Letters by Emme

Dear Dad,
I (heart) u so much!! I love your curly hair.
He smells like pizza
He keeps me in a house
He is my dad
He is my wonderful dad!!
Sincerely,
Emily

Dear Cannon,
ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOP
QRSTUVWXYZ
012345678910
I (heart) u so much! Stay smart, hope
you always get "A's"
ABC, 123
He is smart
Yesiree, I (heart) u.
U (heart) me for all eternity.
Sincerely,
Emily

Dear Claire,
You are such a
great sister. I love u so
much!! Thank you for being
such a great sister.
She is like silver
or is it gold
she is my sister
my wonderful sister.
Sincerely,
Emily

Dear Chance,
I (heart) U!! I like your
brown hair.
He smells like candy
He is as handsome as Tony Hawk
He is my brother
my wonderful brother.
Sincerely,
Emily

Dear Mom,
You are the best mom
ever. You are a
great cook. I (heart) u so
much!! You are very
beautiful. I (heart) your black
hair.
Her hair is like candy
she smells like perfume
She is very handy
She is my mom
My wonderful mom.
I (heart) U!!
Sincerely,
Emme

Pictures?!

We celebrate Halloween early around here. Mainly because there was a neighborhood FHE party and it was just another excuse for the kids to dress up and eat candy.

Because they won't get enough on Friday.

Is she not the most cutest Snow White ever?

I firmly believe I do not ever recall a more adorable version of this princess. Even with blackened feet from the rented bouncer. (You should have seen the bath water.) She fully enjoyed herself and ate as many pieces of popcorn off the ground as she could, and drank from as many people's cups as she found. What are the odds that she won't contract some hideous disease?

Can I just tell you that I love the Disney Store? I went there last Saturday looking for a ninja. The salesman showed me this Power Ranger. I told him I really needed a ninja. He said it was 75% off. I bought it.

We've declared it a red ninja, just ask him. Complete with gloves, boot covers, and a helmet. For like $10. Fantastic.

She decided a month ago that she wanted to be a black cat. I was a little hesitant (fearful of a catwoman type outfit), but she insisted all she needed was black pants, a black shirt, cat ears and a tail. I dolled it up a little with some fuzzy yarn around her wrists and ankles. But she absolutely loved it and drew on the whiskers and nose herself. I love costumes that are regular clothes.

He originally wanted to be Wall-e. You know, a robot with tank treads and controls inside. I talked him out of that. Then he wanted to be a spy with night vision goggles that cost $80. I said no to that one. He got depressed and said he didn't want to be anything. My dearest talked him into a secret service agent. I love this costume. It's a pair of sunglasses and one of my ear buds and a fake real-looking gun. I actually bought the shirt and pants too, but he totally plans on wearing them after. And do you see that little piece of red ribbon? That's his holster, made by him. He looked for black ribbon but couldn't find any. I love how clever he is.

I love costumes that are regular clothes.

I love them.

Bubbles

I was inside my house busy the other day when my baby came up to me. "Bubbles," she said, pointing to the gigantic container of soapy water sitting atop the fridge.
My first instinct was to tell her, "Not now, see mommy is really busy doing important stuff like cleaning the house and making dinner."
But, she can't understand that. All she can see is the bubbles and me shaking my head, saying no.
So I threw caution to the wind and took that large jug of bubbles out to the front yard and started blowing for her. She screamed for joy, eyes sparkling at the sight of bubbles everywhere. She would chase them across the grass as they skittered and floated, until they reached her little fingers and Pop! While there were copious amounts of bubbles in the air immediately following a good puff of air, the bubbles would soon scatter and Pop! Pop! Pop! The offending culprit was usually a blade of grass, or a leaf on a tree, or even a strong gust of wind. Sometimes she would actually touch one and laugh as it Popped! on her finger.
She was having such a grand time.
I got caught up in her excitement and wanted to really impress her. I tried my best to blow as many bubbles as I could, so there could be hundreds floating in the air around her. As I did I noticed something. The quicker I exhaled, the less bubbles came out of the wand. But if I slowed down and took a long steady breath out, so many bubbles would emerge that I could usually take another breath without having to reload.
I thought about this for a little while. Sometimes I get so caught up in trying to be better, a better mother, wife, friend, sister, daughter, neighbor, Primary pres. I want to impress others, make them like me, it's the people pleaser in me. But as I try too hard to do too much, like the bubbles, I usually end up feeling empty and realize I haven't really accomplished anything.
I need to remember to take a long, even breath when it comes to my life. I can't be everything to everyone all the time.
And I need to remember that sometimes, it's okay to blow bubbles in the front yard with my baby.

