Thinking about pie.

What I'm thinking about:

Pie.

What I ought to be thinking about:

emptying out some of the boxes in the hallway so that when Kari and Craig come from Utah for Thanksgiving, they won't have to slither sideways to get to their room.

But pie is more interesting. I have been assigned the pumpkin pies for our holiday meal. This might sound important, but my Mom thinks pumpkin pie is yuck (but likes apple-mince, which actually IS yuck), and offered to buy them at Costco. I was horrified, and took the job myself. So I have spent some pleasant hours perusing internet recipes and reviews, and I am thinking maybe I will mix it up a little and make Paula Deen's pie, which includes some cream cheese? I trust Paula will not get too crazy, nor try to make it healthy or something lame like that. But will people stab me with their greasy turkey forks if I deviate from the pie on the back of the Libby's can? Is a serious question.

I will also be in charge of Ardy's rolls again (recipe here. But, as usual, I get pretty blabby, so you will have to scroll down so much you'll develop carpal tunnel), which everyone agrees actually are important. So important, in fact, that cousin Melanie and I will both be making double batches, so everyone can take bags of rolls home for leftovers. Cause how can you make those little turkey sandwiches with stuffing and gravy and cranberries in a roll, if all the rolls are gone? You see my point.

Lastly, I will be making the cranberry jell-O. This is an act of love, because as you might remember, I love jell-O. First I make the cranberry sauce in the food processor. (1 apple: 1 orange with rind: 1 bag of fresh cranberries: 1 cup (or more) of sugar. I usually make twice that much.) Then I make lots of cran-raspberry jell-O with half the liquid, and add some of the cranberry sauce/relish to the jell-O (about two cups for a 9x13. Add finely chopped pecans and even some extra finely chopped celery. Eat it with lots of whipped cream. (Don't be stingy. I whip my cream by the quart.) So good, I usually consume one pan myself, over the course of the weekend. Although, last year Kari might have helped me? Kari? Is this true?

Anyhow, now that I think about it, both Kari and Craig are both quite lean and svelte people (they are runners, and it shows. No, I don't really know if they run. I also don't know how many of you get my Office quotes, or how many just think I'm odd. Do you run, Kari?) and will have no problem getting down the hallway with all the boxes. (You know, if my pie daydreams continue to get in the way of the unpacking.)

So, what are YOU making for Thanksgiving dinner? Is it delicious? Should I make it sometime? You can leave me the recipe if you like, and I will probly try it. I'm not lying to you.

(P.S. New Moon tonight is at 7, with bleu cheese burgers at The Keg first. I'm not up for this midnight stuff. Like any middle-aged pregnant woman, I like to see my teen vampire romance movie sequels at a reasonable hour.)

I write the songs.

Just like Barry Manilow, only with greater emphasis on bodily functions.

I think you write the songs, too. Otherwise, I probably wouldn't be copping to it.

I'm talking about nursery rhymes.

You know, like Mary had a little lamb? Or Jack and Jill? Only you make them up yourself? And they often don't rhyme? So they are more like nursery free verse? And they are normally quite bad? So bad, in fact, that you are glad your child doesn't fully comprendo the English yet? And these verses are almost always immediately forgotten, but very occasionally they stick, and become part of the family collective conscious?

Like, who can ever forget It's Happy Nappy Time!, sung to the tune of tra-la-la-boom-de-ay? Is now in its second generation, and still going strong. My Mom holds the copyright to that one, but I bet she won't care if you use it.

And I've come up with a few good ones myself. But time is not good to this fragile and ethereal poetry. Even ten minutes later, you can't recall anything more than that the song was a plea for your son to stop bugging you about going to store and getting more avocados, cause he is constantly hassling you about avocados. He eats like 3 avocados a a day.  You can't remember anything, save you sang it to Paula Abdul's Straight Up, and that it was so good, if you could remember it, it might win a Grammy. 

Here's one I do remember, from not so long ago. It is entitled Poo in the loo, and I think the tune name is obvious, but I'll tell you anyway (Skip to my Lou):

Poo's in the kitchen,

Who Tom who?

Poo's in the kitchen,

Poo Tom poo.

Poo's in the kitchen,

Tom, its you.

Poo in the loo my Tommy.

Now, sometimes these sorts of songs can be wonderful teaching tools, but Tommy is not an anglophile like his mum, and he doesn't yet know his loo from his lorry. So I guess the songs are as much for me as the children, and help me to keep my spirits high while I disinfect the kitchen floor. Again.

