light and smooth out her sheets so that she can see that there were no bugs, just shadows and some mysterious crumbs that found their way up from the kitchen table. Every night I gently usher her back into bed and turn out the light and try to keep from falling out of her rocking chair as she falls back to sleep. Every night, 20 minutes later she is in my room again, this time getting her dad because she is sure that mom doesn’t know what she is talking about. Every morning we discuss her bug fixation and she looks at me like I’m speaking German and states “Mom, I like bugs.” Grrrrr……And apparently bugs are not afraid of monster spray. Mia says she has already tried that and I am an idiot for suggesting such a thing (ok, she didn’t say I was an idiot but her tone implied it.)

So, for now, the dream of a full night of sleep is on hold. But some day, you just wait. I will hide somewhere, perhaps the bath tub, and sleep ALL NIGHT LONG. Mark my words.

Taking a hike

2008-07-17T09:49:00.000-07:00

You know how in any new social situation someone inevitably asks you what sort of hobbies you enjoy? I hate this question. I don’t want to be a loser and admit that any free time I come upon is spent reading fashion magazines or eating Ben and Jerry’s while watching reruns of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, so usually I lie. My stock answer is that I am passionate about hiking. The truth is that I grew up with a grandfather who was as passionate about hiking as I am about Johnny Depp. The minute I was old enough to find something better to do on “hiking Saturdays” I escaped this ritual (although to be fair, it might have been his death defying driving that turned me off on these outings as much as the actual hiking). So, somewhere deep inside I have hiking genes (probably being crushed by my mom’s obsession-with-Egyptology genes) so I don’t really feel like this is a 100 percent lie.

Most of my real hobbies would have to do with a couch. Can you be a couch potato if you don’t watch TV on said couch? What if you are just reading a trashy novel or updating your fantastic blog. Maybe there are different degrees of couch-potatoeness. For example, someone who wakes up in the morning and immediately is glued to the Home Shopping Network every day is a huge-gigantic Idaho russet couch potato, whereas I am really more of a tiny new couch potato that you would roast gently in the oven with some rosemary and olive oil.

So, here I am coming clean about a deep dark secret again. I have no interesting hobbies. I don’t craft or sew, or do wood work. I don’t play any instruments (not for lack of trying, I just always seemed to have commitment issues with whatever instrument I was trying). And I don’t volunteer as a tour guide at the local art museum. I just kind of sit around in my free time. Wow, this blog is better than a confession box.

Q and A with Me!

2008-07-13T19:22:00.000-07:00

Someone who shall remain nameless suggested that I answer a few of my adoring publics questions. So go ahead and post whatever it is you have been dying to ask me in the comments section and I will have an answering extravaganza soon.

Only, don't ask me about laundry. I'm really really bad at laundry.

My Amy Vices

2008-07-12T09:15:00.000-07:00

See what I did there with the title? It's like Miami, but it is My Amy. Wow, I am on a roll already. Also, I am on some pain killers. I had a neck injury while bowling (shut up, I know I should be in a bubble) so now I am flying high, although I do not endorse the use of pain killers for anything but pain killing so don't blame me for whatever vices you have.

Speaking of which...I love Diet Coke. I know this is a shocker because I come from such a puritanical family, where we are not allowed to have bodily functions, let alone a habit, innocuous or otherwise. Some of you loyal readers out there (all three of you) know that I have also claimed a love of chocolate, which is pretty much a given since I have ovaries, so I don't think that counts as a personal vice, but Diet Coke is different. If I could buy it in barrels off the black market I would. I used to have a dealer (literally, Charlie's brother was a Coke delivery guy for a while and would pull up in his huge Coke truck and bring me crates of it for a small fee, it was like that scene in The Music Man where they are all singing about the excitement of the Wells Fargo Wagon, except that I knew what was in the truck and that it was for me, and I couldn't really find anything that rhymed with coke truck that had the right rhythm.)

I realized my habit may be getting out of control when I was in a grouchy mood yesterday and Mia stared at me for a minute and said "Do you need a diet coke mom? Daddy will go get you one." I stared in amazement and confusion. Proud that my little girl was so empathetic and intuitive, ashamed that she was aware of my substance abuse problem, and irritated that she was stalling because she didn't want to go to bed. Am I a bad mother who needs diet coke rehab? I had these same feelings last week when Mia told me that her favorite song was Shorty Got Low by Flo Rida after I realized she sang most of the chorus to me in the car. (If my local DCFS representative happens to read this please don't take my child away, she also is really good at eating vegetables and takes baths on a regular basis, I don't just sit around drinking diet coke and blarring rap music all day while she is wandering around the neighborhood on her own).

