On top of the world (or at least really far north)

Campin' Up

2011-06-12T19:56:00.004-08:00

I went Girls Camp last week and as always, I learned a great deal. Behold!

When the Ward Camp Director inadvertently catches a glimpse of herself in a mirror and shouts out "I'm a disgusting wildebeest," the appropriate response is to disagree with her statement. You will, however, be laughing much too hard to produce the appropriate response.
Doing yoga in a tee-pee is cool.
No matter how fabulous she is otherwise, if there is a fellow leader at camp who hasn't yet had children and therefore still possesses full bladder control, you will feel like throwing pine cones at her head. Especially when you find out she typically visits the loo a mere two times a day, as opposed to your three visits just in the the half hour before bed.
At camp, almost everything tastes better roasted over a fire: Starbursts, Twix, Sour Patch Kids, Snickers, and yes, giant marshmallows the size of your face.
Three and a half days of camp will require four weeks of recovery.
Two-thirty in the morning is an excellent time to bare your soul to your tent mates. It is not an excellent time to get up and make a mad dash to the outhouse in flip-flops.
When you open your letter from home during solo time to discover that your husband has written you a ten-page mini-novel that makes you laugh and cry and laugh some more, go ahead and brag about it to the poor saps who only got one page. But just a little bit.
You can receive fifteen mosquito bites on one leg and not die. Sadly enough.
Sometimes, the cool lady in your ward - the one who intimidates you every time you talk to her - feels insecure. In fact, she thinks you're cool.

Yeah, I'm definitely going next year.

Losing it, er, him

2011-02-11T14:45:00.002-09:00

Do you ever have those days where you wander around, repeating this mantra: Do not beat the children. That would be bad. Do not beat the children. That would be bad. Do not beat the children... What's really neat is when someone gives me a funny look and I realize I'm actually saying it out loud. Yeah, that makes me feel pretty good about myself.

I had a day like that yesterday.

In fact, I have a story for you - one that probably shouldn't be repeated lest I have Social Services show up at my door to declare me an unfit mother. Here's what went down. I was in Walmart with Millie and Riley, doing some grocery shopping. I had just picked Riley up from school, which was my first mistake (not the picking-him-up part, although sometimes it's tempting to "forget", but taking him somewhere immediately after school - that one always bites me in the, um, rear). He was tired and cranky and wanted my attention, which was unfortunate since Millie is under the impression that she's the center of the universe and was keeping up a constant stream of "Mom, look at this!" Finally, I told her to zip it and had Riley sit down for a time out right in the middle of the store. After he calmed down a bit, I asked him to stand up and follow me. He refused. At this point, I decided I didn't care to deal with him anymore. I believe my exact words were, "Get up and follow me or find your own way home." And then I walked off. Yeah, I'm that type of mom. About sixty seconds later, I heard my name on the loud speaker, asking me to make my way to the fitting room to claim my lost child. I had a split second of indecision (because, hey, I'm human) and then wheeled my cart in the right direction.

I'd like to say that the rest of the shopping trip went smoothly, but that would be a falsehood. I even cranked up the radio on the drive home and pretended I couldn't hear the six hundred ninety-four questions directed at me by the two small humans I once grew inside me. Once home, I consumed roughly half of a bag of M&Ms. And I'm not talking the one-serving sized bag, either. When Adam got home, he asked me how things were going. I told him the truth. "We're all alive, so I guess it's going as well as can be expected." Luckily, I had seven and a half hours of uninterrupted sleep to remind me that I do indeed love my children. So all is well again.

For now.

No cutesy title today, folks. Moving on.

2011-01-18T11:44:00.008-09:00

So I'm fooling around on the computer yesterday and I notice that the bookmarks tab is getting pretty lengthy. Obviously, that required immediate rectification, so I start deleting non-essential sites with my usual devil-may-care attitude. Sites like my boy's favorite racing game, Stock Car Thunder (since there's no way he's gonna find the time for fun of any sort with the two-and-a-half hours of homework he seems to be bringing home every night); sites like Dictionary.com (because the last thing we need in this country are people with brains, am I right?); and of course, sites like LDS Family Search (whoops, did I say that one out loud?).

And then I run across a bookmark entitled "Blog." Blog. Blog? And I'm in the middle of asking myself why that word has a vaguely familiar ring when it hits me: blogging is that thing I used to do before my life took a decidedly downhill direction and I signed up for Facebook, which, I've come to realize, is a much easier way to spill my guts to a whole bunch of people who don't really care that I forgot to pick my son up at school one day or that I hate turnips or that I have a super-secret crush on Hugh Laurie. (Whoops, again. Guess the cat's out of the bag.) Pretty soon I'm gonna be one of those people who updates my status with these little gems:

Ate lunch. It was pretty good.
Had an itch but I scratched it and now I think everything's gonna be okay.
Just sittin' here breathing and thought you'd all like to know.

Facebook. Geez.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. I've not been around much. Whatevs. I've got a life, you know. Ah, there now! We've gotten to the crux of the problem. I have a life. And stop me if I'm wrong, but I think someone hit my fast-forward button. I've got a six-year-old and a three-year-old, but it seems like last week I was bringing the girl home from the hospital. She's a Sunbeam now! What up, life? And my boy will be a second grader in seven months. How do I know this? Because, aside from the fact that I have basic math skills, he and I talked about it this morning. Of course his reaction was a mega-huge sigh and this comment: "That's a really long time from now!" My reaction was more like, "Holy garbanzo beans! How are you that old already? How am I that old already? I need to set you up a college fund or something. And we should definitely be saving more for retirement." Yeah. I'm low-key like that.

Anyway, my point - if I even have one - is that life is short. We should enjoy it. We should make the most of it. And if your father-in-law enjoys reading your blog and casually mentions that you haven't posted in a while, maybe you could get on more often and type out some random drivel so that you don't feel guilty about it for the rest of the week. Because life really is too short for that.

The End

As an aside, I feel the need to point out that much of my first paragraph is a lie. I don't really have a devil-may-care attitude, and if you didn't already know that, go ahead and read some of my other posts. You'll figure it out pretty quickly. Riley doesn't have two-and-a-half hours of homework (at least not every night). And I would never ever ever delete the link to Family Search (which is not to say that I ever click on it, either). Also, my father-in-law rocks. That is all.

I know it's out there...

2010-11-22T09:15:00.003-09:00

What up, peeps?

I have a favor to ask. I recently (and by recently I mean sometime in the last six months - I wish I could narrow it down more, but I'm old and forgetful (and by old I mean nearly thirty)) read a blog post about why a person would do something as ghastly as tainting a perfectly good bouquet with baby's breath. I don't remember who wrote it, but I assume it was either one of you or someone you know. I would be ever so grateful if someone could kindly direct me back to that post, as it will probably affect my entire mental, spiritual, and emotional well-being. Or just make me very happy. So no pressure.

Thanks!

Binary schminary

2010-11-16T13:34:00.002-09:00

I just spent the last two hours hunched over my keyboard, setting up a new email account. Do you know what I learned (apart from the fact the Gmail is awesome because it imported all of my contacts for me, which probably saved the last shred of sanity to which I had been clinging)? I learned that waaaaay too much of my personal life is floating around in the form of ones and zeros. Because in addition to importing contacts and creating new groups, I had to go through a mega-huge list of all the sites that have my old address, sign in, navigate the treacherous waters of account settings (which are not always labeled as "account settings"), and type in my new address. Eight billion times. True story. I mean, seriously - three different banks, Amazon, lds.org, utility companies - where does it end!?

So what am I doing right now? Yeah, I'm still at the computer. Blogging. It could be because my rear end is now permanently attached to the computer chair and I'll have to spend the remainder of my days right here, never again to feel sunshine on my face or smell a sweet, sweet rose... Oh, wait. Or it could be because all the real friends I have are only accessible online. Or maybe I just don't have a life beyond these ones and zeros. Sob!

Actually, the real reason I'm still here is that I wanted to whine about this on Facebook, be done with it, then move on to something more productive. But it turns out my account has mysteriously been disabled. (In case you're wondering, this is not the reason for all my email drama. I've been meaning to switch to Gmail for a while, though I will be keeping my old email address to use for this blog.) Apparently, the only way to get my account back is to scan a government-issued ID, complete with photo, and send it off into the abyss. Um, that's so not happening. I'm just going to have to learn to live Facebook-less again. I won't go into detail about the wailing and gnashing of teeth that precluded the acceptance of this fact. Let's just say that I'm glad Blogger still wants to be my friend.

So in other words, I really don't have a life beyond these ones and zeros. Shocker.

P.S. I do have "real" friends. You know, people I can actually see. Please don't be too jealous. I still love you.
P.P.S. I'm getting off the computer now. Really.
P.P.P.S. Right after I check my email.

Honest-to-goodness true love

2010-11-02T06:27:00.001-08:00

When your husband rolls his eyes at you because you're supposed to be in the car, driving to a meeting, and instead you're doing the dishes and putting away random papers because you just can't face doing that stuff when you get home and then he tells you that he could do it and you remember the night before when you came home and nothing was done and you had to do it all yourself anyway but you refrain from uttering the words "yes, you could, but will you?" because he was, in fact, playing with your children the night before, that's true love.

When your son wants to know what a lazy Susan is and you explain it to him and then add as an afterthought that you're not sure why it's called a lazy Susan and half a second later he asks why it's called a lazy Susan and you don't pull the car over and tell him to find his own way to school, thank you very much, that's true love.

When your three-year-and-one-month old daughter still won't give you any inkling of when she needs to do her business and you can't go anywhere unless you put in her in a pull-up, which only perpetuates the problem, and you begin to fear that she will never ever ever ever potty train and you won't be able to send her off to college or marry her off to a nice boy because she'll still need assistance when she does a number two, and yet you still kiss her thirteen times before sending her off to bed because you really do think that she's the most adorable little girl that has ever been, that's true love.

And that's the truth.

It's my party and I'll be self-absorbed if I want to

2010-10-19T09:05:00.003-08:00

I'm currently working out some difficult and interesting... let's call them issues... in my life. And while I've been working on these issues, I have started to let other things - things that used to seem so very, very important - take a backseat. I haven't volunteered to either help out or bring food to any ward activities lately. I've been declining offers to attend playgroups. I cancel appointments when I feel the least bit overwhelmed. And it probably goes without saying that I haven't gone out of my way to look for ways to serve others. In short, I've been focusing on me, me, me. That's not to say that I sit around all day doing whatever I feel like at the expense of my family members. It's just that I need to worry about me a little more right now - to think about how I'm feeling and how I'm doing and how I can learn to love me again. To be truthful, it's not exactly a picnic. Sometimes me is a real piece of work. And I can't very well put me in time out when I get tired of me. (Or have they perfected that whole cloning process while I've been busy?) Anyway, while I don't want this self-absorption to be a preview of the rest of my life, I think that for now, it's okay for to be selfish so that I can make my way back to sane.

Why am I telling you this? Well, because even though I've never even spoken to most of you, you're part of my story now. And maybe I'm a little part of yours. You make me laugh, you make me cry, you teach me all sorts of wonderful things.

I guess what I really want to say is... thanks. Thanks for writing and for teaching and for inspiring me, even when you didn't have the slightest clue that what you just typed might improve my whole day.

Blog on.

Um... I think they're talking to ME

2010-10-04T06:08:00.001-08:00

I'm feeling super extra righteous today because over the weekend, I heard several of Heavenly Father's servants admonish us to be wary of letting things like social networking, electronic devices, and cell phones dominate our time and energy. Fortunately, I have been a once-a-week-ish type blogger for a year or so and therefore, have no need to worry myself about these admonitions. Hence my righteousness.

Feel free to bask in my glory.

P.S. You should know, I was forced against my will to become a once-a-week-ish blogger. What can I say? Blogger Becky was no match for Real-life Becky.

P.P.S. Even without blogging, I still spend waaaay too much time on the computer. Trust me - I need to worry about these admonitions.

P.P.P.S. I'm only semi-righteous.

P.P.P.P.S. On my good days.

No comparison

2010-09-27T06:53:00.001-08:00

I'm learning a lesson this week that I have learned many, many times in my twenty-nine years of life. And I'm sure I'll be learning it again in the near future.

It's not nice to compare yourself to other people.

It's really not. You end up feeling like kind of a loser. If you're anything like me, you also end up finding fault with other people, just so you can assure yourself that you are better in some regard. In any regard. (There's nothing quite like passing a little judgment to boost your spirits.) And then you get over yourself and go on with life.

For example (you know I love examples, right?), my sister's weight at the height of pregnancy - with twins, no less - is my ideal weight. (Notice how I didn't mention a specific number there? A girl has to have some secrets, you know.) This gets me a little peeved. How is it that my ideal weight can be the same as the most she'll ever weight? It doesn't seem fair. Sure, sure, I'm half a foot taller and have shoulders like a linebacker, but still. I don't like it. That's where the fault-finding comes in. Because at least I can truthfully state that I've never had the misfortune to live in Utah. So there.

I had a roommate in college who was the nicest girl I've ever met. Of course, I haven't talked to her in a while, so for all I know, she's turned into Simon Cowell. Possible, though not probable. The point is, this girl did not have a mean bone in her body. She probably didn't even know how to be mean. I, on the other hand, am sarcastic and judgmental and get uncomfortable around very sincere people. I'm not sure what to make of them. Fortunately, I can bake a mean pecan pie. The aforementioned roommate could ruin boiled eggs. Problem solved.

Most of the women in my ward (heck, in the world) can sing better than I can. I stumble along with the altos and only raise my voice if I'm absolutely sure I'm singing the same notes as the lady beside me who actually knows what she's doing. Since there are quite a few females in the ward, and the world, my fault-finding has gotten quite creative. There are the fall-backs, of course: I always wipe my kids' noses; my house is cleaner; my husband is better looking; etc. It goes downhill from there. My hair is thicker. My fingernails are cleaner. I chose a better exterior color for my home. My kids' names are more normal. I'm a better speller. My nose is smaller. See? Not even remotely logical.

I hope I've learned my lesson. This time.

P.S. I wrote this post last week, before President Monson's talk at the General Relief Society Meeting. He may as well have started off with "Becky, you pay close attention now. I think you can learn something from what I'm about to say." I think I did.

Blood loss

2010-09-22T15:38:00.002-08:00

Apparently when you donate blood and they tell you to take it easy for the next 24 hours, they don't mean to go home and rake your lawn in the hot afternoon sun and then spend ten minutes on the porch step with your head between your knees. I blame it on the cute boots I wore this morning. They made me cocky. Of course, I didn't wear the boots while I was raking. That would be stupid. And I'm anything but stupid.

Obviously.

While you're losing pounds, I'm losing my mind

2010-09-17T06:39:00.001-08:00

I'm probably going to be sorry that I ever brought this up, but I can't help myself. I have a serious issue with the whole HCG craze that's going around.

My beef: how in the name of all things nutritional is it healthy to lose a pound or two per day? I don't understand. I'm certainly not claiming to be all-knowing, and I absolutely can't say that I understand each person's individual situation. Maybe I would try something this drastic if I were severely dissatisfied with my body, or if I had tried diet after diet after diet to no avail - maybe I really just don't get it. But there's a little part of me that, when someone is standing in front of me praising HCG, wants to shake her until she sees sense.

A pound or two per day.

Per day!?

How does that not send up warning signals? Bodies aren't meant to lose weight that quickly unless you've just pushed out a baby. Or been decapitated.

Alright, I'll get off my soapbox now. And my high horse. And whatever else I need to get off of. And I should probably add that I know several ladies who have tried the HCG diet, are thrilled with the results, and seem very happy. I'm happy for them, too. Enough to ignore the screaming going on in my brain.

Chocolate

2010-09-15T09:07:00.002-08:00

According to National Geographic News, there is a project currently underway that has "U.S. government scientists aim[ing] to safeguard the world's chocolate supply by dissecting the genome of the cocoa, or cacao, bean." The hope is that analyzing the genome will "help battle crippling crop diseases and even lead to better tasting chocolate."

While I'm all for better tasting chocolate, I have to ask (and I do feel twelve kinds of wrong even saying it), why exactly do we need more chocolate? Is there a shortage? Have we come up with even more things that need to be drenched in the best substance known to (wo)man? I mean, really. Bananas, raisins, nuts, ice cream, cherries, strawberries, pretzels... The list goes on and on. What next? Bacon? Oh, wait.

All joking aside, I'm a science nerd and I think it's pretty cool that we (and by we, I mean all those government scientists hard at work while I sit at home reaping the benefits of their labor) have the kind of knowledge and resources to map a genome, cocoa or otherwise. But just in case you're still not convinced that your tax dollars are being put to good use, please consider the following:

Makes you feel a little better, doesn't it?

Oh, crap

2010-09-09T06:27:00.000-08:00

I joined Facebook yesterday because I'm a moron. That place is a friggin' nightmare for people like me! Sure, there are millions of folks out there who might want to be my "friend," right? Except that I'm the kind of person who assumes that I'm fairly forgettable, so when I come across someone I actually do know, I'm afraid to send a friend request, just in case he or she doesn't remember me. Or worse - remembers me in a negative way. And what about friending a guy I used to date? That's a little weird, yeah? Or the brother of a guy I used to date but dumped abruptly because he talked too much about himself? What about roommates I never got along with? Do I ignore them? Good gravy, I think my brain is turning into goo as I type this.

Anybody got a cure for a full-blown case of the crazies?

(Seriously, though, this is gonna wear off, right? Right? Hello???)

Goodbye summer... hello happiness

2010-09-07T06:10:00.002-08:00

I keep stumbling across posts bemoaning the end of summer and all that that entails. It seems some of you don't even like the autumn months because it means you're one step closer to winter! I guess I didn't realize how hard winter can be for so many people - the shorter days, the snow, the cold, and in some cases, the depression. For those of you who are grieving, I offer my sincerest sympathies.

I cannot, however, empathize.

Hi. My name is Becky and I have spring-onset Seasonal Affective Disorder.