Have you read that book about the five love languages? Well, I'm mostly a quality time sort of girl, with a minor emphasis in receiving gifts or acts of service. Whichever of those would include people bringing me treats in my bed. So one night when I was feeling my love tank (and belly) was empty, I sang this to my ungrateful children, in all the serious Barbara Streisand intensity I could muster:

You don't bring me cheez-its

you don't bring me grape pop

you don't bring me tiny banana splits from Sonic (ask your dad to take you there and get me one!)

anymore.

The kids weren't terribly impressed. But they never did like Neil Diamond as much as I do.

You might feel differently, but my rule for nursery songs is you can't try too hard. They have to come entirely naturally, and so they are generally one-offs.

For instance, this morning Tom came in with a roll of toilet paper and a crack full of feces. (Don't worry, this is just fun back story.) He bends over at the waist and commands: WIPE ME. And so I do. But I realize bathing might be necessary for proper clean-up (is messier than average, and now we are both involved), so I tell him to put his Move it, Move it undies (Madagascar Movie) in the laundry and meet me in the bathroom. 

But nothing is that simple these days. Everything must be explained. Why? Why? He asks. 

And then the song comes, from somewhere deep inside me:

All the naked boys need to get in the shower.

Naked, fecal boys need to get in the shower.

Naked, naked boys need need to get in the shower

with their mommies.

Oh, boy. Is a real stinker. And more than a little disturbing. I don't think it is going to unseat Miss Muffet from her tuffet. (Not to mention, you might think I shouldn't be showering with my toddler. And you would be right. Remember this?)

Is okay, though. Good is not really the point.

Still, I wonder if Coldplay ever came up with something similar? Just before they wrote Viva La Vida, maybe? 

So, tell me. Do you sing stupid, goofy, sometimes disturbing or inappropriate songs to your children? Do you have any favorites you would like to share?

But is he wearing pants?

I know I don't have time for this but I was just thinking about that time sister Jen and I took our kids to see that Planet Earth movie. Which I guess was cool to see on the big screen but really we'd seen all the footage on the Discovery Channel so it was kind of a waste of cash. Except for the rain forest birds. I could totally watch those things all day.

But the birds are beside the point. (Or are they? Perhaps not.) See, about halfway through the film, I notice the shoulders of the man sitting directly in front of me. They are large. Exceedingly hairy (gray hair). They are round, belonging as they do to a heavyset gentleman. But they are not wearing anything. 

The man is shirtless.

I immediately lost all interest in the movie.  (My interest was already waning, to be fair.) I became focused entirely on this furry topless fella sitting just inches from me. He had the bald pate/scraggly ponytail of an aging hippie. He was apparently feeling rather warm (although, it wasn't warm. We were in a movie theater in the middle of the Arizona summer, where people pay good money to be frozen solid for a couple of pleasant hours. I was wearing a sweatshirt. It was zipped up to my neck.) Yet, here was this guy, apparently comfortable in his own nudie skin. But of course, the real, burning question was: WAS HE WEARING ANY PANTS?

So I tried to surreptitiously lean forward and peer over into the next row. I didn't need to be super stealthy, because by this time, we've got 8 kids who are tired of looking at animals eat each other and/or starve to death because of global warming, and they are growing restless.

But I can't see any pants! I can see hairy knees, and above that, the beginnings of some hairy thighs, but I can't see any more. So I quick use some hand gestures (not obscene ones) and put my sister on the case. Her eyes grow large as she surveys the scene, but she can't see either. Now we are getting sort of nervous he's some style of pervy.  Is very frustrating. Jen is about to go refill our giant tub of popcorn (naked guy doesn't know all the Dots are gone and nobody is going to eat popcorn without the Dots, unless we put some of that fake cheese powder on it), as a ploy to ogle the naked guy from the front (I know, is perilous mission), when the movie ends, and the lights come up.

Jen and I are both holding our breath. We are transfixed. Some of our children may have already left via the side exit, but we don't notice.

Naked man doesn't immediately rise from his seat. First, he reaches into the next chair, where he's been storing his tie-dyed tank top (the sort with two foot, waist deep arm holes, perfect for showing off his copious gray armpit hair) and slips it over his head. I hold my breath. 

He stands. 

He is wearing shorts. 

They are short and flesh-colored, but they are shorts.