So, there you go. I have my vices and I am doing my best to not let them interfere with my daily functioning. Unless Mom is reading this, then I am just kidding. I never ever drink anything besides water and sugar free juice while reading the scriptures and thinking about oatmeal.

Suart Little must die

2008-07-12T09:14:00.000-07:00

So, here’s what happened. I went to Mia’s Wednesday Morning Movie (where they play a dumb kids movie you really really don’t want to watch but you do it anyway because it occupies your child for at least an hour and fifteen minutes) and they were playing Stuart Little. It was horrifying. I avoid movies where animals talk and have facial expressions as a rule. It’s just too creepy. Add to that a possessed cat and as many over used platitudes you can stuff in a kids movie and you just have 80 minutes of pure psychological torture. For me. Mia loved it. Kids are dumb. To make things worse I dragged Charles along today because he had the day off (Woohooo! Summer!) and I told him it would be “fun”. Now we are having trust issues.

To make up for killing some of Charlie’s brain cells I cleaned the house from top to bottom when we got home. I know a lot of you are saying to your computer “Amy, how does scrubbing your bathroom floor relate to forcing your sweet husband to Guantanemo Bay type torture in the name of family togetherness?” And I have an answer for you because I know on a surface level it’s just a silly idea. But if you dig a little deeper and spend some time with my husband you will understand that he is a clutterphobe. I myself am irritated by useless objects that lay around my home, but he outshines me my far. But here’s the other thing. He hates to throw things away. I know, your wondering how I can handle such a delicate combination of crazy. Well, I have figured out that the perfect solution is to wait until he is in the bathroom and then I throw piles of stuff away. He comes out and sees nothing but gleaming countertops and thinks “Wow! I know that there was stuff there before, but it is now gone of it’s own volition back to it’s place of origin.” (Because sometimes boys are dumb like kids).

I know I am outing my secret cleaning strategies because Charlie reads this blog every once in a while. But I feel better. I have shared the pain instilled by Stuart Little, and I have confessed a dark secret in one fell swoop.

Character Flaw

2008-07-08T14:24:00.000-07:00

A certain special little brother of mine has remarked that I need to add some pictures to this blog because there were too many words. My first instinct was to offer to hire him a reading tutor. Then I thought, why am I so technologically impaired that I can’t figure out how to put pictures to illustrate my manic thought processes throughout this blog? I’ve come to the point where I’ve realized that there are certain things I just cannot do. Like pass up a desert containing peanut butter...or care about who Leonardo DiCaprio wants me to vote for, or learn more than the bare minimum necessary to carry me through the age of I-things. These character flaws are what make me special.
In order to cope with anything that comes up I have married a techno-idiot savant that is happy to push me aside and figure out how to load my favorite game onto my PC or what happened to the last four hours of work that I’ve done on my computer and then somehow deleted. This is called team work. I make sure he isn’t wearing black socks with his shorts and his hair isn’t plastered within an inch of it’s life before he walks out the door in the morning, and he makes sure I don’t accidently purchase a 70's era skate from Ebay for $500,987.04. Sometimes, when my boss calls me to inform me that my margins are somehow misaligned on the latest set of dictations I’ve typed I silently hand the phone to Charlie and sit in the corner while he fixes everything with a few keystrokes. Maybe this makes me less of a self-reliant woman of the new millennium, but I don’t care. Thinking about any sort of programming gives me wrinkles and we all know that my vanity trumps any other conerns.
So, yes, Russ. I don’t know how to put pictures on my blog. Sorry. Maybe you can read every third or fourth word so you don’t get a head ache...or maybe Whitney can read it to you instead of Good Night Moon at bedtime. I’ll work on getting Charlie to fix it, after he figures out how to stop making my mouse quack like a duck instead of making the little clicking sound.

Hey Good Lookin...

2008-07-01T17:45:00.000-07:00

I don't know if you know this about me, but I am a brilliant chef. Shut up, I AM a brilliant chef, stop laughing. Ok, I am more like a brilliant chef that just got lazy and stopped trying, but still I am brilliant deep inside as I cook. I watch the food network religiously, unless someone irritating is on (I'm looking at you Sandra Lee and you too Rachel). And in my mind I am cooking right along with the greats and am a caviar aficionado (even though the thought of actually eating or being near fish eggs makes me gag just a little bit).