It's true. Spring and summer are... well, they're okay, I guess. March and April typically aren't great months for me. I get lethargic, irritable, weepy, and I deal with it by eating whatever isn't nailed down. I've been told by many people that I must not enjoy summer because I live in Alaska, where the summers are sometimes referred to as "green winter." But that's simply not true. I've lived in places where there are long weeks of sunshine and ninety-five degree weather. When it's warm and sunny, I'm all about getting outside to enjoy it. It's just that after two months or so, I'm done. I've had my fill.

Cue September. Ah, September! The air is crisp, the leaves are changing, school has started - I love it all. And the best is still on the way. Bundling up to go scrounging for Halloween candy? Awesome. Alternating between eating half a pie plus a turkey leg and shoveling snow to burn the calories on Thanksgiving? Nothing better. The whole Christmas season? 'Nuf said. Of course, it's not just the holidays, either. There are snow caves and ice skating and sledding, oh my! Hot chocolate, big fat snowflakes, smiling like a mad woman as I scrape the snow off my car in the Target parking lot (and then the next two cars over just because I can), fluffy scarves, snowball fights... I really do love it all. Winter gives me a bit of a buzz.

So, friends, I'm sorry that you're sorry that summer is at an end. My life, however, just took a turn for the better.

P.S. If you feel the need to take me off the list of blogs you read because I used the words "Christmas," "snow," and "ice" in the month of September, I'll try my best to be understanding. Jack Frost, however, might smite you down.

My fella

2010-09-02T08:31:00.002-08:00

My husband recently uttered five words that women everywhere have been longing to hear since the beginning of time (well, since the beginning of the web log, anyway):

I wish you'd blog more.

What the...? Do you know what I would have given to hear those words a year or so ago!? My first-born child, that's what. (Although that would have freed up a significant amount of time in and of itself, thus leading to even more blogging, until the day I'd be found slumped over my computer desk, dead as a doornail, drool trickling slowly down my cheek. Autopsy result: information overload, with underlying causes of vitamin D deficiency and prolonged lack of physical contact with other human beings.) Still. "I wish you'd blog more." Who saw that one coming?

As a result, I dedicate this post to my wonderful spouse of seven years (as of last month) and will now proceed to list a few reasons why he's the best of the best.

He charges my iPod. I tend to leave it on the windowsill until I'm ready to use it. Once I discover there's no juice, I very responsibly set it back on the windowsill until the next time I forget why I haven't been able to use it. Adam, however, actually plugs it in. And refrains from nagging or patronizing me about it.
He never gives me a what-exactly-is-it-that-you-do-while-I'm-gone-all-day look, even though the kids are watching Clifford the Big Red Dog when he gets home. For, ahem, four days in a row.
One day our smoke detectors went off for no apparent reason and would not shut off, no matter what I did. The noise finally got to me; I burst into tears and locked myself in the bathroom while Adam figured things out. A few weeks later, when Riley and I were discussing things that constituted big problems and things that constituted little problems, Riley asked, "Mom, is it a big problem when the smoke detectors go off? Should you cry about that?" Adam, who was sitting across from me at the table, only permitted himself the smallest of grins.
Last year when I was depressed about the lack of snow mid-way through November, he consoled me. When it finally did snow, he woke me up early because he knew I'd be excited about it.
He checks out my legs when we're doing yoga together.

There's more, of course. Much more. But it's yoga time. Hee, hee!

Things I would tweet if I were a twit on Twitter

2010-08-31T13:33:00.004-08:00

Having a kid who can read is fun. It makes me want to tell people, "Hey, look what I made - and he reads!"

Went to the State Fair today and downed a gyro so chock full of onions I may never open my mouth in public again.

Potty training continues. Today the girl pooed in her panties... four times. Kinda makes me wish I were dead.

Had a crazy dream last night that had me contemplating the after effects of swallowing a cup of pea gravel.

Made meatballs this morning. Dropped one on the floor. Too tasty to waste - I ate it anyway.

(Makes you wish you lived in my head, doesn't it? It's all kinds of fun in there!)

Happy days are here again

2010-08-19T12:46:00.005-08:00

I sent Riley off to his first day of school this morning. This year he's a confident, well-seasoned first grader, so there were no tears or long goodbyes - just a hug and a kiss and a "see you later, Mom". I'm still trying to figure out if I'm glad about the utter lack of drama or disappointed that he wasn't clinging to my leg and sobbing heartily, thus confirming my belief that I am, hands down, the most important person in his (or any other) universe.

I'm also trying to figure out what will fill my days now that my more demanding child is out of the house for nearly eight full hours. Don't mistake me, Millie can be a handful, but she has the ability to amuse herself for periods of time that exceed three minutes. That's nice for everyone. But, of course, she's potty training, so I've been following her around the house, waiting for the magical words: I has pookie, Mama, let's change it. Someday she'll say it before it actually happens. I'm keeping my fingers crossed.

Anyway, I wanted to share the lopsided conversation I heard in the car this morning, because maybe you'll like it as much as I did.

Millie: Brother go school?
Riley: Yep, Millie. But you can't come because you're not old enough.
Millie: Millie go!
Riley: Sorry, Millie. I didn't go to school when I was two or three or four. I had to wait until I was five. But when you're five, we can go to the same school together! Won't that be fun?
Millie: No!
Riley: I'm sorry, little girl, you can't go today. But I won't be gone all day, and when I get home we can play together, okay?
Millie: Yes!

I know. How adorable is that!? It's like I'm raising good kids or something...

Way to go me.

2010-07-21T06:20:00.002-08:00

Dear friends, I need help.

I've recently become aware that I am an extremely self-deprecating person. I don't do it because I want people to tell me how great I am. ( That actually makes me a little uncomfortable.) I don't do it because I secretly think I'm ultra mega fantastic and don't want others to feel intimidated by the astounding wonderfulness that is me. And I don't do it because I honestly think that I'm bad at soccer or baking or meeting new people or keeping my house clean. Well, maybe the meeting new people thing...

And there I go again.

I think maybe I put myself down because so others won't expect too much from me. Then when I turn out to be not-so-bad, people can be pleasantly surprised. Or maybe just annoyed - some people have confusing facial expressions. Anyway, does this issue plague anyone else? How do I make it stop? (Aside from the obvious solution of just keeping my trap shut.)

It's just that I tell the young women in my ward how excellent they are. Every week I tell them. But there's no way they miss hearing all the subtle and not-so subtle digs I take at myself. So why should they believe me?

And now I'm rambling. Advice would be appreciated, though. (Preferably advice that is easy to fit into my daily life and that will magically cure my problem in 3-5 days.)

But, you know, I'll take whatever you've got.

I did it!

2010-06-13T20:23:00.004-08:00

Greetings from Becky the triathlete.

That's right, my friends. I ran the race yesterday and survived to tell the tale. It's a miracle! Now I can go back to normal life - cooking, keeping up with laundry, and actually returning phone calls. Oh, who am I kidding? Like I ever returned phone calls to begin with...

Anyway, the tale. It all started Friday morning, when I had the obligatory stress-related breakdown that precedes every major event in my life (which include, but are not limited to, vacations, moving, holidays, dental appointments, and buying new pairs of shoes). By Friday evening, I was feeling a little better, and yet Saturday morning still came all too quickly. Thankfully I was the eighteenth person to start, so I didn't have too much time to work myself into a frenzy. The poor lady beside me on the pool deck had to put up with my nervous chit chat while I waited. My chit chatting skills are sub-par, even on a good day; I'm a little surprised she didn't shove me in just to shut me up.

The swimming portion went well. I did 400m in eleven minutes, which was my personal best (thank you, adrenaline!). It was about average when compared with the other racers. From what I've surmised by talking with other participants, swimming is the event most people struggle with. I can see why that would be. Personally, the swimming was my favorite part.

My biking time was a bit below average, but I'm thinking that may have been, at least in part, due to my $100 Walmart bike that doesn't shift well. It was like a rusty Geo Metro in a sea of Ferraris. Sigh. That's okay, though. Our house is less than half a mile from one stretch of the course, and I seriously, albeit briefly, considered turning off and heading home for a snooze. I didn't. Therefore, I believe the biking portion to be a success.

It was the running that did me in. Well, that and my stupid bladder. Where's a blasted port-a-potty when you need one!? I alternated running and walking while I desperately tried to keep my mind off of anything liquid-related. At first, I contemplated what kind of magic the writers of LOST must possess to get me to fall head-over-heels in love with a series finale that, it must be said, answered basically nothing. Unfortunately, thinking of LOST reminded me of the sad, haunting melody that often played towards the end of an episode. And that's a horrible tempo for running - much too slow. Then somehow I got that "Go the Distance" song in my head (not the one by Cake, the one in Disney's Hercules). So I shuffled along humming that song for a while and then - get this - missed a turn! I know!! I'm an idiot. So there's an extra two minutes or so tacked onto my time that wouldn't be there had I used my brain at all. (Of course, I maintain that there should have been a volunteer to wave me in the right direction. Then I wouldn't have to feel so silly.) I could have gotten it taken care of, I'm sure, but it's not exactly like I was vying for first place or anything.

Ah, well. It's over and I finished. And it felt good. Is it completely crazy that I'm already planning on how to drastically improve my time in next year's race?

Probably.

Tri, tri again

2010-05-19T11:00:00.000-08:00

In twenty-five days, I am going to run that triathlon I mentioned several months ago. (It's actually a sprint triathlon - 400m of swimming, 8.5 miles of biking, and 3 miles of running - which, I know, isn't nearly as impressive as an Olympic triathlon. But considering that less than a year ago, my exercise routine consisted of me getting out of bed before 7am, I'm feeling okay about it.) I'm 22% nervous, 77% excited, and 1% cocky, because it's entirely possible that the fates could smile down upon me and I may not come in dead last.

When I first decided to do this thing, the only thought in my head was: this is going to be hard, but I want to do it, if only to tell people that I've done it. I never in my wildest dreams thought I would end up having fun! Here are just a few of the things I've discovered while training for a sprint triathlon:

I repeatedly lose track of the lap number I'm on while swimming because I get preoccupied thinking about what it would be like to be a mermaid. (How cool would that be?)
Training takes a great deal of time. Cleaning, scrapbooking, and blogging have become infrequent and irregular (much like another certain monthly-ish event in my life - but that's neither here nor there). On the plus side, there's less time for me to obsess over housecleaning.
I'm hungry a lot. Ergo, I get to eat frequently.
I thought I would automatically turn into one of those people who goes out running because they - gasp! - enjoy it. In truth, it took me a good ten weeks to realize that runners aren't total morons. It is kind of fun, after all.
Wednesdays are the best day of the week, hands down. I go swimming in the morning and when I get home, there's a big plate of ham and potatoes with an over-easy egg on top smiling up at me. My husband is the best husband there's ever been. Ever.
When you're listening to The Hunger Games on your iPod while biking down the street and you say, out loud, "Katniss, you twit, he loves you!" people will give you funny looks. (Haven't read this book yet? Do it and thank me later.)

Anyway, I hope these next few weeks go well. Then maybe when I post about my experience, you'll see a picture like this:

instead of like this:

Wish me luck!

Weird is as weird does

2010-05-12T10:01:00.000-08:00

I'm convinced that everyone everywhere has at least one completely strange habit. Male or female, bald or hairy, braniac or a few fries short of a Happy Meal: everyone is, in some way or another, a great big weirdo.

I have a friend who (and I won't share her name on account of the potentially embarrassing information I'm about to share - cough! her name is Tara! cough, cough!) used to like being balanced in every sense of the word. At one point in our friendship, if I jokingly punched her right arm, she would turn and instruct me to sock her on the left arm as well. Not harder or softer, mind you, but the exact same punch. Then she would follow me around until I did it right so she could get on with her day. And she just couldn't understand all the raised eyebrows.

Adam, when he's feeling domestic, uses the largest bowl we own to mix things, regardless of what he intends to make. If he's making a quadruple batch of waffles, then sure, that makes sense. But using a 14-inch diameter bowl to mix tuna and mayonnaise for two sandwiches? Who does that kind of thing? He thinks it's totally normal.

My parents have this clunky old microwave that I'm almost positive was manufactured in the seventies. The thing is a nightmare! It takes a good two minutes to melt half a cube of butter. On the highest setting. That's insane, right? But they're used to it, so it doesn't seem odd to them.

My own little quirk? I can't type.

Scratch that. I can type; I can't type correctly. My hands start out in some semblance of a correct position, but my pointer and middle fingers do most of the work. Plus, I have to look at the keyboard. A lot. Still, I'm pretty fast. It just looks ridiculous to anyone who can type correctly. I'm not sure how this happened. I took a computer class - not a typing class, a computer class - in the eighth grade. It was only for one quarter, with less than two weeks spent learning how to type properly. And I didn't quite master it, I guess. I haven't taken a computer class since and I haven't ever had a job in which typing skills were pertinent.

In fact, until last March, when I visited my sister in Utah, I never really stopped to think about my typing technique being strange (but then who really stops to think about typing technique at all?). Once she found out, though, she informed me that my typing does, indeed, make me a freak. On the one hand, being a freak isn't the worst thing in the world. I've unknowingly lived with it for this many years - why change now? On the other hand, it is rather pathetic. I'm almost thirty years old. I live in the age of computers, for crying out loud, and not knowing how to type correctly is not simply a laughable matter; if I ever needed to find work, this could be seen by many employers as a serious flaw.

I suppose my next course of action should be to take a typing course, or to get online and figure out how to do this thing right. And I will. At some point. But right now I have a more pressing matter: I need to find a good hiding place for a 14-inch diameter bowl.

Not again

2010-05-07T12:13:00.000-08:00

Dear Allrecipes,

I love you, I really do. You're user-friendly, very organized, and you have lots of pretty pictures. I've even forgiven you for that whole Orange-Sauce-Chicken-and-Fried-Rice fiasco. But why, for the love of my thighs do you insist on showcasing sweets all the time? Every single time I view your homepage, I see at least three pictures of items like chocolate eclair cake or lemon cream cheese frosting or decadent cinnamon rolls. Why, allrecipes, why?!? Don't you know me at all? Don't you know I have two bags of cookie dough, birthday cake, and cake balls in my freezer as we speak? It's like you're mocking me... taunting me... baiting me.

It's not nice. It's not nice at all.

Love,
Fatty

Hee, hee

2010-04-19T06:33:00.001-08:00

I was reading some of my old posts last week and ended up spending the better part of an hour just laughing. Out loud. A lot. I don't know if you were aware of this, but I'm funny. But more importantly, you guys are funny! So today I thought I'd share some of my favorite comments of all time. Even without context, these should have you laughing in no time. Or at least chuckling. If not, well, what can I say? You're probably just dead inside. Let the hilarity commence!

My wife casually stalked me for a year. When we "met," I had no idea who she was. Ha ha - joke's on her, I totally married up.
Four year olds are people, but of an entirely different variety. Mine will be five in December. Hopefully that will help.
Beck, don't give up! You've only got like 20 years to go or something before your kids really grow up.
What a bummer! I'm so sorry. And thank you for realizing that skinny jeans fit in the same category as hunger and poverty.
Well, I've been knocked up by the pool boy, and I wasn't offended, so well done.
Doomsday advice: if the economy collapsed (oops, did I say that?) and you couldn’t buy toilet paper what would you do? Get a bathroom bidet sprayer from www.bathroomsprayers.com and you won’t have to worry about it. The water will still be running long after the toilet paper stops reaching the store shelves and in the mean time you’ll be saving money that you can use to stock up on canned soup. Think I'm joking? Wait till you have to choose between those rolls of super-soft Charmin or a sandwich.
If Google knows where I lose things, I will immediately unplug every electronic device in my house and burn them. But sorry about your clippers. When mine are missing my teenage girls have them. I don't think they have yours, though. But I'll check.
LisAway just called you a Jerk!?!? (it was totally worth it because I cracked up so loud my kids stopped what they were doing to find out if I was still sane)
You seriously crack me up. Well, at least you're still shaving your armpits. That's the important thing.
That's funny, and just proves that you can use duct tape in the bedroom for all kinds of things.
Hearken NOT unto the naysayers; do both, AND LIVE!!!!

I just made your whole day a little better, didn't I? You're welcome.

Is this okay?

2010-04-12T06:16:00.003-08:00

Hey peeps, I have a question for y'all.

Adam and I went to a local doughnut establishment a while back and aside from the employees, we were the only people in the place. So Adam, who suffers from a severe condition known as TV paralysis, asked if he could turn off the TV in the dining area (can you even call it a dining area if it's a doughnut shop??) in order to hold an actual conversation. The lady who served us was hesitant, but gave the okay.

Here's my question: is that appropriate behavior? On the one hand, it was Fox News. But on the other hand, we don't own the place. The owners can run the shop however they see fit; if they want a TV on during working hours, who are we to get in their faces about it? Adam sees no problem with what he did. He probably would have asked even if other customers had been present. In this situation, however, I don't think the customer is always right. Because like I said, I don't own the place. And if I don't want to suck down a chocolate-frosted cream-filled pastry with Glenn Beck yammering on in the background, I can choose to go elsewhere.

What do you think? (About the issue, not my oh-so-subtle political jabs, which I should probably apologize for, but won't because I'm a little irritated with the Republican party at the moment. The Democrat party, too, now that I think about it. I may move to England.)

But really, I'd like to know what other people think. I'm not looking for a right or wrong answer here. Lemme have it.

It burns us!

2010-04-07T09:10:00.002-08:00

Dear Johnson and Johnson,

No offense or anything, but your tear-free baby wash is anything but. Yeah, yeah, you probably weren't expecting anyone to take a nice concentrated glob right in the eye, but still. False advertise much? And this a product for kids. You do know what kids are capable of, do you not? You totally should have seen that coming. Thanks anyway.

Disgruntled and a little embarrassed,

The mom with a burning eye

Nine to five? Don't I wish!

2010-03-18T13:35:00.004-08:00

Last week, on the way home from running an errand, I saw an interesting advertisement.