Two - It's where it's at

I let all two year olds eat cookies for breakfast on their birthday. In fact, on their birthday, all two year olds get to eat cookies all day long. Soda pop too. That was pretty much her day, cookies and soda, soda and cookies. I mean, it's not her fault her brother has the flu and we can't go anywhere or do anything. To compensate for this unjustness, I allow an all-you-can-eat cookie and soda buffet. It is her birthday.

Also on her birthday, all two year olds do not have to comb their hair. No, two year olds get to spend their day in their jammies, read books, eat cookies, drink soda, take naps, and cuddle up to their mommies, without having to undergo the ritual of untangling the disaster that is her hair. Which, lets face it, will just tangle itself back up a minute after I detangle it.

I love two year olds. But mostly, I love this two year old. How could you not?

Nothing gets done around here

It's fall break.

Let me tell you what I've accomplished.

ummmm......

Not much.

My children being home distracts me from my to-do list.

But I can tell you that I've washed more dishes than humanly possible. How is it that I need to refill the dishwasher thrice daily? How is it?! Do you have any idea how many dishes that is?! Come on children! One cup a day, rinse and reuse. That's my mantra. I should've started saying it on Monday.

************

I have been able to dissect all the available info, and have put together a plan for our 3 month food storage. This took quite a bit longer than expected. (I was right, Gluten Free makes it challenging. But not impossible.) I am thoroughly excited about it and cannot wait to start purchasing bulk quantities of canned goods. That's right, thoroughly excited. And you should be too. Excited that is. About food storage. Who knew it could be so fun and liberating? Kammie did. She was our most recent Cannery/Food Storage Specialist. And she's laughing at the rest of us right now. Wagging her finger and smirking, I'm sure. It's okay, we deserve it, those of us who did not heed her calls to store up. Kammie, can you hear me? I'm sorry Kammie, really sorry. I should've listened. Please forgive me.

My 3 month supply will include items such as chicken enchiladas and pumpkin muffins. It might take me a year or two to collect all the food, but in the end, we'll be eating pretty.

By the way, pumpkin muffins rock.

*********

By the way, my kids have lived outside all week. They've had wrestling tournaments on the trampoline and played war on the swing set. My windows are open and I've been baking. I love the fall. By the way.

Ummmm, what?

Today when I called a friend of mine, her husband answered.

"May I speak with _______," I asked, customer-service-like politely.

"She's had a rough morning and is taking a nap right now," says husband.

Here's where it got dicey. Don't ask me why I said this, it just came out.

"Well, when she's aroused, could you have her call me?" asked I.

Uncomfortable Pause ensues.

"Suuurrrre," he finally answers.

I hang up the phone and wonder, well, that didn't sound right.

And then I flush red and my mouth gapes open. Aroused?!! I said aroused, to her husband. I told her husband to call me when his wife was aroused. AROUSED!

And I'm sure he will never look at me the same again.

(for the record, I meant to say 'when she arises' or 'when she rouses'. I just combined them into one sentence.)

My trash runneth over

I witnessed a miracle today. I mean yesterday.

As many of you know, I have trashy problems. Remember when our can went missing? That was an awful couple of days.