There is no question.

Naked guy isn't naked.

And that is my whole entire story.

I know, it leaves you with more questions than answers.*

But isn't that what good literature is all about?

*Like: Why take off the tank top? Is only a scrap of fabric. Is  not like you take it off and think, whew! much better.

*Or, like: Didn't you just move, Beeswax? why are you telling me this story instead of unpacking your office? And aren't you out of cereal? Shouldn't you go to the grocery store? 

Pandora's Worms, and...do you think I should have worn falsies?

I'm back on the grid. 

Except for Tivo. And on this girl's grid, Tivo is more important than telephone or internet, water or sewer. But not electric. Cause obviously you need that for the Tivo to work. DUH.

I really need someone to hook up my Tivo. 

Since you and I last met, I have had a change of venue. I have packed, driven west about 5 miles, unpacked, wiped things out, mowed things, and spent a great deal of time looking for stuff that is probably still in boxes in the garage. Yesterday, I sent Jake a text asking him to get poo, and lots of it. He's pretty chintzy with the poo. (We are trying to overseed the lawn, and keep running out of seed and manure. Aqui en el desierto we have bermuda grass in summer but plant rye in the winter.) It isn't going very well. I think we need to call Tony the landscaper. I'll bet he's full of poo (or his truck is, at least).

So, the unpacking. At first, it went on swimmingly. Oh, look! My toothbrush! And only missing two days! My yoga pants! I know just where to put you! Furniture: Here. And here. Or maybe here. 

Wait. Stop unpacking and get in your costumes, children! We've got to go to the Ward party! Boys, do you have your weapons? 

Tommy, wired, even before the sugar high.

Army man #1

Army man #2

And #3

Vampira here spent the whole time in the petting zoo.

Oh, but what about me? I forgot to wear a costume! How about this here Dolly Partonish wig? And maybe some sunglasses? Yes! Is perfect. 

(Nobody took my picture. So, here is sloppy November 6th reenactment:)

Only, wig was very bad move on my part. Cause I don't know most of these people at the party. Cause we just moved in on Wednesday. And they didn't know me. Especially in the wig. (Except one nice girl, who was like, I dig your blog, Beeswax! Hi, Dana!)  At Church the next day I overhear one lady whisper to another: Kelly Beeswax? Who? To which the second lady responds: You know, the blonde one. And the first lady nods, as if to say, of course.

Why am I such a geek? Cause I really, really, really am. Now I am thinking I should have gone whole hog, with gargantuan falsies and what nots. Then, I would fer shur not get any callings for awhile. They probly wouldn't even want me out visiting teaching. What do you think?

So now we continue to unpack. But things are slowing down. Now, when I open a box, it is filled with stuff I don't want to see. Is like big, cardboard cans of worms. Pandora's moving box. Okay, Let's see. What's in here? Ack. Is canning jar from kitchen desk area. It is filled with pennies, deutchmarks and pfennigs circa 1990, antique keys, beheaded lego guys, old contact lens cases, hair clips, Carmex (I should apply some of that. Am feeling quite chapped), colored pencils, cap for inflatable slide from 5 years ago, and the battery case cover for a blue game boy. Is WORMS! WORMS! WORMS! Quick, Pandora, close the box! 

So, you see what I am up against. And the kids rooms? More of the same. Tiny pieces of caca that will drive me to madness.

P.S. I feel WAY better now. No more vomiting. Am almost five months along, and nearly well. Am very, very happy about this. Happy November to me. And you.

All my bags are packed, I'm ready to go...

No, I'm lying to ya. Movers are coming Wednesday for furniture, but in the meantime I'm supposed to be packing all our doo-dads and what-nots into boxes. Meantime= this very moment. But obviously, I'm not doing it. I did, however, (with the help of Jake's Mom and sister), pack up and move my whole kitchen over on Saturday. So that means I can't cook anything even if I really super-duper desired it. (Sigh of relief.)

In other news, had my ultrasound this morning, and our fetus has himself a willy! And since my boys are wild and loud enough for 2 normal boys each, that means I'll have the equivalent of 8 regular boys (seriously, those of you who have met Ross, Sam and Tom can bear testimony of the crazy in the comments section) that will all live at my house. Plus Jane, who isn't going to be at all pleased with the news, when she gets home from school and I am forced to tell her. There is sure to be a weep, wail, and gnash of some duration, before it works its way into a sour-faced mope. (She's enough drama for 3 average girls.)