On the bottom, there was a phone number. And you know, I think I might call. I can't say for certain how the conversation will proceed, but I'm thinking something like this:

"Hi, I'm calling about the ad I saw that told me I could make a difference and I had a few questions. First off, what kind of difference are we talking about here? Because I've always liked helping people learn new things. Could I do something like that? Or what about teaching valuable life skills like getting along with peers, responsibility, and good communication? Would that be a possibility? I'm actually pretty good with money, too. Maybe fiscal analysis could be part of my job description.

What's that? You have some questions for me? Oh, sure, go ahead! Yes, I'd say I know a bit about prioritizing my time... I enjoy challenges, sure... My organizational skills? Well, I don't want to brag, but they're impeccable. You know, it's funny you should ask - I can work well in a loud, chaotic setting.

Gosh, this all sounds really, really great! Here's the thing, though: it seems I'm already doing all of that stuff. What say I give you another ring tomorrow morning around nine-ish and we'll hash out the details of my salary. Right now I have two adorable children vying for my attention, so I'd better get back to that whole making-a-difference thing.

Toodles!"

Payback is... uh... not nice

2010-03-15T11:26:00.003-08:00

Two days ago I got back from a week-long trip to Idaho and Utah. It was a great vacation. Riley and I both enjoyed it immensely, though it did confirm my theory that some relationships are better long distance. The problem is, I think that the recovery time is going to be longer than the actual vacation. Why is that? It's like the universe decided we had too much fun and now it wants to punish us. Stinking universe.

You think I jest? Behold the payback:

I have the beginnings of what I am certain will be one doozy of a cold.
I am EXHAUSTED.
Riley keeps running into things and tripping and stubbing his toe, even more so than usual - could this possibly be a symptom of jet lag?? - and has resigned himself to spending the rest of his life in a wheelchair. (What can I say? Sometimes he takes me too literally.)
During my absence, Millie had total and complete power over her dear father and is quite loathe to relinquish it now that I am home. Hence the five time outs in the grocery store today. (And we were only there for seventeen minutes, thanks for asking.)
This week's to-do list is only slightly shorter than The Bible.

But don't feel too bad for me. I've got an impressive stack of girl scout cookies calling my name from the pantry.

Take that, universe.

Curse you, Allrecipes!

2010-02-23T06:19:00.002-09:00

Last night I tried out a new recipe: Orange Sauce Chicken and Fried Rice.

It was the dumbest thing I've done since... well, since November, when I decided to run a triathlon. Moron!

Anyway, this new recipe looked really good. I had all the ingredients on hand. Plus, it was fairly healthy. Well, no, that's a lie. But I like to think that Orange Sauce counts as a fruit and that Fried Rice is just a misnomer - it's not actually fried, right? And I'm no novice in the kitchen, folks. So I wasn't worried in the slightest.

I should have been.

Step 1: dip chicken in egg batter; coat battered chicken with bread crumbs; saute for a few minutes; place in baking dish. Quite a first step, yeah? And this egg batter wasn't just egg whites and water - think beer-battered halibut type batter. Now try coating that little number with bread crumbs. Veeeery messy. Repeat, repeat, repeat. Put chicken in the oven. But, wait! There's already something in the oven! Oh, yeah, I'm making bread at the same time. Idiot! Okay, so chicken is on hold momentarily. Step 2, here I come: make the sauce. This should have been the easy step. I say should have been because halfway through the step I knocked the sugar container on the floor. Bonehead! Step 2-1/2: clean up sugar mess. Whew! Step 3: make rice. Oh, flip! I'm supposed to be making rice. Half an hour later, the chicken is getting cold and there's rice all over my stove because I chose the wrong sized skillet. (Did I mention that my two very hungry kids were running around causing mayhem this whole time? They were.) But you can't just up and walk out on a recipe (can you?), so I muddled my way through to the end result: pretty tasty chicken and rice.

But so not worth it. Next time I'll order out.

And I am a microwave girl

2010-02-14T14:52:00.005-09:00

I recently heard someone refer to our current society as a microwave world and I've been pondering on it ever since. It's true, don't you think? We want things when we want them and when we want them is usually right now. Logically we all know that good things take time; we just don't want them to take time for us personally. Instead of planning and waiting and working and cultivating, we want a microwave solution: fast and cheap, even if it's not necessarily good for us.

I'd love to drop ten pounds. Ten pounds! That's not a lot of weight, right? So why don't I just do it already? It's because I don't want it to happen in five weeks. I don't want it to happen in two weeks. Flip, I can't even wait until Wednesday! I want to skip my mid-afternoon chocolate fix for one measly day and I want the scale to miraculously read 150 the next morning. And when it doesn't, I give up because it's all just too much for me. After one day.

I want a yard. Man, do I want a yard! And when do I want my yard? This summer, of course. I want grass in the front and grass in the back (who cares if we're sitting on over an acre - it can't be that much work, can it?), lilac bushes lining the driveway, a patio out the back door, raspberry plants to the left and a garden to the right. All before Labor Day. (And while I'm at it, I want to learn to garden by then, too.) Never mind that the yard I'm picturing in my head will be, at the very least, a three-year endeavor. I want it all now.

I want to go to SeaWorld. And Disneyland. I want to visit Europe. I want to write a book. I want to learn to sew. I want to own a four-wheeler. I want to go horseback riding again. I want, I want, I want. And when I look at my list, it doesn't seem impossible. Not even close. But I tend to look at my list in terms of six months or a year. And then it is impossible. So then I don't even try. Listen, I'm not saying to put things off until the infamous "someday," but maybe learn how to pace yourselves a little, okay? Don't buy into the microwave myth! Good things really do take time. You can't have it all right here, right now. (Um, sorry, I don't know how this turned into a lecture. I'm really talking to myself, here. It's just that I'm a mom. Lecturing is in my job description.)

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes. The moral of my story.

Just because I live in a microwave world doesn't mean I have to eat pizza rolls. With a little time and patience and good old fashioned hard work, I can have the real thing. Just hold the anchovies.

At least he's learning

2010-02-01T06:46:00.002-09:00

I had a long, long day yesterday. Nothing horrible happened; the kids were well behaved (or at least I didn't feel like drop kicking them out the door for the moose to trample), I did most of the things on my to-do list, and the weather was decent. I suppose was just tired. And I felt overwhelmed. So after dinner, I scooted back my chair, stood up, surveyed the damage in the kitchen and living room, remembered it was bath night, and promptly collapsed in a heap on the floor (purposefully - I didn't faint or anything. And I made sure I was on carpet before I did so.)

Millie, who is only two and does not fully understand the concept of drama (which is surprising, seeing as how she adds a great deal of it to my everyday life), began to fuss, no doubt worried for her poor, sad mama. Riley was strangely silent. Adam just wanted to know what was wrong.

"It's too much! I don't know where to start!" I moaned from my fetal position.

Cue Riley.

"Well, first you should get up and take your dishes to the sink. I always take my dishes to the sink right after I eat. You don't need to freak out about it, Mom. So stop freaking out. It's not a big deal!"

I didn't see the expression on his face as he gave me this little speech, but I imagine it was fraught with mock exasperation. He may have even muttered the word "goofball." I couldn't quite contain my laughter as I hauled myself up and collected my plate. "You're absolutely right," I told him. "Thank you very much."

So I got a dose of reality. From my five-year-old. That could have made it a pretty bad day indeed.

Except that it made it a great one.

Whoops

2010-01-28T20:40:00.001-09:00

Dear moron who happens to be me,

Stop signs are octagonal, you nitwit.

Becky

P.S. Great hair today!

A request

2010-01-28T07:00:00.002-09:00

Dear ~~morons who also happen to be my~~ neighbors,

Please do us all a favor and turn on your brain at the same time you turn on your car. I mean, I know it must be terribly confusing for you, but I'll make it simple: if you see a stop sign at the intersection of two roads, it means you're supposed to stop. Shocker, right? And in case you're unsure what a stop sign looks like, it's a red, hexagonal sign with, you guessed it, the word STOP. I really don't think it's too much to ask, do you? All I want is to be able to drive down my street without wondering if today will be my last day on earth. So no more tapping the brakes, or throwing a cursory glance down the road, or even barreling right on through. Just stop at the stop sign.

Your neighbor,
Becky

Toast

2010-01-25T12:10:00.003-09:00

It is January in Alaska. (It is most likely January in other states as well, but I can't say for certain.) The sad truth of it is, January in Alaska is typically cold, ugly, dark, and depressing. Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to blame January - it's a perfectly respectable month in all other regards - that's just how things are. And for me, January means something else: epiphanies. Sad, gloomy, self-esteem-robbing epiphanies that, thankfully, dissipate by mid-February when we start seeing a respectable amount of daylight.

This January is no different.

Epiphany, January 2010: In the great bakery of humanity, I am toast.

Don't try to argue, either. You don't argue with January epiphanies. It's bad luck. Besides, I've told you before, I'm not exciting or bubbly or outgoing. I'm toast. I'm toast, surrounded by cinnamon rolls (like my cool friend down the street who introduced me to the joys of sushi and uses the word "yo" in casual conversation) and chocolate cake (like my husband, who can act like an eight-year-old boy and somehow pull it off with great aplomb) and blintzes (like the produce guy at the grocery store who juggles oranges to distract my daughter from her tears while I'm trying to pick out tomatoes) and maple bars (like my sister, who is basically my hero). But I'm toast.

I wonder if I need a tattoo or a sports car or a strategically-placed piercing to pull me out of my funk. (Sadly, I can't afford any of those things this month because last month, I succumbed to a split-second moment of sentimentality and decided that when I go to visit my maple bar-esque sister over spring break, Riley should come with me. And plane tickets, as I'm sure you're aware, are not inexpensive.) Some days I feel so toast-like that I have to think of things I do well, to prove to myself that I am not toast: I'm a good cook; I'm a great housekeeper; I have a cool blog. But then my toast mentality takes over and I tell myself that lots of people can cook, and even more people can keep house. As for a blog, well, any idiot off the street can start a blog. (Hey, Paris! What up, LiLo?)

So what's a poor slice of toast to do?

Well, I'll tell you. I'm going to buy the sports car.

He, he. No. Not really.

I've decided to start validating myself instead of relying on others to validate me. I don't need a friend to think I'm cool so that I can think I'm cool. I don't need my husband to tell me I'm beautiful (although that's always nice to hear) in order to like the person I see in the mirror. And I certainly don't need to be "as good as" anyone else to be good at something.

Now, if someone could just tell tell me how to accomplish that, I'll get right on it...

Just some stuff

2010-01-15T12:41:00.001-09:00

I have a new favorite game. It was invented by my favorite son and is possibly the best game known to man. And woman. It’s called Cat’s in the Can. I can’t divulge all the secrets of this fantastic invention, but I can give you some highlights. Running and hiding – good. Screaming “cat’s in the can!” at the top of your lungs – good. Hurling a bean-bag frog at your loved ones – gooood. (I know, it sounds a little complicated. But for a mere $500, I will mail you a complete set of instructions – fully illustrated and in the language of your choice – and a bonus bean-bag frog. Act now! You’ll never see a deal like this again.)

Last week it snowed. When it snows here, the collective IQ of licensed drivers in Alaska drops by, like, five million points. True story.

We recently acquired a keyboard that plays My Heart Will Go On every time someone pushes the demo button. Unfortunately, I have two children who push the demo button at every possible opportunity. I’m thinking that my husband will make it as least a month until the song drives him to the brink of insanity. So I’d best use the keyboard while I can.

Why is it that when you’re pregnant, no one has qualms about telling you how huge you are? Why, when someone doesn’t like your parenting style, out come the opinions, whether you want them or not? And why do some people feel comfortable telling other people how to drive, how to spend their money, or how to run their lives? Tell me. Why? Why does all of that happen and yet not one single person I came into contact with yesterday would tell me that I was walking around with my pants unzipped? Because that information at least would have been useful to me.

New Year's resolutions. Hooray.

2010-01-04T06:18:00.001-09:00

Well, it's the New Year, so I guess I oughta jot down some goals or whatever - not that it did me any good last year. I'm pretty sure my no-fast-food goal lasted a whole five months. If that. This year I'm going for the reasonably realistic.

Run a triathlon; don't die.
Don't gain weight. Yep, you read that right. I, in a bold and daring act of apathy, have vowed to give up the dream of fitting into the pile of pre-children pants in my closet. Instead, I will simply focus on maintaining. I mean, if I end up dropping a few pounds, then yay for me. But that is not the goal. The goal is to quit spending so much time thinking about me and how I look and find better things to do. Like not dying in a triathlon.
Find my true love. Sure, my husband is practically perfect in every way, but according to the numerous emails I've been receiving from Match.com, my soul mate, the one man I am destined to be with, is still out there, presumably searching for me. So I'm going to find him, tell him I'm taken, and ask him nicely to delete his profile because I really, really, really hate junk email. I'll even bake him a pan of brownies to sooth his aching soul, if need be. (Hey, I never said I was going to marry the guy - just find him.)
Learn to make a decent quiche. Adam says I'm already there, but I'm a perfectionist. Quiche just aren't my forte. Yet.

And that's it, people. Good luck to me and to the rest of you poor fools who also made resloutions. May the force be with us.

P.S. I've decided to give my workout-progress widget the axe. It's too hard to remember to update it. I really have been good, though. It's a pity I can't say the same for my three-month-old elliptical, which seems to have eighty-three things wrong with it. The tech guy, with whom I've become very close on account of my nagging him at every possible chance, says a new console will cure all of my ills. We'll see...

I want my mommy

2009-12-28T06:51:00.001-09:00

Psst! C'mere. A little closer... little bit closer... there you go. I have a very important secret to share. And it's big. It's huge. Monumental, even. And it's something that women have been wondering about for decades, nay, for centuries. That's right, I have discovered why men are such babies when they get sick.

(stunned silence descends upon the entire female population... of my blog)

I know, right? I mean, it's actually a very complex theory involving entropy, the law of averages, and time travel, so I won't go into specifics, but what I can tell you will blow your mind. Are you ready for this?

Men are such babies when they are sick because... wait for it... they have moms.

I'm telling you, it's true. It's so very, very true. Take last week at my house. Riley was sick (for the third Christmas in a row - who says we don't start our own holiday traditions?). He had the works: runny nose, barking cough, a fever. So what did I do? I babied him, of course. I nearly wore myself out trying to make my poor little boy feel better. That's my job. In fact, I'm pretty sure it's right there, in bold type, on page three of How to be the World's Best Mom. (At least it would be if such a book existed.) And Riley loved every minute of it. Go figure. But now there's an established pattern. He knows it and I know it. The pattern? He gets sick and the main woman in his life bends over backwards to make him happy. Seriously, why wouldn't a guy milk that for all it's worth? He'd be crazy not to! And hey, if it happens at five years old, why not at ten? Or twenty? Or thirty, when he's happily married to a lovely young woman who's going to want to beat me over the head with a shovel because I'm the moron who initiated this pattern in the first place?

So what's to be done, you might be asking yourself. Having a mom is not exactly something you can be cured of, you're saying. And you'd be right. That's why I want to shed some light on the plus side of this whole scenario. Let's say a woman catches cold. She will be sick for, on average, 6.7 days.* Given the exact same cold virus, a man will be sick for 2.4 days.** Why? Because that's what they learn from their mommies. Again, I offer proof from my own experiences of last week.

Day 1 - Riley, what do you need? Do you want anything to eat? Can I get you anything? Anything at all? Here's your blanket. Let me help you with that pillow.

Day 2 - I'm gonna put on a movie for you. Just try to relax, please.

Day 3 - Hey kid, if you're gonna whine, do it in your room cuz I've had it.

See, boys learn that there is a very specific, very fixed period of time in which they are sick and the woman in their life will still have patience with them. So they learn to be sick, get whatever they want, and then get to getting better because you do NOT want to mess with that woman on day three. She has a shovel, remember?

So there it is. My take on one of the previously unsolved mysteries of the universe. No need for thanks. It's just what I do.

*This statistic was blatantly fabricated.
** Again, big fat lie.

P.S. I should mention that Millie, who also had a cough, fever, and runny nose, was fairly pleasant to be around. So maybe we woman are just tougher. Shocker.

Just in case...

2009-12-18T06:30:00.001-09:00

...you were wondering what a winter wonderland looks like, it looks a little like this:

I guess I can cross a foot-and-a-half of snow off my Christmas wish list!

A modern-day miracle, or how GI Joe saved Christmas

2009-12-14T06:17:00.001-09:00

Last summer, my in-laws visited us for about a month. It was, in truth, a great month. In addition to earning the unabashed adoration of both my offspring and sending Adam and me out for much-needed alone time, they brought with them a vital and tangible part of my husband's childhood: GI Joes. And even though it was only June, Adam eagerly awaited Christmas Day, when he could pass these beloved friends onto his first (and so far, only) male heir.

Fast forward to December.

For the last few weeks, we've been searching for these GI Joes. Nevermind that even without any GI Joes or accompanying paraphernalia, our son would still have more Christmas presents to open than is good for him. Nevermind that we'd searched the crawl space eighty-two times and I had given up hope. Nevermind that we've since located all of the super cool vehicles, any one of which would fulfill Riley's Christmas dreams. Forget all of that. Because any true GI Joe connoisseur knows that without the men, "it's nothing."

And then, today, sweet joy! The MIA GI Joes were found, nestled in a backpack hanging on our garage wall, of all places. As Adam lovingly removed them from their containers, I stared down at the tiny guns, spears, and grenade launchers and thought, "Yeah, Millie is soooo going to choke to death on one of those." Of course, that was before I was unwittingly drawn into the exciting universe of Cobras, helicopter pilots, and deep-sea divers. I quickly found myself using phrases like, "You're goin' down, sucka," "Get to the chopper!" and "Never leave a man behind." Who knew that little plastic army guys could rekindle my faith in Christmas miracles?

Now all I need to do is get Adam to see the light about My Little Ponies.