This past weekend my sweetest installed winter grass. (I know, I know, isn't that like unenvironmentally friendly? Shouldn't I just let it go dormant to save on water? Guess what? I have four children. It's only nice enough to be outside during the winter. It wasn't even a hard choice. Don't hate me because I plant.)

In order to plant the rye, you must remove all summer bermuda from your lawn. It is a tedious job. One of mowing 3 feet, emptying the grass clippings from the mower bag, and repeating for all 1300 square feet. (We aren't even talking the backyard yet.)

As my professor was doing this, certain words came from his mouth. Mostly they had to do with, "I can't believe I let you talk me into Bobsod @!#$*!!*#". Why was he so perturbed? Because Bobsod is unbelievably thick, think carpet-like. It's awesome to play on, really bouncy and soft. But it's not so fun to remove. It took him a looooong time. (We aren't even talking the backyard yet.) It was a lot of mowing, emptying, mowing, emptying, mowing, emptying.

Take a moment to ponder all that emptying. You can imagine that we had a serious trash problem. Where does one put 10-12 large bags of dead grass? Especially when we are still a garbage producing family? And the trash man doesn't show up until Monday?

By Sunday night we had 9 grass bags on the side yard and 4 indoor garbage bags in the garage. Take a moment to imagine the smell.

Monday came and my prof told me to go to our neighbors cans and see if they had any room, ie. put some of our trash in theirs. Ummm, isn't that illegal? Is their such a thing as garbage fraud? I felt dirty all over even opening their lids. Of course, their was no room.

So I stuffed our can as full as I could, with 4 extra bags spilling out the top. And waited. The trash man doesn't come until late afternoon.

I came home from an errand and discovered he had come. I took the bags from the garage and some of the bags on the side yard and almost filled it back up. And then I left it there on the curb. Why did I leave it on the curb? Sometimes I'll put it away, sometimes I'll just pull it into the driveway. But yesterday I left it on the curb, almost full.

And then the miracle.

The trash man, he came again. He came again! I heard his truck pull up, stop, and drive away. I looked outside and saw the can lid was closed. I went to check. It was empty! Empty! I had witnessed a miracle, a tender mercy. My trash was overflowing and he had emptied it. Again.

Happy Thanksgiving!

To my dearest prof:

Aren't you worried about the possibility of being on the receiving end of a rock, thrown through your office window? There's a lot of Anti-Canadian sentiment out there, I'm sure. I'm glad to see you haven't deterred from your patriotism. And Einsteinism. Wait, isn't that an element?

Brick walls all around me

Do you, any of you, wonder why I post? I mean, what is the point of my blog? To marvel at my children? To find humor in the mundane? To discuss running? The answer is, yes.

Do you ever wonder why I don't post more personal topics? It isn't that I don't enjoy a good laugh/cry or testimony building experience. I love reading all about yours, so please, by all means, continue. It's just that emotionally charged stories and such are hard for me. Don't get me wrong, I can definitely pour my heart out over the keyboard. I just have a hard time letting you look at them.

Why is that? What is it about me, that doesn't like showing you, my faithful readers, my innermost thoughts and feelings and experiences?

Honestly, I'm not sure.

Do I fear judgement? Yes, but that's not the whole of it. Here, I will try to explain.

You know how you find yourself sitting in a pew on the first Sunday of the month? Here you are, minding your own business, tending to the needs of your children, poking your husband awake, listening with one ear and one eye. And suddenly you know. You know you're going to get up. You don't want to, you try to suppress. But you know. And pretty soon you are standing, your feet are taking you to the front of the chapel, up to the pulpit, and you find yourself sharing the one thing most sacred to you, for all to hear. And your heart is bleeping out of your ribs and your face is red all the way down to your chest and you are avoiding any and all eye contact, and you are talking 800 words a minute.

Phew, and you're done.