So, every once in a while I get on a gourmet kick and my darling husband and daughter just roll their eyes and secretly start stashing junk food in their underwear drawers. I don't know how a three year old can manage to find Twinkies to stash in her underwear drawer, but Mia is my daughter so I am not entirely surprised. A few nights ago I was determined to create Nectarine Salad with green tomato confiture and hazel nut sabayon. So I went to Albertsons and bought some nectarines and then I skipped the whole tomato idea because I remembered I hate tomatoes. I gathered the rest of the ingredients and rushed home in order to begin what was sure to be a life changing dish.

The French Laundry Cookbook wanted me to slice the nectarines into paper thin slices, but since I had to hurry and cut them up before Charlie got home and took the knives away from me in order to spare himself another emergency room bill, I just ended up cutting them in half. The recipe called for six nectarines but somehow one of them disappeared into Mia's mouth (ok, maybe I ate half of it, but she started it).

Then it was time to make a sabayon. What the heck is a sabayon, Amy? Well, if you were a gourmet chef like me you would know that it is a creamy sauce...kind of like melted ice cream. In fact, I used melted hazelnut chocolate ice cream, because hagen daaz was on sale and it had almost all the same ingredients on the label that were in the sabayon recipe, so there. It was totally justified. Also, I was suppose to make a sort of hazelnut meringue cookie, but it looked like a lot of fuss for just a couple of cookies so I used a couple of Mia's animal crackers.

I don't know how to post pictures on this blog yet (Russ's Amy needs to give me a lesson), so I can't convey the end result adequately. But it was good. It didn't look like the picture in the recipe book because I used only 15 percent of the ingredients it suggested, but it made me happy and Mia actually ate it. Charlie didn't because we ate it all before he came home, but he would have loved it too. I'll have to tell him about it sometime.

Mixing up some fun

2008-06-30T12:38:00.001-07:00

I don’t know how many of you have heard the tale of the Great Mixer Heist of 2004 so here it goes:
Once upon a time my beautiful mother decided that she didn’t have enough room in her kitchen for her beautiful, gleaming, white Kitchen Aid stand mixer. So, because she loves me the most, she gave it to me. I used it daily and polished it with love every night until the day came that I had to pack up most of my belongings to put into storage so that we could move in order for Charlie to go back to school for his master’s degree. Because I couldn’t bear the thought of my beloved mixer disappearing into a box for over a year I allowed my little brother, Russell, to use it in his home until I could reclaim it in my own kitchen.
For those of you who don’t know Russ, let me explain. He is an ok guy, one of my favorite little brothers really. But he cannot seem to overcome the envy he has held for me every since the day he realized that our parents prefer me over him. Most of my other siblings have come to terms with this, but Russ still stays up seething with jealousy most nights. Apparently, one of these sleepless night he began forming a plan. In his twisted mind the mixer represented the love my parents lavished on me and he decided he needed to steal it. I can picture his eyes gleaming with determination and his dimples in the moonlight as his plan came together.
Suddenly, one day, he declared that the mixer was his. Mom gave it to him because she knew he would treasure it, and I was hallucinating if I said anything different. This was actually a good tactic because he knew that he couldn’t use logic, so accusations of insanity would have to do. He desperately clung to the mixer and shouted at everyone that it belonged to him. Most of us just smiled at him with understanding and patted him on the head, hoping that the crazy wasn’t contagious. A few sat in wonderment, trying to figure out what he was so upset about, it was just a stand mixer. This went on for months, until the day finally came for the mixer to return to it’s rightful home, my countertop.
I phoned up my sister in law, Amy (who is a wonderfully talented person who has the amazing ability to deal with Russ) and asked her if she would be able to bring my mixer with her the next time she came over to my house. She only paused for a few beats until she agreed with reluctance ( I knew she was attached to the mixer too, but only because it makes good mashed potatoes, not because of any mystical force it represented). I don’t know if she used force, or medication, but she managed to get Russ to bring it with them when they came for Thanksgiving dinner. He seemed a little bit more placid than normal so I’m pretty sure he was heavily tranquilized. He glared at me as he set it gingerly on the counter and gave it a last longing caress
Amy tells me they have bought a new mixer, but Russ can’t seem to bring himself to use it. I feel kind of bad for the poor kid, but not enough to give up my favorite appliance. I actually just got it repaired (Mia was helping me make cookies, enough said). I haven’t used it lately though and is starting to collect dust. Maybe I’ll let Wendy borrow it, so she can know what it is like to be the favorite child.