An oldie but goodie

2009-12-04T06:36:00.001-09:00

I got bored yesterday and started reading through my old posts, trying to get ideas for new posts, or at least trying to figure out what I could write about that I hadn't already written about, when I came across this one. It made me laugh a little, because in the year and some odd months since it was first posted, I've haven't changed one iota. So I decided to use it again, in the hopes that next year I can proudly say I've improved.

Yeah, right.

Anyway, here it is:

Is it strange that when I don't have a car for the day, I get grandiose visions of being 150% more productive than on other days?

See, we get by with one vehicle in our family. My husband, wonderful man that he is, bikes the 2.5 miles to work every morning in rain, sleet, snow, or dark of night. Like the postman. But I think Adam is way hotter than the postman, considering the person who delivers our mail is not male. This is not to say that if our mailman WERE a man, I'd think him cuter than my hubby. Because I wouldn't. Adam is a very nice looking fellow. Unless our postman was Hugh Laurie, and then it would be a toss up. But Hugh probably doesn't need another job, because he's a doctor, and doctors are loaded.

Oh, golly. Let's get back on track, shall we? Hubby? Awesome. Me? Car-less for the day because Adam needed to be in Palmer.

Now obviously, the first thing to do when you're stuck at home with two kids and no place to go is to declare a pajama day, in which no one bathes or brushes hair or gets out of bed until 8am (that's late for us). The second thing is to look around your humble abode as you're eating breakfast and wonder how you live in such filth. This will lead to a very long list of chores to be done, which includes, but is not limited to, the following:

dishes
sweeping
vacuuming
dusting
cleaning out the front closet
going through the kids' clothes to pack away what no longer fits
cleaning the bathroom
filling up a box to be donated to the thrift store
laundry
making sure library books are not overdue
emailing that recipe my friend asked for
wiping the fingerprints off the computer and TV screens
changing the towels in the kitchen and bathroom

Yeah, I can be an overachiever. You know what they say, when the going gets tough, the tough make an insanely huge to-do list that will render them useless by four in the afternoon. Or something like that.

Has anyone but me noticed that my list is still patiently waiting on the kitchen counter because I'm at the computer blogging instead of working? No? Cool.

While you're along for the time-wasting ride, check out this little number. It'd make a great Christmas gift, right? I mean, this is something I can't believe I've been living without. And it's on sale! Does life get any better? I think so. And here's why.

Alright, alright, enough with the tomfoolery; I've got work to do.

Gettin' in shape

2009-12-02T08:06:00.000-09:00

If you’ll sneak a glance to your left… er, right… you’ll see that I’ve put up a snazzy new widget (is that the right terminology?) so you can all monitor my getting-ready-for-a-killer-triathlon progress (I know you know you want to, you know?). And as an added bonus, it will keep me from using my posts to whine about how sore my quads are. Hopefully. And I can go back to being my hilarious, charming self.

P.S. If you see that I’m starting to slack off, by all mean, nag. Or encourage. Or nag.
P.P.S. They really are sore, though. My quads. Just so you know.

A little logic... or something

2009-11-25T06:22:00.003-09:00

Threw you all for a little loop with my triathlon news, didn't I? Especially since I tend to use the word "run" in conjunction with words like "pain" or "insanity" or "death." But hear me out for a minute, because I think I can convince you to be on my side. Or at least maybe I can convince myself.

The thing is, I'm not a big risk taker. Sure, I'm likable enough, I suppose. But no one who knows me well would describe me as exciting. I simply don't do a lot of adventurous things. And for the most part, I'm happy with my quiet little life. But I don't necessarily want to keep using the I-gave-birth-naturally-but-only-because-the-anesthesiologist-was-twenty-minutes-away anecdote as my go-to story when I'm trying to show off my wild side. (This has nothing to do with the rest of the post, but I'd like to point out that I spelled anesthesiologist correctly. All on my own. Take that, automatic spell checker! Hey, maybe I should use that as my go-to story...)

Um, where was I? Oh, yes. I'm boring. I've never skydived, I've never gone cliff jumping, I've never stepped foot out of the country. Unless you count Whitehorse, Canada. But it was, as my sister so delicately put it, "filled with ugly people," so it's not exactly something to brag about, you know. Heck, I've never even rafted down a raging river of death with Kevin Bacon. And I've never really wanted to. Although if it had been Matthew McConaughey things may have been different...

But now I'm off topic again.

A triathlon is something I can do (presumably) - something that will make me feel all proud and warm and fuzzy and whatnot (again, presumably). And it's a triathlon specifically geared towards women who have never run one before. How fortuitous for me! So I think I'm going to do it. I might have some whiny days and some I-wanna-quit days and maybe even a few I-should-take-up-drinking-instead days, but I think I'm gonna do it.

Besides, it'll make a way better story than, "Hey, so I just joined Facebook."

P.S. Have a stupendous Thanksgiving!

I'm in some deep $%@& now...

2009-11-23T06:09:00.001-09:00

I'm pretty sure the what-the-heck-are-you-thinking fairy visited my house last week and sprinkled some crazy dust all over me. Because I'm considering doing two things to which I'm morally opposed: running a triathlon and joining Facebook.

Please advise.

Back again... maybe

2009-11-18T06:17:00.003-09:00

Huh.

Did you know that even after twenty-seven days of complete inactivity, Blogger will still let you sign into your account?

Bummer.

I was kind of hoping my blog would magically disappear into the abyss of the Internets, never to be seen or heard from again. Because then all that inactivity wouldn't be my fault. It would be the fault of, you know... not me. And it's always cool when something's not your fault. I suppose I could hit that all-powerful button labeled DELETE BLOG. But for some reason, I'm still clinging to the belief that the world would come to an abrupt end if I did that.

Hence my presence here today.

And I guess while I'm here, I may as well talk about how life is going.

THE GOOD: Snow, holiday season, and having all of my Christmas shopping already out of the way.

THE BAD: School. Nobody ever mentions that when your kid enters the wonderful world of kindergarten, your life will become so hectic that you actually start wondering if death will come soon, if only to escape signing any more permission slips. Or volunteering slips. Or reading hour slips. And you know what else? It may have been a while since I've been in elementary school, but I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to give five-year-olds so much homework that they burst into tears at the sight of their school folder. Fifteen minutes of homework a night, my ear. Don't get me wrong, Riley is absorbing knowledge faster than a ShamWow absorbs whatever it is that ShamWows are supposed to absorb, but is it normal for moms to nearly sob with relief at upcoming Thanksgiving breaks? I kind of don't think so.

THE UGLY: Me. I'm a nagging, grumpy, stressed-out bag of unpleasantness (and that's putting it nicely). But that should change by next Thursday, when I plan on eating at least half of a pecan pie. I'm thinking the transformation will go something like this:

Bring on the fat jeans.

So what's left?

2009-10-22T06:35:00.002-08:00

Sometimes I think humans have been around for so long that we've invented all there is to invent. Cars, planes, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, the Internets (thanks, Al)... The more I think about it, the more evidence I discover. Case in point: kissables. You know, those mini Hershey kisses with a colorful candy coating? Call me crazy, but these seem to me to be shockingly similar to M&Ms. How is it that no one caught that?

Or how about those Snuggies? Don't we have something like that lying around already? Oh, yeah. Blankets.

And don't even get me started on books. I can't tell you the number of times I've picked up a book, gotten a third of the way through, and realized I've already read it. Except it had a different title. And a different author. I've read at least three books this year in which the hero is a teenage boy with unruly black hair that won't lay flat despite his best efforts. Sound familiar? I'm telling you, original thought is a thing of the past. Heck, if you're Dan Brown, you don't even need to steal other people's ideas. Just reuse your own - in three successive books. (Don't get me wrong, they're fun to read. Just don't expect anything new.)

All joking aside, I think that some good has come of all this brainpower. Indoor plumbing, Google, microwave popcorn, medical breakthroughs - all good. But why hasn't someone done something really useful and whipped me up the perfect pair of jeans? Get with the program, people. Get with the program.

P.S. No offense intended to Kristina P., who will probably be buried in her Snuggie, or to Al Gore, who never actually claimed to have invented the Internet. Darn those Republicans.

P.P.S. Sorry about my blogging apathy as of late. I'm in the throes of an identity crisis. So cliche, I know, but true nonetheless.

Little surprises

2009-10-12T06:52:00.000-08:00

I'm sure that there are many, many people in the world who like to crawl out of bed in the morning and crank up some tunes to get their day started. And of those people, there are probably some who choose to crank up John Mellencamp. And dance around like maniacs. And sing the wrong words off-key.

I just never thought my son would be one of them.

I am Introvert, hear me roar!

2009-10-06T06:05:00.002-08:00

"It's good for the soul when there's not a soul in sight." ~Kenny Chesney~

Friends, I know this might come as a shock to you, but I'm an introvert. And not just sort of. An online Jung Typology test told me that on the introvert-extrovert scale, my introvertedness is about 70%. And we all know how reliable those online tests are. But really, I didn't need some expert to tell me that I'm "more reserved, less outgoing... [and] marked by a richer inner world" than 60-75% of the population. I already had a hunch.

The fact is, I like to be around people; I enjoy attending parties and being with friends and meeting new people. I just like hanging out with me more. And I'm not sure why that makes some people uneasy. Last week, I mentioned to a group of young women in our ward that I had spent a Saturday in Anchorage shopping, having lunch, and catching a movie. "By yourself?" one of the girls asked, horrified, staring at me as though she'd just seen a leper. Um, yeah, by myself. Myself rocks. And if myself wants to see a movie and gorge at the local Mongolian Barbecue, who am I to argue?

So what if I don't like crowds? They make me nervous. Who cares if socializing for long periods of time drains me of energy more effectively than a triathlon? (Not that I would know, having never run a triathlon. Or more than two miles in a row, come to think of it. Yeah, so I'm not a runner. Sue me. We're not talking about that right now anyway. Geez.) And when I want to host an event, is it really a big deal if I have to decide to do it less than 12 hours prior to the actual event or I'll find a way to cancel, because thinking about all those people coming over kicks my stress gene into high gear?

I used to think all of these things somehow pointed to flaws in my character, that maybe I wasn't as important as the numerous extroverts roaming the planet. So I guess I do understand why someone might think going to a movie solo is a little strange. But I don't think so. It's just me. And me is good.

P.S. Just out of curiosity, even if I didn't actually get on the stupid thing, assembling an elliptical counts as aerobic exercise, right? (And by I, I mean my husband, who worked so hard I had time to come in and blog. I love you, honey!)

The naughty list

2009-10-02T06:23:00.001-08:00

Dear Santa Claus,

I realize it's only October, but it's gonna take me at least two months to atone for yesterday's sins, so I thought I'd get a jump start on things.

Listen, Big Guy, there's only so many times a mom can wipe bathwater off of the ceiling before something drastic needs to be done. I figured I could yell and scream and be angry for an hour, or I could come up with a consequence that might make an impact. I just failed to take into account how cold well water in Alaska could be. You and the rest of the state probably heard some blood-curdling screams last night around six thirty. Yeah, that was Riley. My bad.

And yes, St. Nick, it's true. I'm banning my daughter from her favorite blanket. I can't handle the tantrums anymore. The ones that come if someone else touches her blanket. Or looks at her blanket. Or breathes near her blanket. I've had enough. That ugly orange blanket is history, and I refuse to feel guilty about it.

Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that I'll be trying harder in the future to be a patient, loving mom.

Until next time,

Becky

Letting go

2009-09-28T06:27:00.005-08:00

Riley has been going to kindergarten for just over a month now. He adores his teacher, as do I. She is, in her own words, "fair but firm," which is a good combination. He has made new friends. As he strolls through the parking lot, it is common to hear him call out a casual greeting in a way that I, with my oh-crap-are-they-gonna-stop-and-make-small-talk-because-I-hate-small-talk mentality, cannot manage to pull off. And he is learning new things every day. I especially love to hear him rattle off words in Spanish.

Why, then, are there still days in which I have a fluttery feeling in my stomach as I drop him off in front of the school building? Sometimes I feel like chasing after him, scooping him up in my arms, and taking him back home with me just so I can be with him. Just so I can know what his day was like. Just because. But I don't (partially because it might look like a kidnapping, and schools are so safety-conscious these days, I'd be tied and tasered before I made it back to my vehicle). I feel like cornering his teacher in the hallway and demanding that she tell me every detail of every minute that I was apart from my son, and pleading with her to maybe be a little bit less of a great person so that I know he still loves me best. But I don't (again, because of safety issues - I'm sure the school board wouldn't be thrilled about me threatening an employee). I feel like sniffling on the ride home because things are going so fast; he's five already! Tomorrow he'll be getting a driver's license. He'll be able to vote by Thursday and I'll be a grandmother by next week. I want to shake Old Man Time until those stupid spectacles fall off of his over-large nose. But, obviously, I don't (shake Old Man Time, I mean; sometimes sniffling does occur).

Instead, I think I'll fit in all the hugs and kisses I can before he steps foot into the classroom. I'll grill him relentlessly about his day, until he finally sighs in exasperation and says, "I already told you that, Mom!" And I'll dance a little dance of joy when the district has a Professional Development day (whatever that is) because it means no school for the kids.

And I do.

Forward thinking

2009-09-22T06:13:00.002-08:00

I'm curious about something. Am I really supposed to believe those messages that accompany sometimes touching, sometimes cheesy, but mostly downright obnoxious forwarded emails? You know the ones I mean - you can usually find them at the bottom of the text. (Though they're hard to miss in their huge, flashing, brightly-colored letters.) The ones that say I must, repeat, MUST forward the email to 5.8 other people in 10.3 seconds or horrible things will happen to me. And my family. And my next door neighbor's dog. And I'll also miss out on the chance to win a new car. Or an all-expense paid trip to Rome. Or a gazillion dollars. Personally, I'd prefer that the message get right down to the nitty gritty and simply tell me that unless I pass the email along, I'm a cold-hearted beast who will die bitter and alone.

Cuz I can live with that.

Favorites

2009-09-18T06:06:00.001-08:00

When I was growing up, I was convinced that my mom loved my brother significantly more than she loved her other two kids. And though it probably shouldn't have surprised me (he was the youngest and the only boy, after all), I didn't exactly like it. To this day, she swears up and down that we were all treated the same and that my little bro didn't get away with more than my sister and I did and blah, blah, blah...

Here's the thing: parents who tell people that they love all their children exactly the same are great big liars. Go ahead and deny if it makes you feel better; everybody else knows it's still true. (At this point, I should mention that even though she loved me second, or possibly third best, my mom is my favorite mom. Out of all my moms. Of which there is one.) Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Parents play favorites. I know I do. The trick is to balance out whom I like best in which situation so that each child gets an equal time share. Take, for example, the following scenarios. In them, I obviously favor one child over the other. And I have a sneaking suspicion it won't be hard for you to guess which one.

Scenario 1 - Daybreak
Child A greets me in the morning with a huge smile and a hug, as though it has been days since he's seen me rather than hours. He is often fully dressed and has made his bed before breakfast. Child B, upon awaking and seeing my face, gives me her very best oh-it's-you look. She screams the entire time I attempt to dress her. And hits.

Scenario 2 - Mealtime
Child A likes to talk incessantly for the first fifteen minutes of each meal. He then takes two bites, pronounces the food inedible, and is sent to his room. He whines about being near dead with starvation for the next two-and-a-half hours. Child B, though messy, will eat anything that is put in front of her. This includes beans of all shapes and sizes, cucumbers, and artichokes.

Scenario 3 - Conversation
Child A has a firm grasp of the English language, for a five-year-old. He correctly uses words like actually, drowsy, and stabilized. When he's hungry, he tells me. When he's tired, he tells me. When he has to use the facilities, he bellows, "Oh, my gosh! I have to pee!!" and barrels down the hallway. Child B can string together enough words to get her point across. But can is not the same as will. When she's hungry, she screams. When she's tired, she wails. When something in her life isn't measuring up to her exact specifications, she emits a high-pitched shriek that only her immediate family and dogs can hear.

Scenario 4 - Chores
Child A has not yet developed a strong work ethic. Garbage, laundry, and homework are things to be avoided by any means necessary. Oddly enough, he has not made the connection that goofing off during work time results in tears, frustration, and ultimately, more work. For his mother. Child B thinks that getting to clean up toys or "help" with the dishes is the greatest thing since whipped cream in a can.

So, really, I have the perfect response when my children get old enough to ask, "Do you like him/her better than me?"

Yes. Yes, I do. But hang around for five minutes and then ask me again.

The sound of silence

2009-09-15T06:27:00.001-08:00

Hello Blogger, my old friend,
I've come to type with you again,
Because the guilt has come a-creeping,
Instead of blogging I've been sleeping,
The post ideas that are planted in my brain
Still remain
While on my blog, there's silence.

In the mornings around ten
I take my kid to school and then,
There are errands that I need to run
And though blogging would be more fun,
There are meals and bills and a needy two-year old
That I must hold,
While from my blog, there's silence.

Somehow my days just disappear
Faster than chocolate, and I fear
When did I make my last comment?
I'll never again make a dent,
In the posts that I read and the blogs that I hold so dear,
Oh, please don't jeer
At recent sounds of silence.

"Drat" said I, "Did I not see?"
That life won't stand still just for me.
This lesson I should soon learn well:
To balance things so I can use my Dell,
But my goal like silent keystrokes fell,
And echoed
In my blog of silence

Is it funny that I think posting once a week means I'm a huge slacker? Probably. Oh, well - I always knew I was a nerd. I'm okay with it.

P.S. If you don't already know that I've blatantly stolen this song from people who are vastly more talented than I am, you're beyond any help that I can give you.

Kittens - a hazard to your health?

2009-09-08T06:16:00.002-08:00

Last Saturday, I came very close to doing something really stupid: I almost became a cat owner.