But see, that's not the worst part. The worst part, in my opinion, is the aftermath. It's the smiles and the pats on the back and the "I really liked your testimony" comments that come for the next few hours. Why does this bother me? I mean, isn't the whole point of sharing so that others can get something out of it? So that we can lift each other as a whole? Why do I cringe at every compliment? Why do I wish I could just go home and forget the whole thing?

I think, and I could be wrong, but for me, I think it's because I've let myself become vulnerable. I've exposed the real me, raw and open for all to see and, let's face it, judge. (We're not even discussing the whole problem of "What if I said it wrong?" I know there are rules, I read the Ensign. What if I thanked instead of testified? What if I used the wrong words or stumbled over my thoughts incoherently? What if I sounded like an illiterate? These are real worries.)

This problem of showing my vulnerability trickles down to my blog as well. I just can't. I've tried a few times, but end up removing the post or posting a lot until the offending post gets relegated to the archives. I can't even look at it, much less the comments.

So for now, I will keep my personal stuff personal. And I will continue to enlighten you with my wit and charm, my children and my professor, my running. You know, my regular life.

Shore

It's snack time, and around here, pickings have been pretty slim as of late.

I'm trying to cut back on the processed food for two reasons: money, and a desire to feed my children more than chicken nuggets and french fries every other day. Not that there's anything wrong with that. I still do it, just on occasion instead of it being the norm. But the main reason is money.

I've cut out many extras on our grocery list. We are down to the bare essentials, so that hopefully we can reduce our weekly food costs and start a food storage program. That's right, I said start. I know now is the most inopportune time to start, but it's better than not starting at all, right? A bad start is better than no start. Start start start start start. What a funny word. It's a star with a tart on the end.

So like I said, it's snack time, and long gone are the goldfishes, the fruit cups, the fruit snacks, the cookies, the wafers, the crackers, the granola bars, pretty much anything that comes individually packaged. (I still buy some of that stuff for the older kids lunches(school lunches are $2.25 each!!! Multiply that by 2 children and it's over $20 a week for food that my chitlin's will only eat half of. Ridiculous. Plus, no gluten free offerings.)

The call comes, "I'm so hunnnngrrry! Can I have a snack?" says he.

"Sure," I reply.

"What can I have," he says.

"What do you want?" I ask.

"What have we got?" he volleys back.

Good question. I search the fridge, then the pantry. Like I said, slim pickings.

"How about peanut butter on a stick?" I offer.

"Shhoooore," says he.

I dig up a plastic knife and scoop out some pb for him, and then another for his sister.

"Mom," he grins, "it's like a peanut butter popsicle."

Yep, a peanut butter popsicle.

At least he's not using his finger to dig it out of the jar.

Like his mom does.

Tat

My sweet Cannon asked today,

"Mom, can we get our car a tattoo?"

"Ummm...what?"

"A tattoo, like the one in that car's window," he pointed out.

He was of course looking at a sticker of an animal of some sort, pasted in the back window of a large truck. It wasn't a bumper sticker per se, but a vinyl sticker in the outline of this animal that I cannot remember. A fish, maybe?

"Do you think our car would look cool with a tattoo?" I ask, as we pull our minivan into the garage.

"Yeah, but we have to go to a special place where they put them on." he says, informatively.

"A tattoo shop?" I offer.

"Yeah, a special tattoo store where they put them on the cars."

Is it against my religion to give my car a tat?

My mosaic-Thanks Beka!