Let's get physical....

2008-06-23T16:35:00.000-07:00

Every six months or so I am inspired to become the epitome of health. I go to the store and buy all the produce I can fit in my cart. I toss out any junk food that is laying around and I hit the treadmill like I’m running to a half price sale at Baker’s Bakery (yes mom, you taught me well). My new lease on life usually last for about four weeks, or until I get so many blisters from my ill fitting running shoes I have to stop with all the running and let myself heal so that I don’t have to have my feet amputated. Or, sometimes I am tempted away from the "all veggies all the time" diet by a vacation, or when Charlie brings home one of the 1 pound Symphony bars that his students are so fond of bribing him with (I don’t think he has ever actually had the chance to try any of them, they somehow disappear into my mouth the minute they come through the door...the whole thing, I don’t mess around).
However, my current healthy kick was inspired by fear. My neighbor, whom I secretly refer to as the "Relief Society Mafia Boss" but not to her face, because she could have me whacked, told me to start coming to her kick boxing class that she teaches at our ward building twice a week. I quickly went through every excuse I had in my arsenal: too far away (it’s about 50 feet to the edge of the parking lot from my front door), I need a babysitter (kids are welcome to play during the class), I have post traumatic stress disorder from my college kick boxing class and will start to have flashbacks of the middle aged, 300 pound woman who always stood in front of me and all of her glorious spandex and leg warmers (this one only got a mildly amused look). So I gave in. So I smiled and told R.S.M.B. that I would be delighted to come. I LOVE kick boxing.
I immediately went to the mall and bought new running shoes because I had a plan. I had 5 days before the class started, plenty of time to get into shape enough to make it through a measly hour and a half of kicking and punching at imaginary foes to the beat of eighties techno remixes. I got home and dusted off the treadmill hiding in the basement and began my new lifestyle (Oprah says that if you call it a lifestyle change instead of a diet and exercise plan it makes it easier to stick to...bite me Oprah.) I ran every day for five days before the class. I even ran for reals instead of walking most of every lap and only actually running four a minute or so like I do when I am not so serious about my target heart rate. I downloaded new upbeat songs on my IPod in order to motivate me to move faster (although I now realize that they are all angry songs, I don’t know if that says anything about me or the artists that write upbeat songs).
Here’s me running on the treadmill every morning:
ME: Mia, I am going to go downstairs for a little while to run. You watch Miss Spider’s Sunny Patch friends and I’ll be up when it is over.
MIA: I want a turn first!!! (We then go down stairs and I stand near by as Mia runs with all her might at 2 miles an hour for 5 minutes). Ok mom, your turn. Mia then stands near the treadmill in utter concentration, ready to pull out the red key that stops the machine should I suddenly have a heart attack while I do a warm up lap and watch the tiny lights that signal my progress around the track make the first curve.
MIA: Mom! I want a turn again.
ME: Not right now honey. Go upstairs and watch your show while I finish my turn and then I will come get you.
MIA: NO!!! you aren’t sharing!!! So I go ahead and let her have another few minutes at 1.3 miles an hour.
MIA: Ok mom, your turn.
I start again, just getting into the groove of Love me Dead by Ludo (awesome song if you are miserable, by the way) and I realize I don’t know where Mia is. I turn of the treadmill and wander around the corner to the storage area of the basement where I see her gleefully pulling out clumps of extra pink insulation and tossing them in the air while giggling with delight.
So, this is why exercising at home is not working out great. I think I need more chocolate in my house.