Now this is not to say that owning cats is stupid in and of itself (unless you're a dog person, cuz then, yeah, it's stupid). I'm just saying that owning a cat would be stupid for me. I'm allergic. And even if I weren't, I don't want a cat. And even if I did, my daughter would probably sit on its head, and that's not fun for anybody. Yet as I passed the truck with the "Free Kittens" sign posted on the tailgate, I felt a curious pull to snatch a kitten, throw it in the backseat, and head for home. Why? Because I can. That's right, I'm a homeowner now and there's no pesky landlord breathing down my neck and telling me I can't have a cat or a dog or a fish or a zebra. I can do whatever I want. Actually, the zebra might not be legit, but whatev. The point is, I passed up a kitten. This time. See, sometimes in life, I run into figurative kittens batting their cute little kitten eyes at me and pitifully mewing my name. And I take one home. Even though it's not good for me. Even though I don't really want it. Even though my daughter will squash its figurative head. Because I can.

It's like those delicious Mr. Maple cookies from Canada that my in-laws sent me in the mail. Sure they're manufactured in a plant that doesn't process peanuts, which is awesome (not because I have a peanut allergy in addition to my cat allergy - I just think it's nice that Mr. Maples are available even for people who are allergic to peanuts). But does that make it a good idea to eat seven in one sitting? Do I like the sugar-induced coma that follows? No, and a little bit. You know why I do it? Because my husband is at work and I've got one kid at school and the other down for a nap. Because there's no one to watch me or judge me or make me share. Basically, because I can.

It's like doing forty-three things in the fifteen minutes before I take Riley to school. Would it be beneficial to my sanity to prioritize or spread things out or simply let some things go? Would my children appreciate a nice, loving mom instead of the shrill hag who is constantly saying, "Faster, faster!" Sure. But all too often, I save it for those fifteen minutes. Why? Ding, ding, ding! Because I've done it before and I can do it again.

Now I know that none of you who happen to be reading this have ever made stupid decisions before, but just in case there comes a day in which you are tempted to do something silly, please take heed: never, ever, ever get a cat. Oh, and don't do things just because you can.

P.S. Our church activity last week was making earrings. I happily created two pairs. Because, you know, I can. Sadly, I don't have pierced ears. If you'd like them, speak up. First person who calls dibs gets 'em. And if nobody wants them, well, I'll cry and cry and cry and lose faith in humanity and become a hermit and never shave my legs again and die within the year. So no pressure.

Falling for Fall

2009-08-31T06:27:00.001-08:00

Look out, people. I know it's still August, but I am officially in Autumn mode.

I've dug out my sweater collection (yeah, right! I live in Alaska - sometimes we wear sweaters in June) and I've been spending my time sipping cocoa, staring out the window at the changing leaves, and wondering when the stores will start selling pumpkins and candy corn (or at least that's what I would be doing if I weren't otherwise engaged in life).

Still, you gotta love Fall.

Um, yeah. That's really all I have for today. Sorry.

The Big Day

2009-08-24T06:17:00.001-08:00

Dear Riley,

As I send you off to your first day of kindergarten, I can't help but wonder if I've taught you everything you'll need to know to survive in this world. Sure, sure, you know all the vowels. You can count to one hundred and read a little bit. But will you remember the really important things?

Will you remember to be proud of your accomplishments? When the teacher cocks an eyebrow at some of your more "creative" outfits, be sure to point out that you, and you alone, were the mastermind behind the whole red-shirt-and-olive-green-pants look.

Will you remember that sharing is totally overrated? If, at snack time, you and another kid are both eyeing the last cookie, step up (especially if it's chocolate chip). You take that other five-year-old to town! I'll help you deal with the consequences later.

Speaking of other children, will you remember to make good friends? Not only for your sake, but for mine. I'm gonna have to spend some time with their parents at some point and I'd like them to be as cool as I am. Preferably a little less cool. But not too much less. Keep that in mind when you choose your buddies on the playground.

Just a few more things, my son: not everyone will find the crayons-up-the-nose trick as funny as Daddy does; please pull up your pants before you leave the bathroom; if you treat people as nicely as you do your sister, you may not have anyone to sit by at lunch.

Have a great day at school, buddy.

Love,
Mom

(Despite what you may be thinking, I'm not completely dead inside. I'm fairly certain I'll be sniffling most of the day today.)

Learning to live with me

2009-08-20T06:35:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure when or why it happened (though it could have been somewhere around the time I got asked "when are you due?" when I hadn't been pregnant for ten months), but in the last few years, I've been engaged in epic battle with my body. It's like there's me, and then there's this thing that I see in the mirror. And I'm all too often dissatisfied with the thing. I say mean things to it; sometimes I don't treat it well; I consider it the enemy. And for what? What good does it do to think, this butt is too big, these arms are too flabby, this stomach is not flat enough? No good, that's what. It's depressing and destructive and I knew it, but I did it anyway.

But then, a few months ago, something really good happened: I climbed the Butte. The Bodenburg Butte near Palmer is a fairly easy hike - just 3 miles. (There is an elevation gain of about 900 feet though, so it's a good climb.) I huffed and puffed and stumbled a few times, but by golly, I did it. And it felt good. As I took the final steps that brought me back to the starting point I thought to myself, body, you rock! I forgot you knew how to do cool stuff like this. Boo-yah.

It was a big turning point for me. I suddenly realized that not only did I need to stop obsessing about the battle, I didn't even need to be in a battle. This is the only body I get (unless I strike it rich and suddenly start enhancing or substituting parts, but I don't see that happening in the near future), and I can choose to love it or choose to hate it. I already knew where hating it got me: stuck on the couch in my stretch pants downing mint-chocolate-chip ice cream with a serving spoon. I was ready to take the plunge and do something a little crazy. I was gonna love my body.

And that's what I've been working on. If you were to ask me, right now, to list five things I like about my appearance, I could do it! I couldn't do that a year ago. Or even six months ago. And I'm not gonna lie. I like it. So here's my peppy little I-feel-good-and-I-want-everyone-in-the-whole-world-to-feel-good-too speech: Like yourself.

Go on, I dare you.

Will the sun really come out tomorrow? I'm dubious...

2009-08-17T06:48:00.001-08:00

"I feel thin... like butter that has been scraped over too much bread." -Bilbo Baggins-

I'm a little over halfway through what is turning out to be the most stressful month I've had this year. What with the move and Adam going back to work and registering Riley for kindergarten, I feel like I'm in over my head. Throw in trying to organize food storage and 72-hour kit supplies, a physical or two, dental appointments, volunteer hours at the school (even though the first day isn't until the 24th), and of course the lovely bout of stomach bug we had over the weekend - none of which would normally render me incompetent - and even planning meals for a week or remembering which days I wash my hair seem like insurmountable tasks. I'm just praying things will slow down soon. And yet even as I type this, I wonder if what I really need is for someone to smack me upside the head and snap, "This is life, lady! Get with the program already."

Everybody goes through this, right? These periods of constant go, go, go that effectively drain a person's will to live?

Ah, well. Tomorrow is a new day.

Sigh...

A list

2009-08-11T07:36:00.001-08:00

I was going to title this post "Things I worry about in my spare time when I should probably be out in the real world making a contribution to society." But that's a little long so I went with the alternative. You're welcome.

If my husband and I were celebrities, what would our cutesy/obnoxious nickname be (ex: TomKat or Brangelina)? Adecky? Badam? Beckam? They're all awful. I might have to change my name. And his.
Do short people have a lot of wasted cabinet space? I'm 5'8" and Adam is 5'10" so we're good to go. We can even reach stuff in that tricky little cabinet above the fridge. How 'bout it, shorties? Are your top cabinets empty or do you lug around step stools in the kitchen?
I'm sure it's been said before, but Facebook seems a little like legalized stalking to me. And yet you're kind of a big fat loser if you don't have an account. What gives?
I should never have bought that shower curtain with all the SAT words on it. I waste so much time in the shower now it's not even funny. Plus my fingers are all pruney when I'm done and that freaks me out a little.
Kermit really knew what he was talking about. It's not easy being green. And it's expensive too. I mean, are we really expected to donate a few bucks every time we go recycle? It's a real downer.
I like Oreos. I hope Nabisco never goes out of business. Can you buy Nabisco stock? I should look into that.

Well, I guess that's enough for today. Or possibly a lifetime.

We're in!

2009-08-07T07:32:00.002-08:00

If you had three hours with nothing better to do and I had full control of my mental capabilities, I would tell you all about our move and the new house and the unbelievable craziness of the past week. But you don't, and I sure as heck don't, so I'll just hit the major points.

Packing stinks. Unpacking stinks. Rearranging everything four times after you've unpacked stinks. Yellow water stinks (possibly literally, but it was just iron and it's all good now). Being tired and stressed out for six days straight stinks. Having your kids adjust better to the move than you do stinks (and is also just plain embarrassing). Not being able to pick up any mail because you filled out a change of address form and your mail doesn't go to the old address but it doesn't go to the new address either because your new address isn't verified since the house is so new stinks (that's also all taken care of now, in case you were wondering). Forfeiting $45 of your deposit because you were too exhausted to properly clean the oven in the old apartment stinks. And eating out four times in two days stinks (okay, that was actually kind of cool, but chicken nuggets and curly fries aren't exactly a good energy source.)

A shiny new stove, on the other hand, does not stink. Nor do a high efficiency washer and dryer. Having more room does not stink. Having a garage does not stink. Soft, fluffy new carpet does not stink (though it will clog up your vacuum if you're not careful). Kids who are thrilled to have their own rooms do not stink. A husband who excitedly uses the phrase, "I'm going to tinker in the garage a while," does not stink. (This is not to be confused with a husband who excitedly uses the phrase, "I'm going to tinkle in the garage a while," because that would be problematic. And weird). Bragging about your new house does not stink. And finally having a place of your own really doesn't stink. Not even a little.

The end.

Hear, hear!

2009-07-15T10:58:00.001-08:00

As a middle child, it goes against my entire philosophy of life to say that in this world, things are pretty much fair. But I think it might be true. Maybe not in day-to-day things, but if you look at the big picture, the universe tends to even things out. It's why high school geeks end up with totally hot spouses. I'm telling you, I'm on to something here...

So here's the deal. I have no sense of smell and my sense of taste is mildly compromised as a result. I wear contacts with a prescription of -7.50. (In case that means nothing to you, take a pencil and draw a circle on a Post-it. Hold it at arms length. Now imagine you can't see the circle. At all. That's how well I see without contacts.)

It is for these reasons that I truly believe the universe will let me keep my hearing, even when I'm old and grey and all my friends are croaking, "Eh, what's that? Speak up, sonny!" And it's why I can say with 100% certainty that my ears were not deceiving me when I heard the boy in front of me at Fred Meyer turn to his mother and say, "Hey, girl. What time is Melrose Place on?"

Okay. Maybe 98%.

With a little tweaking, I could be happy EVERY day!

2009-06-24T08:03:00.000-08:00

Have you ever had one of those days where a lot of little things go wrong, right in a row? The kind of day where even though you handle things better than you normally would, you're still not happy about the way things are going; where you're kind of floating through on a wispy cloud of hope, praying that tomorrow will give you a few more reasons to smile; where while you probably wouldn't call it a bad day, it certainly doesn't fit into the good-day category either?

I had a day like that yesterday.

The morning started out in an unspectacular fashion. I had slept badly because Millie had slept badly, Adam was away on a fishing trip, there were three tons of dirty dishes in the sink mocking me, and my jeans felt tight. By nine thirty, I was already so apathetic about life that I cleaned up the flood in the bathroom without harsh words or threats towards the boy, the three plastic sharks, and the squirt gun that had caused it. I was in such a funk that I couldn't work up enough fury to tell off the lady who stole my grocery cart at Walmart. (I know she saw me walk into that bathroom with two kids, though. She even smiled at me! But when she left the restroom before me because she wasn't burdened down with a screaming one-year-old and a five-year-old who couldn't make up his mind which stall to pee in even though he was seconds away from doing it right there on the floor, did she leave me the cart with functional straps so that I could at least immobilize my screamer? She did not.) After the shopping trip, it took me over an hour and a half to put away six bags of groceries. That's how much I didn't care whether things got done or not. While I worked on the seemingly insurmountable task of finding where to stash the Chlorox wipes, my kids ate leftover lunch scraps off the dirty kitchen floor. I shrugged my shoulders and left them to it. Later, I let them pull all the couch cushions off and beat each other senseless while I watched Star Wars. And then, to top it all off, we had breakfast for dinner. I don't even like breakfast for breakfast! But pancakes are easier than tuna casserole.

It wasn't until the kiddos were snug in their beds that I had this unexpected epiphany: at no point during this day had I felt overly hurried, stressed, or inadequate. A little blah, maybe, but not crazed. Do you know how infrequently that happens in my life? I'll tell you. Very infrequently! If I could figure out how to have a day like yesterday and be in a good mood, do you know what would happen? I could become that annoyingly cheerful woman you see around town who never yells at her kids or snaps at her husband. I could consider having more children without going into hysterics. I could have balance in my life. I could rule the entire world!! (And let's be honest, I would totally rock at that job.) But do you see the possibilities? They are endless.

I always knew I was a genius.

P.S. I miss you all! Give me another month and things will start to get back to normal. In the meantime, quit writing so many stinking posts!! I'm four hundred behind as it is.

The grass isn't always greener

2009-06-01T06:59:00.002-08:00

I have a fantastic husband who, for the most part, understands that being a stay-at-home mom does not, in fact, mean that I kick back and live the easy life while he brings home the bacon. He knows that I work hard and he appreciates it. He does have his days, however. Days where he wants to switch roles for a while because he's fed up with office politics or sitting in meetings all day long. That's when we have conversations like the following:

Him - How about you go to my meetings tomorrow and I'll stay home?

Me - Okay, but there is some stuff I'd like for you to get done while I'm gone.

Him - What kind of stuff?

Me - Well, I need to go shopping at Fred Meyer. And at Three Bears. And the bathroom needs cleaned. Oh, also I need to drop off a letter and do a load of laundry and plan next week's menu. And if you could wash and chop the veggies you pick up at Three Bears, that'd be great. Let's see, what else? I kinda wanted to have a nice meal ready just in case your parents get here around dinner time. And I was thinking about making bread.

Him - Never mind.

Me - No, no! I want to be able to sit down all day. Let me go!!

Him - Weeeell. I think they're going to want you to be a little more like me.

Me - You mean like less hair and no boobs?

Him - No, I mean you're gonna have to be more vocal.

Me - I can be vocal!

It's true. I can be very loquacious if the occasion calls for it. Especially if the occasion will get me out of a super huge to-do list. Yeah, they want vocal, I'll show 'em vocal...

But, anyway. Back to reality. I'm going to be glaringly absent from the blogging world for the next couple of months. (It's okay to shed a few tears; sadness is a part of life.) I'll try to drop in now and again if life slows down a bit, but I just wanted to give you the heads up so you didn't think I got eaten by a bear or trampled by a moose or sucked dry by mosquitoes (sheesh - why do we even live here?) or anything else that has a very small probability of happening.

Peace out. (I'm not sure I'm groovy enough to pull that off, but let's pretend, okay?)

The truth will set you free, but lying can make you rich

2009-05-25T06:26:00.001-08:00

Last week I heard a story on the radio that threw me for a loop. The story goes something like this: Boy meets girl. Boy and girl get married. Girl wants to start up a business. Girl goes to bank, gets approved for a $10,000 small business loan. When checking her bank account at a later date, girl discovers that some poor idiot got a little crazy with the zeroes and landed her with $10,000,000. Girl and boy pull a Billy Joe and Bobbie Sue and are never heard from again. The end.

After relaying the tale, the radio host took callers from around the country to hear what they would do in that same situation. Apparently, our country is full of cheats and liars. But I, having never told a lie before, am skeptical. I refuse to believe that telling the truth is out of fashion. In fact, I think that most lies, white and otherwise, are simple misunderstandings. The problem is, we're not all speaking the same dialect of truth.

And that's where I step in and, with no thought of reward or praise, save the day with my excellent translation skills. Behold!

Medical "Misunderstandings"

what they say: This medicine won't make you drowsy.
what they mean: Though you will still be technically conscious, do not attempt to operate heavy machinery, drive a car, tend to your children, or walk upright.

what they say: This won't hurt.
what they mean: This will hurt a little.

what they say: This will hurt a little.
what they mean: Brace yourself.

what they say: This will hurt.
what they mean: Tell Grandpa hi for me.

Political "Misunderstandings"

what they say: I am not a crook.
what they mean: I'm someone you're gonna wanna keep your eye on.

what they say: If I am elected Mayor, things will change.
what they mean: If I am elected, things might get worse.

what they say: I have not had sexual relations with that woman.
what they mean: Bow chica bow bow.

Familial "Misunderstandings"

what they say: I understand you completely.
what they mean: Please, please, please, can we end this conversation now?

what they say: Dinner was... interesting.
what they mean: Never make that again. Ever.

what they say: It's your turn to change the diaper/do dishes/take out the garbage.
what they mean: It's my turn, but I'm hoping you won't remember if I'm convincing enough.

what they say: I love you.
what they mean: I love you. Pick up your socks.

Well then. That clears things right up, doesn't it? Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to apply for a small business loan. Wish me luck.

Blast, flip, and other non-swear words

2009-05-21T09:14:00.002-08:00

Hello? Can anyone hear me? Gosh, it's like I'm all alone in the dark, scary, vast universe. Except for my husband. And kids. And the thousands of people in the Mat-Su Valley. But really, without normal blog capabilities, I feel a little bit alone. Sniff.

Anyhow, enough self pity (since I'll be resorting to violence soon enough). This will be my last attempt to post a post before I am forced to pursue other activities for the sake of my sanity.

Farewell.

All in the family

2009-05-21T08:43:00.005-08:00

My current husband called me a freak for no good reason. Singing "House, house, I love you house. Will you be my house forever?" while glancing at our floor plan doesn't make me a freak. Right?

My son is firmly convinced that in a confrontation with a wild animal, he needs only to don his super cape. He will then be instantly transformed into the supreme champion wild animal butt-kicker of Wasilla, Alaska. While I admire his confidence, I'm a tad alarmed that he might actually put this theory to test and then I will no longer have a son.

My daughter has morphed, seemingly overnight, into a screaming, raging, tantrum-throwing fireball of drama. Terrible twos, my eye. She's starting a full four months early. I want a refund.