1. Loin et libre aujourd'hui !!, (Melanie?) 2. neon project, houston: #2, 3. Marcos de Niza Rock, 4. vw, 5. dip kiss, 6. 23!, 7. rule of fourths! yellow umbrellas and the impending storm, 8. mango cheesecake, 9. The Earth is God's Canvas., 10. writer's teeth, 11. busy, 12. Rollercoaster

My list

1. What is your first name? Melanie

2. What is your favorite food? Mexican

3. What high school did you attend? marcos de niza high school

4. What is your favorite color? pink, maybe?

5. Who is your celebrity crush? brad pitt

6. Favorite drink? Diet Dr. Pepper

7. Dream vacation? Bahamas

8. Favorite dessert? cheesecake

9. What do you want to be when you grow up? writer

10. What do you love most in life? my children

11. One word to describe you? busy

12. Your Flickr name? Rollercoaster (I don't have a Flickr account so I used my blog title)

Wanna play?: Type your answer to each of the above questions into Flickr's search. Using only the images that appear on the first page, choose your favorite and copy and paste each of the URL’s into the Mosaic Maker (3 columns, 4 rows)... Enjoy!

This was fun Bek, but you forgot to warn me that some of the Flickr images were, ummm....inappropriate? Scroll fast.

By Request

The other night Em asked me to take a look at her list.

"What's it a list of?" asked I.

"Baby names," she said.

"Ummm, who's having a baby?" I questioned, with an ounce of curiosity and a gallon of worry.

"Well, Aunt Beka is, and Aunt Cindy is, and I will someday," she responded, rolling her eyes.

I perused the list and, to the best of my abilities, held back the laughter that was catching itself in my chest and coming out my eyes.

Here is a portion of her list, as the entire thing is pages long. We'll call these the Top 16.

Girls
Kem
Monique*
Sally
Martha
Theresa
Malerry
Tammy
Carmela*
Mathilda
Qen
Sam
Molly
Polly
Dorothy
Sharpay
Daisy

Boys
Steve
Frank
Stanley
Bill
Jim
Willard
Rusty
Oswald
Lenny
Buck*
Roscoe*
Jerry
Gil
Ken
Chester
Bruce

As I type, I am shaking with fits of giggles.

*favorites

Helmet hair

Rachael-if you haven't read my previous post, the first paragraph's for you.

*******

I don't know why I feel the need to post TWO DAYS IN A ROW. But I had to share.

Whilst I was driving yesterday, my car window broke. There I was, scootering home when the driver's side door window fell. Just fell, fell into the schist of the door, gone, gone. I pondered the repercussions.



It was going to get very windy. And very hot. And very loud.

What were the necessary errands I couldn't put off until my prof could take a look, ie. hopefully fix it? I would have to take my beloved niece home later. Dang, that's an hour round trip. The children were being carpooled, good, good. I would have to run the princess to piano. And back home. Luckily it's a few blocks away. That's it. No big deal, this I can handle.



I was surprisingly optimistic. Glass half full, for sure.



Unfortunately I discounted exactly how greasy my face and hair were going to get. It is like riding on the back of a motorcycle, something I haven't done since my dearest sold his per my insistence (he hasn't forgotten his first love, the Shadow). So pretty much anywhere I show up, until it gets fixed, I will be looking a tad disheveled and in need of a good cleansing. Sorry.



Maybe I'll get a helmet. Can you see it now? My minivan full of children and me, sporting a helmet. My husband always thought I'd make a great biker babe.

Life is pain

This is why I don't post anymore.

Currently my offspring are engrossed in the televisions, three different sets, two channels. And I sit here on the computer. When is a good time to dabble on the blog? (BTW, I hate the word blog. It sounds disgusting. Like written vomit.) I'm too tired in the evenings, and too busy throughout the day, unless I ignore the children. Hmmm... now you know I ignore the children. But only sometimes. Don't judge.

********************

For those of you who have been missing me and my druthers, I will fill you in.

I ran a marathon on Saturday. It was awesome, and awful. I was elated and exhausted. I cried at mile 7 and mile 26.6 (don't even ask, I swear I ran my tangents).

Since this was not my first marathon, I won't bore you with the little details. I will tell you about my observations that made this race different than any other.

• I ran by myself, which meant I had to pace myself. I am not an exceptional self-pacer. I have a tendency to start out too fast, give it my all, and die well before the end. My mantra over and over in my head was "Run your own race". I said that over a hundred times in my head as other, read: many other, people passed me. Old people, small people, big people, awkward people, pumpkin-dressed people, all passed me. And I would instinctively speed up for a few strides before I remembered my mantra. It literally saved me from being ambulanced home.