Anyhow, little Willy (temporary endearment) looks fine and healthy, if a bit alien, gray, and grainy, which is fab news. Now if only I could stop eating 4 breakfasts, 3 lunches and 2 dinners (plus snack before bed) (oh, and all the ice cream treats), perhaps I could keep this whole thing under 200 pounds? 

Reach for the stars, Beeswax.

The really super long one, in which I ride a bus across the northeast, part 1

Well, now. I'm back. I've been on a bus for a week. With Jake and Ross and my family, and lots of old people. Really super nice ones with awesome sweet spirits. From Utah. At first, I was all judgy. Like: Wow, these fogies are going to slow me down. It turns out, though, they were surprisingly spry, whereas I, in my current, 4 months pregnant condition, was...not. I mean, I kept up. Sorta. But the May 2007 Kelly, who ran about the streets of Paris all night, all super (okay, medium) skinny and bendy and hot, is gone. October 2009 Kelly was just working hard not to throw up on the bus. She also liked to complain that her sweats were too tight. Which, if you think about it too long, is way sad. So don't think about it. That's what I try to do. But it is hard not to think about when your elastic waistband is digging into your belly.

My Mom seemed more stressed than anybody that we were on the geriatric tour. See, when she was 20 she worked in an art shop in Rothenburg, Germany, and every day the buses would pull up into the center of that darling medieval, walled town, and aged Americans would waddle off, yelling stuff to each other like "Herbert, what country is this again?," then come into the art shop, where my Mom would offer them some free schnapps, and the southerners would tell each other "well, she talks good English, but she shore has a funny accent!" 

Mom's from Sacramento.

I won't tell you about the time she offered booze to a general authority. She was like, "want some schnapps?," even though that guy was putting off some serious Utah vibes and she didn't want to ask, but her boss yelled at her or something. And when she did, the GA (I think it was Hartman Rector or Hugh B. Brown) put his arm around her and said "No, thank you, Sister Taylor. But I'd like to invite you to a special Sacrament meeting." If I told you all that, I'd be getting off the subject. Which I never do.

I didn't have such bad feelings about bus tours. We rode all over England in one while I was on study abroad, and plus, spending the last three months with my cheek resting on the toilet seat has humbled me. I am low on pride right now.

(Little) Ross LOVED the bus. He spent most of his time in the very back seat, which had no window and was next to the toilet, reading his books and borrowing people's iphones, so he could download violent shooting games he's not allowed to play at home. Here he's got his eye on Grandpa's, but Grandpa is busy, probably listening to something good like Simon and Garfunkel. Simon and Garfunkel is very good for long bus rides around the northeast.

Anyhow, our tour began with the sites of Boston. A walk through the North End to the Old North Church, Bunker Hill Monument (climbed halfway up before I asked myself what I was trying to prove, although felt sort of sheepish as athletic elderly persons jogged by me to the top.) 

Ross was totally tour guide's pet, following Joseph around all day. I won't put his last name in here, in case I decide to tell you about all his inappropriate racial and political comments, which caused my sister Jen to whisper "that really just happened" like every 20 minutes all day. (I learned about not including last names when I wrote a post about going on a date with Rendell L. to El Charro in 1992, and then he googled himself, and emailed me about where to find better enchiladas. Which was kinda cool, but also kind of mortifying.) Anyhow, that's Grandpa Ross behind them, in the photo. Maybe he wishes he was tour guide's pet, too, but probly not. Joseph liked to get right up in your business.

That's me and Ross in the cemetery just up the hill form the Old North Church. Oh, boy. I totally look pregnant. And here I thought I was fooling everyone with my Juicy sweatshirt that wouldn't zip closed.

Had lunch at Quincy Market, which has got to be world's best food court. Had some clam chowder, fried shrimp, and mind-blowing gelato (nutella and pistachio). Rode around Boston, checking stuff out.

Ross rubbed the toe of John Harvard, which apparently means he'll never have to study again , or gets him into Harvard automatically, or some such thing.

Drove out to Lexington and Concord. I'd like to spend a weekend there, checking out all the Transcendentalist digs. Or maybe I'd like to move there. Am still unsure.

Minute man statue in Concord.

Dear Concord Tourism Council,

You can totally use images of my husband, Jake, free of charge, to lure ladies to your lovely town. 

What? No. He won't pose in a speedo in front of Louisa May Alcott's house.