My sister and I have been playing phone tag for a week and a half now. She's either very busy with her four kids under four or she's dead. Maybe both. But doggone it, I need to discuss last week's season finale of Lost with someone! Has she no compassion?

My in-laws are coming. Maybe this week, maybe mid-June, maybe sometime, anytime in between. They haven't really given us specifics. I'm an obsessive compulsive control freak who needs details and concrete plans for everything. You know this. I know this. How did they not get the memo?

As for me, a quick peek around will shed some light on how I've been wasting my valuable time lately. I thought about completely changing templates, but it was too much. So I ate a Twix (or two) instead.

An update: If this post shows up three times in your reader, sorry! It wasn't updating correctly, so I had to nix my new favicon and snazzy signature to see if that would clear things up. I even started with a clean slate by doing the template thing, which I didn't really want to do. Stinking Blogger.

Bloggy issues

2009-05-21T08:33:00.001-08:00

Testing, testing. One, two, three.

If the shoe fits

2009-05-18T06:15:00.002-08:00

If you're a regular to my blog, you've probably surmised that I'm a pretty practical person. (And, apparently, also a person who adores alliteration, but that's neither here nor there.) I like to play it safe. I'm dependable, predictable, and responsible. And I've never, ever owned shoes whose sole purpose in life - no pun intended - was to make me look good.

Until now.

A couple of weeks ago, I was wandering through PayLess Shoe Source with no intention of buying anything, when I heard a voice. "Becky. Becky! Look at us. Aren't we preeeetty? We're on cleeeearance. C'mon. You've always wondered what it would be like to slip a pair of us on and we all know it! Besides, isn't there an unwritten law that at some point in your blogging career, you must post a picture of some great shoes? We can be those shoes."

What was I supposed to do? You don't ignore pretty shoes who can present a rational argument in a singsong voice. You just don't. I bought them. I brought them home. I strutted around our apartment like a peacock in them. And yesterday I wore them to church and a miracle occurred! I felt invincible. I felt sexy. I felt very, very tall. I am certain that if Death himself had come for me that day, he'd have taken one look at me in those shoes, realized that I was not to be trifled with, and come back another day. I am also certain that by the end of the three-hour block, I would have gladly told Death he was welcome to everything below the knees.

There has never before been an item in my wardrobe that I have so vehemently despised and cherished at the same time. Who in their right mind wears this kind of shoe on purpose?! When did it become socially acceptable to be a stark raving masochist? Why not just save yourself time and money and take a sledgehammer to your toes? It's crazy. Crazy!

I got about six compliments. I think I'm gonna wear 'em again next week.

Look out, she's gonna blow!

2009-05-11T06:18:00.002-08:00

I don't want to alarm anyone, but I think there's been a disruption in the space-time continuum. My body is firmly rooted in the month of May, but my mind has set up camp somewhere in the middle of July. Comprende?

Here's the thing. I've got all sorts of craziness going on this summer and it's all happening in a fairly small block of time. And since I tend to stress out about things in advance, I'm already giving myself ulcers about the upcoming plans, which include, but are not limited to, the following:

buying a home
moving into said home
wishing and hoping and praying that aforementioned home will be built on schedule so we won't be at the mercy of our somewhat inflexible landlord
having the in-laws visit for about a month
making a last ditch effort to teach my son everything he needs to know about the world before sending him off to kindergarten in the fall
four days of girl's camp
two trips to Valdez
and a woodpecker in a birch tree

I'm aware that a list like that would probably give any normal person a bit of stress (except the part about the woodpecker, who is relatively harmless), but I'm a basket case to begin with. I feel like I'm walking around in a fog of uselessness and anxiety. Heck, some days I even fast-forward to Halloween, because if I can get excited for the end-of-the-year holidays, I don't have to think of all the stuff that needs to happen before I get there. It's impressive, really, this shield of denial I've built for myself. It just doesn't work out so well in the real world.

My new goal is to take one day at a time. If some things need to slide, so be it. If not everything gets done exactly the way I want and in the exact order I want, well, it'll all work out in the end. And if I do get stressed out and end up dropping a few pounds because I'm running around like a chipmunk on speed, I'm gonna go ahead and consider that icing on the cake.

So life, I'm ready.

Engage.

(Yeah, I'm excited about the new Star Trek movie. If you didn't catch the allusions, no biggie. We just can't be pals anymore.)

Coo coo ca-choo

2009-05-07T06:19:00.001-08:00

Dear teenage boy in the blue* car at the intersection of Street 1** and Street 2** yesterday afternoon,

I'm not sure what you were doing cruising around town in the middle of a school day, but I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and assume it was lunchtime. I did notice that your car was clean and you didn't have your music blaring so loudly the entire neighborhood could hear, so that tells me you're a fairly decent guy. And you were a nice enough looking fellow. I'm sure once you grow into that nose, any gal would be lucky to have you.

But I'm not that gal.

See, as exciting as I'm sure it was for you to have a gorgeous older woman winking repeatedly in your direction, I have a confession. I wasn't winking. My contact had a tear and I was desperately trying to keep from clawing my own eyeball right out of its socket. My bad.

Sincerely,
Gorgeous Older Woman

* Car colors have been blatantly fabricated because I'm not observant enough to remember the real color.
** Street names have been modified in case of, you know, whatever.

My bed buddy and me

2009-05-04T06:12:00.004-08:00

Before I even get started, I want to say something very important and very true: I adore my husband. He is amazing in every sense of the word and I would never ever ever trade him. Even for someone who stays on their own darn side of the bed.

Which leads me to something else very true: the man is a big stinking bed hog. I have pictures to prove it.

See, once upon a time, I got married and learned to share sleeping space. Three moves and no money later, a friend took pity on our poor souls and lent us a bed for six months - six long, horrible, agonizing months, because the bed was a double. This is how things went with the double:

Another move and a furnished apartment landed us with yet another double bed. (Who do they think they're kidding with the word double, anyway? Fools.)

The next move included guardian angels (and a larger paycheck) because we had ourselves a queen. Finally, wedded bliss would be mine! Alas, my designated portion of the bed is to the left of the dotted line. I knew I should have pushed harder for the king!

If I roll over in the night and end up close to the spot where the dotted line should be, if the world were good and fair, I get shoved back to my rightful spot. If I elbow my dear spouse in the nose because I don't have enough room to change positions, he growls at me. And if I try to gently reason with the love of my life, telling him that the extra foot and a half on his other side could be put to good use, I am accused of being dramatic. But I think I have the solution.

Ah, duct tape. It really does fix everything.

I don't wanna be really far north anymore!

2009-04-29T18:12:00.000-08:00

Lately I've been reading all sorts of posts about warm fuzzy bloggy get-togethers. And I'm thinkin', that's gotta stop. (Hey, if you can name that movie, I'll give you a big, enthusiastic "huzzah!" from the confines of my computer desk. Um... yeah, that's it. What were you expecting, five bucks or something? Sheesh. I'm not made of money, people.)

I'm sorry. What was I doing? What day is it? Who am I?

Oh, yeah. What's up with all the meet and greets and whatnot? Do you not understand that every post is like a dagger to my fragile little heart?! I wanna try on The Snuggie (after it gets washed, of course) and sit in Sue's living room and eat Krispy Kremes and have bottomless chips and salsa. Curses! Curses on you all for living so far away!

(We interrupt this post for a small moment of reflection.)

Okay, okay, no curses. I'm wildly jealous, though. Someday I'll visit my sister in Utah again and get to meet some of you wonderful ladies. That'll be a good day. (I won't bring my sister with me, though, because she's cuter than I am. And more charismatic. You'd probably like her better, and I wouldn't blame you. I'm only cool on paper. But don't worry, I've come to terms with it.) Anyway, someday...

In completely unrelated news, it hit 67 degrees here today. Maybe higher. It's been a long time since I've seen 67 degrees; I didn't want to come inside. And it's supposed to be like this for another three days. In Alaska weather time, that's like eight years! Good gravy, it was beautiful. I guess really far north is still a great place to be.

Movies, Mints, and my own predjudice

2009-04-27T06:32:00.000-08:00

My book club will be meeting a week from tomorrow to discuss Jane Austen's Emma. I am on page 24 of 448. Normally this wouldn't concern me, because I'm a pretty speedy reader. I read the final Harry Potter book in eleven hours and all seven of The Chronicles of Narnia books in well under a day. I'm not telling you this to brag (well, maybe a little - I'm pretty good, you have to admit); I'm telling you this so you have a point of reference. Because, my friends, getting to page 24 of Emma took me three days. Three days!! I don't think I can get through this book. Jane Austen's writing style bores me to tears. (I realize that this simple statment will have many of you howling for my blood, and to you I say: I live waaay too far away for your idle threats to frighten me... much. So bring it.)

Really, though, is there something fundamentally wrong with me? Am I missing some vital component of my second X chromosome? I enjoy the movies - Sense and Sensibility (though are there honestly people who find Alan Rickman attractive? I don't get it.), Pride and Predjudice (the BBC version, of course), and Mansfield Park. And who can find fault with anything that inspired the movie Clueless? Am I right, Barbaloot? That's quality cinema, that is.

Hey, speaking of movies, and also because I'd like to change the subject quickly before anyone builds up enough steam to write a lengthy, scathing comment about me being an uncultured Austen hater, has anything good - or at least not as terrible as some of the movies Kristina P. has seen - come out lately? My hubby will be out of town most of the week so I'll be making a trip to Blockbuster for flicks and a ridiculously large box of Junior Mints (maybe two) to keep me entertained in the evenings. Recommendations would be greatly appreciated. Thanks so much.

Control issues

2009-04-23T06:48:00.000-08:00

I'm a control freak. (Hey, that sentence sounds familiar. I'm pretty sure I've started a post this way before. Weird.) Sorry, where were we? Oh, yes, I'm a big freaky, controlling, uh, freak. It's just part of who I am. Mostly I keep it pretty low key, because if the higher-ups knew just how nuts I can get, well, they'd have me poppin' Valium like Skittles. You know, if I liked Skittles. The only time my issues tend to cause big problems is if I'm going to be away from my family for a while. Then I turn into a crazy lady and I micromanage everything before I leave so that things will run just as smoothly as they would have had I never left. I precook meals, I write detailed lists, I clean our entire home twice, and I get bossier than normal. Good times for all.

The funny thing is, if I'm the one staying and my husband is going, then it's easier to rein myself in. I assume that he can take care of himself and I try not to concern myself with anything other than a goodbye kiss at the door.

So several years ago, when Adam was heading off for student teaching in Germany as part of his Master's requirement, I was content to let him figure out the flight information, the housing situation, the money issues. I just sat around minding my own business and dreading the four months of husbandlessness in my near future. But then, as he was packing, Adam turned to me and asked a favor.

"Would you write out a list of which shirts I can wear with which pants? And whether to wear black shoes or brown shoes with each outfit?"

Hmm. What to say? Of course, I was thinking, Yeah, I will! We both know you can't dress yourself. And you know how I love to make decisions for people. But I thought I'd help him assert some independence, since he would be on his own for a little while. (In case you're wondering, this whole he-can't-survive-without-me-even-though-he-did-perfectly-well-on-his-own-before-we-were-married mentality is my dad's fault. He's a control freak, too. Thanks, Dad!)

"Um, no," I replied lovingly. "You're an adult. Pick out your own clothes. You'll do fine."

"You're probably right," he grinned. "Like these go together, right?" He held up a blue shirt and some olive green pants.

A long pause ensued. "Gimme that paper and a pencil."

Four and a half years later, he still asks me to pick out his outfits. I grumble about it sometimes, but we both know the truth: I like to be in charge. Who's the boss? That'd be me.

Monday Mayhem

2009-04-20T06:12:00.002-08:00

So I had this brilliant idea that I should start doing Monday Mayhem posts. Every Monday morning, I would write about all the crazy, strange, or dumb things I'd done since my last post. But the more I thought about it, the less cool it sounded. I mean, if I shared those things, each of your lives would start looking better and better. And obviously I would notice if, all of a sudden, everyone seemed happier with themselves. That, in turn, would make my life appear even worse than it was to begin with and before you know it, self-fulfilling prophecy would kick in and my life really would be unbearable! I'm telling you, it would turn into a vicious downward spiral until one day I'd find myself on a sleazy talk show crying to the host about how I don't know who the father of my illegitimate child is: the pool boy (at the local Super 8, because of course I wouldn't be able to afford my own pool, what with the sky-rocketing cost of all the anti-depressants I'd be taking), my manager at Mickey D's, or my cousin's ex-boyfriend's brother-in-law (which would be strange in and of itself since I don't know any of my cousins well).

I just don't wanna head down that slippery slope, you know? Although, I've always wanted to be the impulsive, spontaneous type, so what the heck? I'll do a Monday Mayhem. I promise, I'll only do just this one (says the woman who can down a whole package of Lays in a twenty four hour period).

Anyway, where were we? Oh, yes, my list of stupid things I did over the weekend.

1. I made tomato soup whilst wearing a white shirt.

Um... that's all I can think of. Ha! Psych!! No, seriously, I know there were more but I can't remember them. Huh. Well, I guess life isn't bad after all. Even if it is Monday.

Disclaimer:
This post is in no way meant to offend people who eat Lays, people who've been on anti-depressants, people who've been on sleazy talk shows, hosts of sleazy talk shows, anyone who has ever worked at, eaten at, or driven by a McDonald's, or people who've been knocked up by a pool boy.

That's how I roll

2009-04-17T06:19:00.001-08:00

If there's one thing I've learned as a parent, it's that I'm as inconsistent as the day is long. You'd think I'd have gotten my act together by now, but you'd be wrong.

Let's take, for example, germs. Mostly I'm pretty nonchalant about the little buggers. I mean, if my kids get sick, they get sick. And I don't think me freaking out about keeping everything sanitized is gonna make huge difference. So when Riley was about two and a half-ish and he had this strange habit of licking grocery cart handles, I did more laughing than cringing. (It was a little gross though, because it wasn't merely one lick - the kid would drag his tongue down the entire germ-infested metal bar.) And when someone calls to cancel a play date because of a runny nose, I tell 'em to come on over anyway. Bubonic plague? Maybe I'd reschedule. But a runny nose? No biggie. So why in the world does my stomach heave when Riley sucks the water out of the washcloth he just used to wash his face? I'm telling you, I just can't handle it. It's repulsive! And oh-so inconsistent.

Then there's food. I like those calorie-free Crystal Light drinks, even though they've got aspartame in them. Maybe it should, but that doesn't alarm me so much. I'm not opposed to letting my kiddos have a sip if they ask (or give me puppy dog eyes, in Millie's case). But a few days ago I was at the store to buy some Fruit Loops for Riley. We don't normally eat those kinds of cereal - Fruit Loops, Lucky Charms, Cocoa Pebbles, etc. - but I thought some colorful cereal might be fun to use for counting and patterns and the like. As soon as I put that box in my cart, I felt like there was a giant spotlight on me. I honestly don't think I'd have felt that much guilt had I robbed a bank at gunpoint. I headed for the next aisle, but I was so worried about people glancing at that incriminating box and assuming the worst (you know, that we were actually going to eat the stuff inside) that I put it back on the shelf and looked for an alternative. I finally settled on Fruity Cheerios, which didn't seem quite as horrible. Hello, inconsistency, my old friend...

And what about playtime rules? My kids are allowed to scale, bounce on, and fling themselves off of our bed, their beds, and the couch. And since they know that it's not acceptable anywhere but our place, I don't think it's big issue. (Apparently some other parents do. They somehow equate bed jumping with devil worship, but I try not to judge.) I also let my kids crash toys into things. I mean, c'mon. I have a boy! Boys crash things. If I outlawed crashing, I'd be ripping away a piece of his little four-year-old soul. Besides, material things can usually be replaced; you only get one childhood. What, then, does it say about me that when I see a child destroying a book, I feel steam coming out of my ears? Are books more important than people? Of course not! (Unless the book is Harry Potter and the person is Paris Hilton. Then maybe.) Inconsistency strikes again.

So there it is: I'm inconsistent. How 'bout you?

Jackpot

2009-04-14T06:19:00.002-08:00

My husband doesn't like doing dishes. Correction: he loathes doing dishes. But he likes to help out around the house, especially if that night's dinner was tasty (it always is - you didn't doubt that, did you?), so the after-dinner dishes are his unofficial job. As much as I love to have a little less housework to do, I don't mind dishes so much, so you can bet that if I take pity on his poor soul and do them myself, I milk it for all it's worth.

"You know, those dishes kind of wore me out. I sure could use a foot rub."

"Gosh, it's been a long day. I would love it if someone were to put in a movie and bring me a bowl of popcorn."

"I love that you love that I keep a clean house. Know what else I love? When you put the kids to bed while I play Tetris on the iPod."

Of course, sometimes I dispense with the gentle hints and get right down to business.

"I did the dishes. Scratch my back."

"See those clean dishes? You owe me big time."

"Remember this morning when the kitchen counter was all cleared off because I did dishes last night? Yeah, I hope that good feeling lasts, because the kids drove me crazy today. I'm leaving and I won't be back until they're sound asleep. Leftovers are in the fridge."

Luckily enough, he's pretty okay with it most of the time. Like I said, he really hates doing the dishes. Come to think of it, his second most dreaded chore, paperwork, is also something I usually do. He totally hit the jackpot when he married me...

But you know what? So did I.

Dream a little dream

2009-04-09T06:07:00.000-08:00

For as long as I can remember, I've had very vivid, very bizarre dreams. I often dream in color, which is kind of weird, or so I've been told. In many of my dreams, I swear like a sailor. Seriously, I whip out the F-bomb and everything; apparently I have suppressed rage issues. And probably 80% of my dreams involve serious forms of violence in which I am the person inflicting harm on another person who typically refuses to die. Stabbings, sword fights, car accidents, you name it... My poor husband doesn't wish me sweet dreams anymore - he just hopes I don't dream at all. Before you tell me I need to see a shrink, I want you to know that I've dreamed in cartoon before, too. (In that one, Garfield serenaded his girlfriend with Sammy Kershaw's She Don't Know She's Beautiful.) So I'm not a complete whack job, right?