• Around mile 7 I was tapped on the shoulder (I had my headphones on pretty loud) because of a car coming down the canyon (umm, did someone forget to tell the people the road was closed?). I moved out of the way only to realize that next to the car was a runner pushing a wheelchair. In the wheelchair was, or who I assumed to be, his disabled brother. The runner was smiling, his brother was smiling and all the runners were cheering. Except me, I was crying. Running + crying = bad. I had to pull myself together fast. Fortunately for me, this same runner seemed to be with me the whole race, pushing his brother on. Crowds stood and cheered. People took pictures and videos. I was lucky to be a part of it, but I had to control my tear ducts. Around mile 21 the brother stopped at an aid station and asked the volunteers for water for his brother, telling them to dump it on his head. The volunteer (I think it was a high school girl) looked confused. I'm sure she wondered why the man in the wheelchair needed water on his head, and would he even want to be doused? But his brother knew and included him in the race that he couldn't physically run. I can't imagine pushing a wheelchair for 26.2 miles. I can't imagine how much love there must be between those two brothers. I hope my children can feel an inkling of that kind of love for each other. It was incredible and inspiring.


• At mile 19 I started to really fatigue. I looked forward to each aid station and kept telling myself to just get to the next one, only one more mile, and I would walk. I'd reach one, drink a water and a Gatorade, suck on an orange, and start running again, telling myself to just get one more mile. I had never experienced this kind of exhaustion/pain before. Usually at the end of a race I feel exhilarated. Not this time. I know it's because I gave everything I had. By mile 24 I was ready to be done. Mile 25 was it. That's when I saw my husband who gave me a high five (I know, but it worked). And suddenly the skies opened, unleashing their torrent for a full 8 minutes. I pushed and kicked to the end.


• As I crossed the finish line I was in a daze. Usually there are other family members and friends there to cheer for me. This time no one (non runners have to wait outside the finish area). I stumbled to the chip removers, stumbled to the medal givers, stumbled to the water. Circumvented the finish area for no particular purpose other than I knew if I sat, I was not getting up. Then I spied the professor. And I lost it. "What's wrong," he asked, not used to seeing this kind of emotion. "It was so hard," was all I could say. Then I saw the chocolate milk guy and got me some liquid heaven.

It was a short trip, with a lot of driving involved. We ate at a place called "The Pie Dump". We stayed in a fancy (yeah) hotel on a King sized bed. I got 20 minutes at Temple Square in the Primary Resource Room before they had to kick me out. I read both Martha Stewart Living and Real Simple. I spent 8 hours in an airport due to my husband's moniker. I almost got strip searched due to a forgotten jar of peanut butter. I wore my medal all day and embarrassed my husband. I ate the largest lunch of my life at Texas Roadhouse. Overall, it was a good trip.

But I had BETTER get into St. George next year. I'm just saying.

Blink once for yes, twice for no

Does anyone read this anymore?

Hello?

I'm still here.

I am in the throes of writers block.

I've got some pretty good material.

It's just that every time I try to put what's in my head into the written word, it sounds, ummm, trite.

My life is normal, which we have visited before. Remember?

Nothing terribly bad or interesting has happened. I feel like I had a case of the summer doldrums. But now that fall is back for goods, and those pesky kids are back in school, I will try to fancy you with my ingenious wit. Or not.

I am trying to broaden my vocabulary. How's it sound?

How old can this guy get?

I feel it is my obligation to give a "birthday shout-out" to my dearest prof, who is currently at cub scout day camp in the 110 degree heat with 7 10-year boys. So here are some current reasons why I love/tolerate him:

*He is willing to go to cub scout day camp on his birthday in 110 degree heat with 7 10-year old boys, so I don't have to, I mean GET to.