Sincerely, Beeswax

The whole group, on a bridge over a river. (What state are we in, Herbert?) Jake, Jen, Ryan, Mom (Mareen), Ross, me, and Dad (Ross). We were about to get on the bus to go eat horrible fish at a place called the No Name Fish Market. Blech.

The next day, we were on the road to New Hampshire.

You know Michael's? The craft store? Well, before our bus began to work its way across the great state of New Hampshire, my only real experience with fall foliage (except a little in Provo. I guess I didn't spend enough time making out with boys up in the canyon, where the real excitement, er color, is. That's what my Mom says, anyhow. You know, it is hard sometimes to be nerdier than your mom.) was in the silk flower section of Michael's.  And the colors always looked false, and a little garish, to this California-turned-Arizona girl. Sure, there is usually some wise guy in Leisure (Seizure) World who tucks some red silk maple leaves into the armpits of the Saguaro cactus in front of his double-wide (or, you know, spray paints his front yard gravel green, to look like grass, which it doesn't), but it is always in poor taste. But the real thing? Not at all tacky. 

Makes me wonder again what I am doing out here in the desert.

More next time on how we missed President Monson (in Kirtland), and Pam and Jim's wedding (on Maid of the Mist), by only one stinking day! Plus, as a bonus, sister Jen's fascination with octogenarian honeymooners!

TMI

I've had so much to write about. Questions to ask you. (But haven't. You might have noticed).

I wanted to ask you things like: How many days without a bowel movement does it take to raise your OBGYN's eyebrows? (Am still unsure, but I do know that six is NOT the answer.)

Or, how long can you survive in the 105 degree desert drinking only two cans of Sprite a day? (Approximately 6 weeks, if you don't go outside. If you go outside, you immediately become light-headed, your vision goes dark, and you feel as though you will lose consciousness.)

Or, did you ever vomit with such force that your eyes swelled shut, your face was covered in red spots for week, you puked blood, and the skin above your eyes actually tore open and bled? (Two weeks ago tonight).

But see, as I'd begin to write,  I'd remember how I'd linked my blog to my Facebook profile; and then I'd think, what if that I guy I never really knew, who sat behind me in 10th grade geometry, but has befriended me here on the internets, reads this stuff?

Really. It seems, as the young folks say: TMI.

And then I thought, does anybody want to hear it? Well, told myself, maybe, if I made it funny. So I set out to make it funny. But, it turns out, that while in the midst of it all, I couldn't find much humor.

I was in a dark place.

(My bedroom, with the blinds closed.)

I've been in the house for over two months. 

I've developed a tiny and impermanent case of agoraphobia.

In the meantime, my children have become unkempt and feral, eating cereal in the family room, fighting, dressing like they don't have mother, scarfing green jello at all hours (my jello), and playing the wii until their eyeballs dry up. (Sam's blonde 'fro has grown large, unwieldy, and strangely, even more beautiful than ever before during my seclusion. Is a wonder to behold.)

It is a wee bit like Lord of the Flies over here. 

Lately, though, there have been indicators that I am perhaps reaching an end to my woe. First, I ate fruit salad last Sunday for dinner. And I never saw it again! Then, I decided I could not look at another carbonated beverage, and drank THREE WHOLE BOTTLES OF WATER in one day (tap water still tastes like a rotten fish/dirt/penny cocktail), and kept nearly all of it down! 

In addition to my fear of TMI, I've other reasons for avoiding the internets. 

I've been doing stuff. 

We are heading out on a Church history trip (Boston, Sharon, VT, Palmyra, Kirtland) next week, and I forgot to clean my house, or shop for groceries since mid-July. And we are leaving kids at home with a sitter. This home. The one that is super messy and smells bad. Plus, I have exactly 1 pair of pants that fit me (and exactly zero brassieres). Oh, and we are moving! In a few weeks! (Just a few miles away, to Gilbert. Power and Baseline-ish, in case you care.) Which is thrilling, but since Jake and I are sort of pack rats, and we've lived here in this casa 8 whole years, we need to start cleaning. But instead I lie in the tub and read. (Approximately 3 linear feet of books in the last two months.)

Anyhow, I think I'll stop now. Is enough TMI for one day?

(It shall have to be. Is time to drive through the Taco Bell, so the kids will not ransack the kitchen while scavenging for scraps of meat. Plus, nothing says I love you like Nachos Bell Grande.)