Anyway, last night I had a dream that aliens sucked out all my fat cells and they looked like giant translucent slugs (the fat cells, not the aliens). And though I was very grateful to the extra terrestrials, I was a little nonplussed that they were in my living room. They finished the surgery and cheerfully went about their business. I didn't ask them what their business was. Perhaps my dream self knew that ignorance can be bliss.

Now maybe I dreamed about aliens because I was born in Roswell. Or maybe the fat cells were the real issue and I need to quit eating so much chocolate. Either way, I was glad to wake up.

Things I know

2009-04-06T06:20:00.004-08:00

If someone upsets you or something disconcerting happens to you, and you keep bringing it up just so you can tell people you're over it, you're not over it.
If you're not great at exercising regularly, don't decide, out of the blue, to go on a three-mile bike ride lugging two kids behind you in a bike trailer.
If your husband has repeatedly requested that you not trim your daughter's bangs, don't expect him to be thrilled when you do it while he's out of town for the weekend.
If you have writer's block, don't be surprised if you can only come up with four things you know.

And on that lovely note, I'm off to bask in the wonderfulness of springtime. Sure, Alaska Spring is a little different than normal Spring. It's muddy, ugly, and completely unpredictable, but what the heck. Switching from a coat to a jacket is cause for celebration in my book. Toodles!

Conspiracy theory

2009-04-02T06:41:00.001-08:00

Have you ever had a hunch about something? Something you couldn't prove? Something you knew but were afraid to tell other people lest they think you crazy? If you have, then I think you'll sympathize when I say that I have a hunch my children participate in late-night meetings in which they discuss how to drive me stark raving mad. Like I said, I can't prove it but I know it happens. And it probably goes a little something like this:

Riley - Millie? Psst! Millie, you awake?

Millie - What's up, bro?

R - Hey, nice work today, little lady. We make a good team. But listen, Mom still had a smile on her face when she put us to bed, so I really think we should take it up a notch.

M - I'm listening...

R - Okay, tomorrow let's mix it up a bit. How about I take a turn throwing food on the floor and you be the one who refuses to eat?

M - Good idea, but toss the boiled egg instead of the waffle - it's harder to clean up. And I've been thinking, instead of crying when Mom shuts the bathroom door, how 'bout I turn on the tears if it even looks like she's heading down the hallway?

R - Genius! While we're at it, when she tries giving either you or me one-on-one attention, the other should weasel his or her way in there and throw a colossal fit. Screaming, hitting, throwing toys - the whole nine yards.

M - (grins evilly) You think we can make her cry?

R - I don't know, but let's give it our best shot. (slaps Millie a high five)

M - Sleep tight, bro. We'll need our energy for the morning.

R - Love you, sis.

Oh, they think they're so smart! But I'm The Mom. And I will win. Oh, yes I will. Sob.

Goodness, thy name is maintenace guy

2009-03-30T06:12:00.003-08:00

I learned a valuable lesson this week and I feel compelled to share it with you, just in case you ever find yourself in a similar situation. So please, pay attention as I present to you - ta da! - the parable of the broken dryer. (Actually it's not technically a parable, but the word story doesn't seem to merit fanfare, so we're gonna stick with parable.)

After our dryer bit the big one, Adam and I took a couple days to mull over our options. One, fix the current dryer. Two, buy a new dryer. Three, start frequenting the local laundromat. Though our attempt to dismantle, clean, and reassemble our dryer resulted in quality time together and three days of picking lint out of my hair, Adam and I couldn't help but realize that we know nothing about fixing dryers. And we didn't really want to just go out a buy a dryer, even a cheap one, so we thought we'd give the laundromat a go. That lasted two whole trips, until we decided that our time is quite valuable and we'd rather spend it in other ways and in other places. Another few days of worry ensued, in which I went back and forth between our options without actually picking one, and made a general nuisance of myself. All my boo-hooing must have driven my poor husband to the brink of insanity. In a bold and unexpected move, he decided to bypass our landlord and call the maintenance guy, who has not only always been very helpful, but who thinks our kids are the greatest. You just can't resist that kind of charm.

It turns out there's a secret gathering place where cheap, used electric dryers go to hang out and our maintenance guy has the map. Coolio. Since we won't be taking it with us when we vacate anyway, he said it was no big deal and he'd have us a dryer by Tuesday (this happened Saturday). He was actually apologetic that it would take so long!! I couldn't believe it - this was the best case scenario and he's standing there feeling bad that it'd take three whole days.

Maintenance guys and husbands with whiny wives across the globe: I salute you.

Oh, wait, I'm supposed to share a valuable lesson or something, right? Well, here's the take-home message: don't just sit around worrying about what to do (not that I personally would ever do that). Get to work, ask politely, and maybe good things will come to you.

Now, did any of you really wade through my whole poor-me-my-dryer-broke post? I salute you, as well. The humor will recommence on Thursday.

There is no good, just bad and ugly

2009-03-26T06:08:00.004-08:00

It's funny what will push you over the edge in this life. Sometimes it's a cranky grocery store employee. Sometimes it's a kid who takes twenty-three minutes to comb his hair and use the bathroom. Sometimes it's not being able to find the piece of paper that was on the counter the last time you checked but has since been transported to a galaxy far away because it sure as heck isn't in your house anymore. And sometimes, it's just bad timing.

Like when your dryer breaks. Yes, the dryer that has been around since the 70's (you know this because the only settings are on and off), the dryer that has worked wonderfully (well, has worked, anyway) for the two and a half years that you've lived with it, the dryer that you assumed would work for the four more measly months of your lease, breaks. And you vaguely remember some mention of the washer and dryer in your contract, so you look it up and it reads:

Addendum - Washer and dryer Are provided At This Time by The owner, but maintenance will be The Responsibility of The Tenants. If washer or dryer becomes inoperable or unrepairable, The units or unit will be Removed by owner, but will not be Replaced. Tenants would Need to provide Their own unit or units At That Time.

And after pondering briefly about the schizophrenic use of capital letters and wondering why the words unrepairable and irreparable coexist, you begin to think that maybe there is no good in this world after all. Hunger, poverty, skinny jeans - where does it end? Where!?

To be continued...

Lists for the loony

2009-03-23T06:14:00.002-08:00

I read a book a while back about this lady who loved to read old grocery lists. In each chapter, she took a list she had found, "created" the person who had written that list, and told a little story from his or her perspective. She even donned all sorts of wigs and outfits so there was a picture to go with each chapter. It was the strangest book I've ever read.

And now I always rip up my grocery lists after I'm done shopping, because I'm afraid she'll find one of mine some day and write another book. I mean, let's face it. I'm kinda quirky.

For example, the only things I buy at Walmart are toiletries and canned or boxed goods. (Because produce there stinks. Maybe literally. And I hate the new milk cartons, so milk is out.) Taking a peek at my Walmart list, one might surmise that I am one of those people. You know, someone who thinks that since Barack Obama became president, the civilized world will come to an ugly and abrupt halt in the very near future. I'm obviously stockpiling soup and toilet paper for the next ten to twelve years so that I can survive when it happens.

My Fred Meyer list, on the other hand, contains only bread and dairy items. And sometimes potatoes. From that list, it must be assumed that I am 427 pounds, suffering from scurvy, and sitting around on my can waiting for the next heart attack.

Of course, the list for Three Bears might paint a nice picture. Carrots, green peppers, tomatoes, oh my! I'm looking pretty good until you get down to the 10 lbs of chicken and 5 lbs of smoked sausage. The 6 lb bag of chocolate chips doesn't help, either. (In my defense, it's a bulk food store. And I like chicken.)

So then what about this list I recently started?

Cadbury Eggs
toilet paper

I mean, really, what else could you suppose from this list except that Cadbury Eggs are practically a laxative?

What's on your list today?

Is bigger really better?

2009-03-19T06:20:00.000-08:00

I've been pondering house sizes recently (mostly because of the infamous baby shower hijacking incident). Every time I tell people how big our house is going to be (about 1100 square feet), I feel apologetic, like I should have to justify why it's so small. But really, I don't think it's that small. It'll be the biggest place I've lived in since Adam and I got married. Plus, it has a garage, which will seriously help out with storage issues. No, it's not huge, and yes, we'll still have to be careful not to accumulate too much stuff. But I like it that way. It'll be easy to clean, easy to maintain, and we don't need 2100 square feet of living space. Or even 1700. We just don't.

So I, Becky, do solemnly swear that I will no longer obsess about our house being too small since I never thought it would be too small in the first place. Ha! Take that, inferiority complex.

Now, the nosy side of me wants to know some things. Do any of you have huge houses? What are the pros/cons? Do you ever wish your place was larger? Or smaller? Would you rather have 200 extra square feet of space or $15,000 knocked off your mortgage? And last but not least, do you miss me? I miss you. (But I won't lie, I love that it feels like I have so much extra time lately.)

Sausage sandwich reminiscings

2009-03-16T06:29:00.000-08:00

Last week I bought a can of Vienna sausages. (It was an impulse buy, what can I say?) I'm fairly certain that it will sit on the shelf for a long, long time, right up to the day I notice that the expiration date was three months ago and I toss it into the garbage. So why waste a perfectly good buck fifty? It brought back some great childhood memories, that's why.

See, a lot of you weirdos walking around with a sense of smell associate people or events with specific scents. I can't do that, so I associate people and events with colors, songs, or certain foods. Any song by George Strait makes me think of my college friend/love interest, Trent. Twinkies remind me of Hilary, a super cool high-school pal. (She slapped me across the face once for saying the word Twinkie. Apparently they made her think about a certain boy she didn't want to be thinking about, so no one was allowed to say Twinkie. I wasn't aware of the rule, so I got slapped. I forgave her for her momentary lapse of sanity though, because, as I mentioned, she really was super cool. And is it even fair to hold people accountable for anything they do between the ages of thirteen and sixteen? I mean, those ages don't exactly scream rational and level-headed, do they?) Thinking of Brad, a boy I may or may not have casually stalked for a semester, always conjures up the color red. He told me once that "there's just something about a girl who can wear red." I am just such a girl. Unfortunately, Brad wasn't impressed enough to date me. Or maybe he just wasn't into that whole stalker thing. Ah, well.

So, anyway, back to the sausages. When I was younger, my dad and I would often make Vienna sausage sandwiches together for a before-bed snack. I think we were the only ones who actually liked them. (Shocker, I know.) And now, even as I wonder how I ever thought Vienna sausages were edible food, they still remind me of my dad. And every time I open the cupboard I smile a little.

Maybe it was worth the buck fifty after all.

How did this happen?

2009-03-12T06:07:00.000-08:00

I'm an idiot.

A big baby-shower-throwing idiot. When I told my pal Carrie that I wanted to throw her a baby shower, I figured she would give me a modest list of people to invite. (And it may have ended up happening that way, who knows?) But now her visiting teachers want in on the action. And I am doomed.

I suppose a little background information would be nice. My friend Carrie? Preggo. The visiting teachers? Wanted to throw her a surprise shower, found out that the night they picked was the same night I picked, and decided we should team up to share the work load. Where's the bad, you ask? Oh, it's coming, my friends. It is coming.

First, instead of the list of close friends I was expecting, the visiting teachers (who shall from this point onward be referred to as The Other Women) will be extending an open invitation to the entire Relief Society. The entire Relief Society! Who does that? This, of course, does not include Carrie's friends from her previous ward. So instead of the ten to twelve people I was planning on, there will be a minimum of fifteen. Second, due to our single-car status and my husband's meeting schedule for that night, the whole affair will be happening at our place. People, I live in a 900-ish square foot apartment. It is not pretty, it is not "feng shui," it is not appealing. The only thing I have going for me is that it is clean. I'm freakin' out here! Third, (and this is the reason that trumps the other two, since reasons one and two probably don't bug anyone but me) I feel kind of insignificant. The Other Women are bubbly, gregarious, lovely women with big, aesthetically pleasing houses and many talents. The Other Women will be bringing beautiful decorations and mouth-watering food. The Other Women are not freaking out at all.

I'm just the loser in charge of baby shower games.

P.S. I'm really fine. It just caught me off guard. By Saturday this will sound fun instead of nightmarish. I think.

Something's gotta give

2009-03-09T06:13:00.002-08:00

I think it's time to cut back on blogging. For real this time. None of the oh-I-think-I-need-a-break-but-I'll-really-be-sneaking-around-checking-for-comments-and-updated-posts-all-day-long thing I usually do. Why, you ask? Well, I'll let you guess.

My husband just joined Facebook and I think there will be a sharp decrease in available computer time.
It's Spring Break.
Blogging has become more of a chore than an enjoyment lately.
Last time I checked in the mirror, I had sixty-five new gray hairs and I suspect the glow from the computer might be causing it.
Sometimes I look at Google Reader and see that there are eighty million new posts to read and I think, "We all need lives!!"
I'm busy.
All of the above.
All of the above except for number five.

I think I'll try posting twice a week and commenting maybe three days per week and see how things go. Happy guessing and I'll see you on Friday (but, you know, only if I feel like it).

Thinks I've been thinking

2009-03-06T06:35:00.000-09:00

I don't like breakfast. Um, let me rephrase that. I like breakfast. Just like I like lunch, dinner, snack time, and any other time I get to eat. I just don't like breakfast foods. Does anyone else eat spaghetti, tuna casserole, or PB&J before nine in the morning?

If you're already fairly comfortable with the way you look, is it worth it to lose five-ish pounds simply because there's a pair of pants sitting on the closet shelf that will fit if you do? Or should you just continue wearing pants that already fit?

I've bought towels, shower curtains, drapes, and wall decor for the new house. Does that count as counting your chickens before they hatch?

If you really, really, really don't like playing cars with your son because it's so boring that you want to stick a pencil in your ear and swirl it around, can you tell him you're allergic to Hot Wheels? (In case you're wondering how a psycho like me gets to be a mom, there are lots of other games that I DO play - trains, puzzles, playdough, tag, etc. But cars don't do it for me.)

Why, why, why can't we dispense of daylight saving time yet? WHY!? Darn you, Ben Franklin. (Sorry, Ben. Lightning rods and bifocals? Both top notch.)

The many faces of motherhood

2009-03-05T06:13:00.001-09:00

As a mom, I have many looks. There's the if-you-tell-me-this-dinner-looks-disgusting-I'm going-to-shove-it-in-your-ear look. There's the please-let-me-play-on-the-computer-for-five-more-minutes look. There's the what-the-devil-did-I-just-step-in look. And of course, there's the you're-so-cute-I-can-hardly-stand-it look.

I'm currently trying to perfect the why-would-you-do-what-you-just-did look. What do you think?

Me, really? You're too kind!

2009-03-04T06:38:00.003-09:00

I'm sure that some of you are already big fans of Lisa over at Away From It All (if you're not, get over there ASAP because she's the best!). Yesterday she wrote a post asking her readers to share a compliment someone had given them that really made an impact. Since I'm mildly shallow and sometimes lacking in the self-esteem department, I thought of several! And since I'm somehow all out of blogging ideas - again! - I very nicely asked her if I could borrow her post idea, though I fully intended to use it for my own personal gain even if she refused. (Not really. Well, actually, yes really.) But of course, she gave me the go ahead. So here I go.

One beautiful Sunday afternoon several years ago, a lady sitting behind me in church leaned forward to tell me I had fantastic hair. "Just like... what's her name? Oh, yes - Debra Messing!" I wanted to kiss her, but I'm not sure it would have been appropriate since I didn't know her name.

My brother-in-law told me I should write a book. He's smart and well-read and basically just a cool guy. If I ever do write a book, his will be the name on the dedication page.

I tutored Chemistry in college because I love chemistry and I like math even better. (To hear some people tell it, that makes me a colossal freak, but whatev. I'm pretty sure they're just jealous of my Debra Messing hair.) One of the guys I tutored said this to me: "Damn, you're quick!" You bet your carbon-based patootie I am!

My dad once told me that I was a very tactful person. This was right after my "Uncle" Bob teasingly asked me if he should dye his hair blonde. I told him that might not be the best look for him and suggested a darker hue instead. I think I was around twelve at the time. Anyway, this was one of those compliments you try to live up to. In a possibly sticky situation, I almost always take a second to stop and think about how what I say will make the other person feel. It has served me well.

My sister thinks I'm a great mom. I may have mentioned this before, but by April, she will have four kids under four years of age. She's a super-hero and her powers are patience and diaper changing. Her thinking that I'm doing a great job is high praise indeed.

Now, like Lisa, I'd like to hear if you have any compliments that you've stored away for a rainy day. Let the good feelings commence!

From scratch

2009-03-03T06:25:00.002-09:00

Last week when I mentioned cake balls, I got a scathing comment from some woman called Mommy Bee, who seemingly bakes things from scratch, if you can believe it. I didn't know people even did that anymore! How preposterous.

Okay, okay, so it wasn't anywhere near a scathing comment. And she's not just some woman - I think of her as a friend, even though I've never met her in person. And I think it's great she bakes things from scratch, cuz I do too! Although now that I think about it, what exactly constitutes "from scratch"? I do indeed make a lot of things from scratch: cakes, cookies, biscuits, granola, waffles and pancakes, breads, meatballs, pasta sauces, pizza sauce and dough, etc. But what about soups, casseroles, pasta salads, and the like? I often use canned beans, veggies, and tomatoes for those things. Does that still count? Or am I just a big fraud? I dunno.

Anyway, Mommy Bee suggested I post the recipe I actually used for cake balls, instead of just the recipe I got the idea from, because I did whip up those bad boys without a cake mix. I got the recipe for the cake from allrecipes.com, which is one of my favorite cooking sites. Then I used a basic butter cream frosting recipe from my Good Housekeeping cookbook but replaced some of the milk with orange juice for flavoring:

1/2 cup butter
1 pkg (16 ounces) confectioners' sugar
3 Tbsp orange juice
1 to 2 Tbsp evaporated milk

Beat butter, sugar, and orange juice until smooth. Add milk until you get the consistency you want, then beat until fluffy.