*He texts me chemistry jokes. Example: What do you do with a dead chemist? You Ba. (that's the symbol for barium, in case you are like me and don't remember your periodic table of elements)

*He comes up with clever names for me that he puts on his phone, so whenever I call I could come up as: Ball & Chain, Pick Up the Phone, My Guardian Angel. Of course this changes depending on whether we like each other at the moment, and sometimes I change it to something like 'The First Wife', which he then changes to 'But not the LAST'.

*He doesn't say anything about me taking daily naps while he works 14 hour days on 5 hours sleep. A worse man would be a little bitter. He does expect a nap himself though, usually on Sundays between 2pm and 5pm, you know, church. Which I have learned to grin and bear. And poke him in the ribs every 2 minutes.

*He gets honestly upset when I do something around the house for him, like mow the lawn or clean out the garage. He does not like it when I get to a task before he does, as he feels like an inferior husband when I do this. So I choose sometimes to leave things for a very very long time, or if I'm feeling snippy, I do it and gloat. But I'm not the better person here, just so you understand.

*He likes to buy items from Home Depot for projects that he doesn't necessarily have the time to accomplish, but thinks he does. So currently in our garage we have Project: landscape lighting, Project: sunscreens, Project: A/C fence, Project: overhead garage storage, Project: paint the garage door, Project: wow I better stop here before he gets too upset. But it's cute because he will still make that trip to Home Depot to purchase the items that will get stored in the garage for the next millennium.

*He likes to upgrade his car. Otherwise known as the Second Wife. She gets his attention most weekends and he spends hours surfing the net looking at pictures of taillights and armrests and other special car accessories, which he then emails to me to get my thoughts on which ones I like best. If I could, I would buy him those rims he was looking at along with the ground effects and and the cup holder. All so he could drive a hot car and feel like a cool hip 18 year old again. Who knew mid-life crises started so young?

*He will play board games with the children so I don't have to. Board games are not my cup of tea, but he will break out the Risk or the Axis and Allies and put in a few hours of quality kid time and he won't ask me once to join in. He even plays Life and Twister. The best part: he doesn't believe in letting little kids win. So our children have learned from an early age that their father will always beat them, in board games that is.

*He likes to take vacations that do not sound like vacations. Like visit the Hoover Dam. See above photo. Or the Stuffed Taxidermy Museum of Arizona. He would rather spend a vacation touring backroads or tracking down where the Mythbusters shoot, than sit on the beach. Of course he has this thing with sand, so not many vacations are spent sitting on the beach. Of all those years we spent in California grad school, probably 2 days were spent at the beach with him. Not that I'm complaining, because the last thing I want to do is hear him talk about how there is sand EVERYWHERE.

*He does laundry. Not as much as he used to, but for years it was his job. It was/is fantastic.

*He takes family members out to lunch for their birthdays. Not just his family, but mine as well. It is tradition for him to do this, and people will actually call if he hasn't, wondering about their free birthday lunch. Of course, he takes them to Joe's BBQ which gives out a free lunch for your birthday, but it's really the thought that counts.

*He likes to watch dumb tv shows with me. Even though I do not like it. And he finds it pure sport to try to convince me to watch a show with him and will usually pull some kind of "but it's quality time" nonsense. So sometimes I humor him and watch Carpoolers or that one show about the guy who works at a electronics store and has a data base in his head and helps out spy people. And I pretend to hate every minute.

*He is sarcastically hilarious. I literally have to reassure most friends that my hubby is joking for the first few years of a friendship. It is a sign of the fact that he likes you, so if he were to act completely normal, I'd be worried. I think it's annoying as all get out, but now it always makes me laugh. He is so dumb, and yet, so cute. And not the least bit intimidating, I swear.

These are just a few reasons why the guy for me is top notch. Of course I could spend all day coming up with more reasons, but I'm really not a sappy kind of girl. So here's to the Professor, on his b-day. U R da man.