Reasons to visit Spanish Fork

2008-06-15T20:13:00.000-07:00

I wrote this a while ago when I was really bored, and I fell that it deserves an encor presentation:

Reason’s to visit Amy in Spanish Fork:

1. Despite the name, the town has no Latino leanings. This brings a copious amount of puns to the local culture. Delight in heading to the local movie theater, Spanish 8, and asking the clerk "wouldn’t Spanish 8 just be Ocho??"
2. The Icelandic Memorial. I know that you have asked yourself from time to time "where can I go to pay proper respects to whatever Icelandic veterans have fallen in defense of Utah and the American way of life/" Well here is your answer. The beautiful Icelandic Memorial is a small grove in the middle of suburban Spanish Fork, fully equipped with a light house and stone benches scattered artfully so you can ponder the great works of the many famous Icelandic freedom fighters the way you have always dreamed of.
3. Johnny’s Thirst Aid Station. I know that the name alone is enough to bring a clever smile to your lips. Ha! THIRST aid! That’s rich...but it brings up even more topics of conversation when you realize that they do cater to all your hydration needs without ever leaving the comfort of your vehicle. This does seem like a revolutionary idea, one that could change the world until you ask yourself "Is a drive through that serves beer a good idea?" We may never know the answer to this, but discussing it can while away the hours as you enjoy your frosty beverage.
4. The Sri Sri Radha Krishna Temple. Man, I am tired of hearing about all the self righteous Haria Krishna’s in Utah County. I wish that the world knew us as more than just a state founded by the disciples of Lord Shiva. But, one look at this beautiful Indian inspired architecture that blends seamlessly into the landscape of the Mountain West, with llamas peacefully grazing in the forefront and you will know, this is the place indeed. With walking tours and a gift shop you may be ready bow down to the mighty bovine as well.
5. Makin Babies Doll Shop. You all have been to your local Build-A-Bear and asked yourself the same question, "Hey, this is great, but I wish they would let me craft a doll that resembled a real baby in every way...maybe I could even give it life like hair and a voice that said ‘mama’ whenever I came into the room. Then no one would stare as I carried around my baby in its ratty blanket and cooed to it while roaming the streets with my shopping cart and my tin foil helmet." Look no further! At Makin Babies you can craft your own life like child that looks, weighs, sounds, and smells just like a real infant. If the doll comes alive and slaughters you in your sleep there is a money back guarantee and everything. Probably.
6. Amy is bored. Come on, come play with me. I live in Spanish Fork. Help.

My new apron

2008-06-15T19:56:00.000-07:00

Being a somewhat incompetent homemaker in beautiful Happy Valley is a little bit intimidating for me. I try to can my own tomatoes (except that I can't seem to grow any and I don't really know how to can), and my food storage consists of a case of macaroni and cheese and some ramen noodle soup, and I have never ever gone visiting teaching with a hand crafted refridgerator magnet with some sort of inspirational thought to share. So, on the whole, i would rate myself as a 4 out of 10 on the scale of Mormon Housewife successfulness.

Last week this all changed. I bought an apron. You didn't see that coming did you. It is stunning and just so wrong it is brilliant. I saw it on a kiosk in the middle of University Mall while I was wandering aimlessly waiting for Charlie do be done at the dentist. In it I feel like a derranged housewife from the early sixties and I am compelled to wear kitten heals and flounce about a bit with a feather duster. My life has been changed, I am now on par with Donna Reed and June Cleaver. They would recognize me as one of their own. My house is still a mess and smells vaguely of old fishsticks, but none of this matters when I wear my Apron (yes, it deserves a capital A).

Because of my new lease on life I am committed to learn how to sew, and maybe make a jello salad that contains all the basic food groups. Folding laundry is now a joy. I swish around the living room as I vacuum. I hear strains of my own sitcom theme song as I hand my darling husband his well packed lunch and wave goodbye to him from the front door.

I can't find my camerat at this moment so I will direct you to the website that sells these magical aprons.
http://flirtyaprons.com/cart/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=10&products_id=11

I hope you all find the joy and harmony with this as I have. I am always happy to share.

Introduction blog

2008-06-15T19:51:00.000-07:00

Alright, I am caving. I have kind of a prejudice against blogs. It seems a lot like a digital scrap book, not that there is anything wrong with that, but it makes me want to scratch out my own eyes. But then I had a startling "A HA! Moment" (that is Oprah’s shtick, and it also makes me want to scratch out my own eyes, but then I could still hear her say it constantly and then what will I do, scratch my ears? That doesn’t sound remotely threatening). By not creating my own precious blog, my friends, nay, the world is being deprived of enjoying my thought process. This is a tragedy that I cannot allow to happen. How will my second cousin be able to continue with her day if she doesn’t know my favorite ice cream, or the fact that I work out to classic rock because techno gives me migraines?
Once this horrifying picture formed in my mind I became obsessed. My views on life, and more importantly, food, must be presented for public consumption. Who knows, I may end world hunger.
So, without further ado...DUN DUN DA DA!! Amy’s Blog.