I halved the cake recipe and used about 2/3 of the frosting. I'm not sure how close the amounts are to a cake mix and pre-made frosting, but the consistency seemed good to me. Just follow the directions for the original cake ball recipe and go to town. (After you spoon the balls onto a cookie sheet, it helps to stick them in the freezer for a bit so they're easier to work with.) And then I used almond bark to dip them in. I assume you could make that from scratch, too, but I've never done it.

P.S. Please don't hate me if your jeans start to feel too tight after making these.
P.P.S. Mommy Bee is in the running for spotlight of the month at Mormon Mommy Blogs, just so you know.

Privacy - an urban legend?

2009-03-02T06:23:00.003-09:00

Last week I had a funny experience at the Public Library. I asked the downstairs librarian to put a book on hold for me - because I'm very traditional and like to start at the beginning of a series instead of on the third book, which was the only one available - and she very politely acquiesced. (Actually, all of our librarians are very polite. Maybe it's because they see me at least twice a week, or maybe they're just great people. Either way, I always leave that place with an armful of books and a smile.)

Anyway, this very polite librarian asked me if the phone number they had on file was still our current number. I didn't know which number they had on file, so I asked her. As she recited it to me, she dropped her voice to a whisper and leaned forward so as not to broadcast our information to others in the library. It made me smile a little, because, you know, it's not like it was a credit card number or something. Plus, the only people within earshot were innocent-looking elementary-aged children. I guess you can't be too careful. They could have been eight-year-old computer-hacking billionaires, for all I know.

Later at home, I couldn't stop thinking about that seemingly insignificant incident. Sure, it was just a phone number, but think about it. In this day and age, with cell phones, instant messaging, Google Earth - how private can you really be? And do you even want to be? I mean, personal blogs are popping up everywhere you look (if you think hard, I bet you even know someone who blogs). People voluntarily share all their doings with any freaky weirdo who wants to drop by. I don't want to point fingers, but I recently heard of a blogger who created an entire post about missing nail clippers, of all things. TMI, anyone?

So, thanks, library lady. Not just for being so polite, but for respecting my privacy. See you on Wednesday.

Put down the book and step away from the self-loathing

2009-02-27T06:44:00.001-09:00

I've decided to stop reading parenting books for a while. Not because they don't have useful information, because some of them do. Like the one I just read that told me I was a "pleaser parent" because I read too many parenting books. (Why you would antagonize someone who reads parenting books in a parenting book is beyond me, but I'm no expert - just a parent). Or the one that let me know that the reason my children suck their thumbs is because there is a serious flaw with my parenting methods. (Because really, what mother doesn't need an extra dose of guilt about her children? Not me, that's for sure. Bring on the heartache.) Or the one that taught me to offer dessert at the same time as the rest of the food. (In theory, it's a good idea. In practice, well, let's just say we abandoned that idea pretty quickly.)

I think the real problem is that I have delayed critical reading skills. See, every time I read a parenting book, I end up thinking, oh, that's what I'm doing wrong. And then I implement every single thing the book has instructed me to do, all the while feeling like a great big loser of a mother because I haven't been doing these things the whole time. When my critical reading skills finally decide to show up a week later, I'm already frustrated, discouraged, mean, and bitter (all of which are not conducive to good parenting, oddly enough). And then slowly, ever so slowly, I once again realize that if this one book had all the answers, there wouldn't be thousands upon thousands of parenting books out there. So I pick up my battered soul, pick out the tidbits of information that I think might come in handy, and I add them to my collection.

I'm not a perfect mom. I'm not even close. But I know my kids and I know myself. And most importantly, I love my children. I love 'em like crazy. And I didn't even have to read a book to figure it out.

Therapeutic Thursday

2009-02-26T06:21:00.003-09:00

For those of you who've been with me for a while, you probably remember Therapeutic Thursdays. I haven't done one since November, but in these troubled times (and by troubled times I mean February, the third worst month of the year) I think that a Therapeutic Thursday would do us all a little good.

Today we'll be discussing SAD. (Yes, this does happen to be the acronym for seasonal affective disorder, but that's not the SAD we'll be talking about, even though it is still the middle of winter and I would probably sell my soul for some direct sunlight.) The SAD I'm referring to is sibling animosity development. Today we'll figure out what it is, if your children have it, and how to beat it out of them without actually beating it out of them.

What is SAD?

Sibling animosity development is a condition in which siblings who normally have kind, loving feelings towards one another begin to quarrel with, snap at, and generally make life a living hell for each other. SAD can occur at any age, in any gender, and in any environment, though documentation has shown that the most violent forms of SAD often occur in public places, where others have the opportunity to point and judge.

Do your children have SAD?

Signs of SAD include dirty looks, snide remarks (or growls, if a child does not yet possess the gift of speech), and extreme possessiveness of one's personal belongings. In addition, children with SAD may begin to wail at the mere sight of a sibling, even if said sibling is six feet away and minding his or her own business.

Many children with SAD have the tendency to plan out a course of action so as to get parents on their side. For example, an older brother may snatch a toy out of his younger sister's hands while there are no parents in the room. He may then begin to "cry" just as the younger sister snatches the toy back and a parent arrives on the premises, making it seem as though the younger sister is the one with poor behavior while he himself is completely blameless. (Please remember that these are merely hypothetical situations. I personally do not know any children with SAD, though I have heard many sad SAD stories.)

How do you deal with SAD?

There are several options to consider if your children suffer from SAD. The first option is to ship your least favorite child off to live with grandparents until he or she is eighteen. This is a difficult option for many parents, since it is nearly impossible to decide which child drives you the craziest.

Option number two is to forbid your children from any further contact until they learn how to treat each other respectfully. No looking, no talking, no touching. Again, this is a very difficult option as it requires constant monitoring from you, the parent, for anywhere from five to forty-five years.

Option number three, my personal favorite, is to arm each child with a secret weapon, if you will. Consider the children from the previous scenario. If you teach the older brother how to build a impenetrable fortress out of couch cushions, that can be his line of defense when little sister gets to be, in his words, sploggy. Conversely, encouraging the little sister to scream like a banshee every time older brother nears will discourage older brother from getting near enough to bother her to begin with.

I wish you well in your endeavors to cure your children of SAD. If you'd like to make a donation to the GRSADLHL (Get Rid of Sibling Animosity Development and Live a Happy Life) Foundation, I will gladly accept checks, all major credit cards, and cold hard cash.

Reality used to be a friend of mine

2009-02-25T06:24:00.003-09:00

Have you ever fallen into the I'll-be-happy-when trap? Like I'll be happy when I get married, or I'll be happy when I'm out of debt, or I'll be happy when my neighbor's obnoxious dog dies (or perhaps more accurately, when my obnoxious neighbor learns that if he can't devote the proper time to caring for a dog he shouldn't have a dog in the first place). I think we've all been there at some point and I think we all know that the trick is learning how to live in the moment and be happy now and blah blah blah... blah blah.

Well, I believe that I've fallen into the lesser known but equally dangerous when-I-have-a-house trap. You've never heard of this, you say? Well, let me explain. For some reason, every time I picture myself in our future home, the house is always clean. There are always cookies in the oven and the laundry is always done. My kids have wonderful behavior, they consistently sleep through the night, Adam and I never disagree on anything, and it's Christmastime all year round. If that weren't enough, I'm also a better dresser in our soon-to-be house. My hair looks fantastic, I'm thinner (which is strange, considering the abundant cookie supply), and my nails are always polished. I'm a freakin' Stepford wife.

Luckily, I've discovered the key to this tricky little problem, and it's much easier than figuring out to to be so blasted happy all the time. I just strategically time my daydreams. If I'm standing in a pile of dirty socks with a fudgsicle in my right hand and the phone in my left, listening to my husband tell me that he'll be late for dinner, it tends to keep me grounded. And if the kids are screaming in the background, well, that's just icing on the cake.

In which a pair of nail clippers destroys my faith in Google

2009-02-24T06:21:00.002-09:00

Last night I dug through two pails of garbage, peeled the blankets off the bed, disrupted some shelves, dumped out at least three containers of random stuff, and ransacked the coat closet looking for my missing nail clippers. (What can I say? I have a problem letting things go.) You know what all my hard work got me? Dirty hands and a whole lotta nothin'. I did however, learn something important. I learned that there are not five, but six stages of grief, the sixth being defiance. Hence my query to the almighty Google: where are my nail clippers, jerkwad?

Alas, Google failed me. Instead of lighting the path to the finest nails clippers I've ever had the privilege to own, it directed me to a forum about regulations for air travel.

Jerkwad indeed.

Oh, yeah! I have a blog...

2009-02-23T06:39:00.010-09:00

Hi, friends! How the heck are ya? Sorry I took off last week with no warning; I know that must have been really hard for you. I mean, not knowing where I had gone or if something had happened to me or if you'd ever hear from me again - talk about scary. And devastating. And heartrending! But no worries, I'm back, and bigger than ever! No seriously, I think I gained three pounds from all the cake balls I ate while I totally stalked your blogs.

You've heard of cake balls, I assume. And if not, where the heck have you been!? Living under a rock? Cake + frosting + a chocolaty shell = love (and thunder thighs). I used a dark chocolate cake with orange frosting. Mmmmm. I wonder if there are any left? I may have missed one...

Um, anyway, whatcha been up to lately? I spent last week being lazy and hanging out with my kiddos. I don't do that as much as I should, you know? Obviously we're together. A lot. But we're doing chores or running errands or going to appointments or all that other stuff that has to get done. Last week we just hung out. That's actually why I took a break from blogging. I knew we didn't have many must-get-done items, so I decided to eighty-six the would-like-to-get-done items too. (And also it hit me that my boy will be starting kindergarten in the fall and I kind of panicked about all that time that I could have been hanging out instead of cleaning or scheduling or blogging.) For the most part, it was a fun, slow-paced week full of trains, cars, tag, hide-and-seek, and laughter. I highly recommend it!

And now let's pretend I had a great one-liner to succinctly and wittily wrap up this post. Thanks so much.

What love really means

2009-02-13T06:22:00.003-09:00

I'm a day early, but I wanted to share my opinion of what honest-to-goodness love looks like:

Doesn't look like much, does it? Well, let me tell you a little something. I get bed rage. My husband could tell me to get over myself. He could request that I get professional help. He could ask for separate bedrooms. He could find a new wife, one who doesn't need professional help or a separate bedroom in the first place.

Know what he does instead? He lets me wear earplugs. If the kids are up in the night, he deals with them. Bathroom needs, crying, a drink of water - he's all over it. Maybe it's because he can fall back asleep in .78 seconds. Maybe it's because he knows that if I'm up, he'll be up too. Maybe it's because he's scared of me. Or maybe it's love - the true kind.

Happy Valentine's Day to the best guy I know.

If I only had HTML skills

2009-02-12T06:09:00.001-09:00

I don't know how to do strikethrough. You know, like when someone is being clever and they write something, then strike through it and write something else, but you still know what they wrote beforehand so it makes it funny? You know? You know, right? And you're just not telling me because you know that if I had that tool at my disposal I'd be unstoppable, right? I'd be funnier and cleverer and popularer and greater than any blog anywhere EVER! (Go ahead and imagine sinister laughter here.)

Listen, it's no use hiding. I know I saw instructions on how to use strikethrough on somebody's blog recently. And now I know that you know that I know. I just don't remember whose blog it was. Fess up now and save yourself the drama that will inevitably ensue if I have to come looking for you. (Unless, you know, you live in Utah and I totally insulted you the other day and you're never coming by again. In that case, I'll just learn to live a life in which I don't know how to strikethrough.)

There's something wrong with my sniffer!

2009-02-11T06:20:00.003-09:00

A few of you asked about my anosmia yesterday - how it happened, how it affects me, how it might be a good thing as a mother - and wanted to know if I'd posted about it before. And I have, but not in detail. So here are some details.

I've never been able to smell, or if I could at one point, I have no recollection of it. And no, there was no head injury or traumatic incident. I just can't smell. Until about a year ago, I almost never told people that I had anosmia. I just thought there was something fundamentally wrong with me. And also, I figured it was an isolated case (oh, the egomania!). Turns out, lots of people have it! I should start a club or something.

There are good things and bad things about it, of course.

The good:

I can't smell stinky diapers.
I can't smell stinky people.
I can't smell cigarette smoke.

The bad:

I can't smell stinky diapers. When Riley was a newborn, I always forgot to check for messy diapers. If he was upset, I'd feed him or rock him or try to get him to sleep, but since I had recently changed his diaper, it never occurred to me that that might be the problem. My poor husband would come home, take a whiff of the apartment, make a good-gravy-what-died-in-here face, and gently explain that Riley had probably been sitting in his own filth for at least forty-five minutes. Not my finest mothering moments. So now I do the squish test. And I'm right probably 95% of the time.
I can't smell stinky people. Subsequently, if I stink, I don't have any idea. And if the lotion I'm wearing smells like cow dung, I don't have any idea. Bad breath? No idea. (Unless it's death breath, when it's so bad I can taste it. Neat visual, huh?)
I can't smell cigarette smoke. So it should go without saying that I can't smell regular smoke either. If someday, my husband is out of town or something, and I wake up in the middle of the night and the house is on fire, it better be on fire in my bedroom or I won't have a clue and we'll be dead. Dead, dead, dead.

As for the good smells, well I can't honestly say that I miss them, since I've never experienced them to begin with. The only thing I would really like, as I mentioned in the other post, is to experience that new-baby smell people rave about. Other than that, I'm pretty okay with the whole thing. It saves me a bundle on perfume.

It's always funny to hear people's reactions. Some people are devastated for me. Some people wave things under my nose just to make sure I'm not a big fat liar. Some people are shocked and wonder how something like that could happen. And everyone wants to know if I can still taste things.

Yes. And no. Contrary to popular opinion, the sensory receptors for smell and taste are completely separate receptors. But a person's sense of smell can greatly enhance their sense of taste. If you handed me a glass of Koolaid, I could tell your that it was sweet, but I probably wouldn't be able to tell your what flavor it was. I have a fantastic pumpkin bread recipe that people ask for all the time. I love it because it's so moist, but other people love it because of the combination of spices. Hmm... maybe I'm not at all a picky eater because of being anosmic. On the other hand, I sometimes waste food that may still be edible. I will always through something out the day after the expiration date because I can't tell if it has gone bad. It drove one of my college roommates crazy.

Anyway, there you have it. My name is Becky and I'm anosmic.

(If you'd like to read some more about it, you can go here or here.)

A few of my unfavorite things

2009-02-10T06:20:00.005-09:00

Whenever I read a post that begins with the words, "I don't normally do memes, but..." I chuckle a little. If you don't normally do memes, then why are you doing one now? I mean, where's your backbone? Have you no pride? Are you really so hard up for a topic that you'll stoop to memes? What kind of person are you?!

Whew! Glad I got that off my chest. So, hey, I don't normally do memes, but...

Alright, alright! I admit it. I have no backbone and yes, I'm that hard up. Have you been reading my posts lately!? Even I'm bored with me. But like I told Sue Q, the lovely lady who tagged me, I'm all full of rage lately, so this meme is right up my alley.

25 things I love to hate:

Memes. (Hello! Here's some crap you never wanted to know about me. Please leave a comment.)
McDonalds. (It's the Walmart of fast food. I can still like Egg McMuffins though, right?)
When children who can't even pee in the toilet yet "bear their testimonies" on Fast Sunday.
Landlords who've been promising you a new door for a year. Then when they finally deliver, you have to put towels on the floor to prevent the very noticeable flow of air coming in through the six-inch gap. (I might be slightly exaggerating on the six-inch gap part. Only slightly.)
Bad customer service.
Bad drivers.
Bad hair days.
People who don't have bad hair days.
People who don't have bad hair days and complain about bad hair days.
People who say, "Well, can you smell this?" after they learn I've got anosmia.
When kids don't listen.
When kids turn the bathroom floor into the Great Lakes region.
When kids beat on each other. (Well, that can actually be amusing sometimes.)
Flip, I'm only on number fourteen?
Fifteen?
Will this ever end?
Hayden Christensen. (No offense, Hayden. I'm sure you're really a lovely person.)
The name Traeh.
Utah. (Oh, I'm gonna get some serious crap for this one, I can feel it.)
Ingrown toenails. (I've never had one, but I hear they're a bi---, uh, they're really bad.)
Reading a really great book, only to find out it's just the first in a series and the next book won't be out for another year.
Debating with your husband about whether the shoes you borrowed three years ago so you could help clean out the garage belonged to your mother-in-law or your father-in-law and being wrong. (Oh, wait. That wasn't me, that was my husband.)
Having really big feet.
Public restrooms so disgusting that you opt to hold it for three hours.
Unsharpened pencils.

I really am full of rage this week so if you're horribly offended by my meme, well, I'm not sure I can bring myself to care. But if you'd like, pretend I tagged you and then you can put me at the top of your list. Toodles.

Tax season - hooray!

2009-02-09T08:09:00.005-09:00

I told my husband last night I was boycotting the blog this week. Ha! That lasted all of ten hours. I will, however, make this particular post short and sweet.

When we lived in Virginia, the first counselor in our bishopric (who was an accountant or a financial adviser or something) made the comment that you always want to owe the government come tax season. If you're getting a refund, you're not getting that money throughout the year when you really need it. Of course, if you just don't feel like paying, go see Debbie and she'll solve that pesky little problem for ya.

Does anyone know if this is true or have any opinions about it? Obviously, I could ask someone who does accounting-y financial-ish things for his or her job, but that takes time and foresight and time and possibly one more appointment in my already crazy life and, you know, time. And also, I'm afraid that if I go in to discuss tax issues, they'll convince me that I'm not smart enough to be doing my own taxes. I'm not gonna lie, people. Sitting down with all those forms, my trusty calculator, and a few freshly sharpened pencils gives me a bit of a buzz. Seriously.

Anyway, enlighten me please.