*P.S. He doesn't have any problems with goats.

December 1996

The first of 6 (so far) weddings. Do you love this pic? Why? Is it:

• The gold lame dress Am is wearing?
• Ricky Ricardo's spiky do with Elvis sideburns?
• Bekarachels lacy frocks with matching corsages?
• Coolio's I'm-too-cool-for-school non-smile?
• The cultural hall divider behind the lattice archway?
• The basketball court lines?
• My dark purple lips?
• VTOL's delicate frame?
• The fact that my prof and I look about 15?

I'm just saying, all the weddings that followed this one could not compare.

Tickets

I will start this post with a disclaimer: If you object to bribery, in any form, stop reading now. Because you will for sure be offended and possibly feel more than a little self-righteously indignified. Is that a phrase? "Self-righteously indignified" might be the new word on the street. Foshizzle.

I have instituted a ticket system. After hearing the adulation of many ticket bearing mothers, I too decided to give it a whatfor. Am I speaking English? Just wondering.

Anyhoo, the children that live with me receive tickets for various things they do around the house. Then they can redeem their tickets for various prizes I store in the closet. The entire basis of this system was to get the little punks off their lazy bottoms and help out this summer. Some things that I have given tickets for:

1. Empty the dishwasher
2. Make your bed
3. Read an entire book
4. 1000 jumps on the trampoline
5. Don't kill your siblings while I run an errand for an hour
6. Say your prayers (do these prayers still count?)
7. Pull weeds
8. Take a dog for a walk
9. Put away laundry
10. Set the table

Of course this list is not all inclusive, it's rather to give you a sample.
When we first started the system, all punks were equally excited. However, the excitement has waned for some as the rewards have been earned (IE. all the good prizes are gone). So I had to up the ante. 4 tickets = 1 dollar. Money is always an incentive. And when you think about it, $.25 to unload the dishwasher is always worth it. Always.

I also am showing them pictures of video games and BB guns and pink and grey camo purses just like her friend's, so they can see the types of things their ticket-money can buy. Of course, being the financially risky spenders that they are, I won't actually give them money, but will instead take the tickets when they have earned enough and buy them their hard-earned (how many prayers can a person say in a day?) prizes.

So here's the question: How do we do tithing? Do I have them pay 1 ticket per 10 as tithing? And what do I do with their tithing tickets? Do we fill out a tithing slip and hand them to the bishop? Could you imagine for a moment the financial clerk opening an envelope full of tickets? What would he say, do you suppose? And when we come in for tithing settlement, would my children be able to see just how many tickets they paid in tithing for the year? And could they imagine in their heads just how many churches their tickets helped to build? I'm just wondering. I mean, what would you do?

Questions

I lost the diamond out of my wedding ring, the day of my baby's ear tube surgery. It has aroused a few questions that need pondering:

Does that mean it's over?

Is the prof worried about all the guys that are going to hit on me now?

Am I worried that he's not worried?

Will I ever have another diamond again?

Is it okay to ask for a bigger one?

What am I going to do with the remnants of the ring until then?

Should I hang it on a chain, Jr high style?

How much does a fake diamond cost, in the meantime?

Is it bad that I would rather spend the money on a trip to Hawaii?

Will I ever get to Hawaii?

Will I be too old to enjoy my trip to Hawaii by the time I get there?

Would I have just as much fun in Rocky Point?

Would we get our car stolen in Rocky Point?

Would my professor get denied at the border, due to his Canadianess?

Would we have to move to Canada after that?

Would I like living in a place where it snows 9 months of the year?

These questions are just a few of the many that plague me regarding this issue. However the biggest one seems to be:

Why am I not more upset by this whole losing-my-diamond thing?

Is it because I know that it doesn't really matter? And is it because my prof told me not to worry about it, even though he spent many hours working to pay that sucker off? And is it because I love him more now than I did before?

Questions worth pondering.