MORMONS FOR MCCAIN/Green Jello T-shirt GIVEAWAY!

You know you want one.

And it can be yours!

Because I am going to give this McCain/jello shirt away!

To you, maybe! 

If you want it! 

Which you might not!

But probly you do!

Because it is AWESOME!

If you do want it, leave me a comment before next Monday, October 5, at 5 p.m. (before your FHE) on this post to enter the drawing.  If you want to double your odds of winning, advertise the giveaway over at your place (link back here to my blog), then leave me a comment telling me you that you linked.

But, you say, what if I don't win? I MUST HAVE one of those shirts! 

Where ever did you find it?

Well, when I saw my good friend Isaac's Hebrew Obama shirts, which he designed, I said to myself:

Self, you'd like a shirt, too. 

But you are Mormon. 

And nobody sent you to Hebrew school, just seminary. 

So you don't read Hebrew so well. 

Plus, you are actually are sort of conservative, so you'll be voting for John McCain. 

(But also, self, let's be honest. You really wish Mitt was still in the race, cause you liked Mitt quite a bit, even though politicians give you the willies, generally.) 

So actually, though this Hebrew Obama shirt is cool, it isn't really for you.

So you sent off an email to Isaac, who is a hoity-toity-high-falutin'-mucky-muck who has all sorts of important, top-level stuff to do in his busy life, and told him all of the above. He shot this back right away:

A whole store full of stuff at Cafepress, entitled

Stuff for Mormons. 

Just for me. 

And now, YOU.

(But really, it should be called Stuff for Republican Mormons. Because we are not as homogeneous a group as people sometimes think.) 

So, check it out! In addition to jello shirt, you can get this one:

Jake likes the McCain head superimposed over Mitt's, which is only available as a poster.

Or maybe the baby bib? 

Tommy would like that bib. 

You know, in case we go out to eat and want people to stare at us a lot. 

For having such a politically prodigious child.

Ready, set, enter!

The schizo blogger: she's me, only blonder

A few people that know me in real life have read my blog and commented:

"Your blog is so fantastic! So funny! So witty!"

(Okay, only a VERY few, but still).

"Ah, golly" I say, looking at the ground, but smiling, real big and toothy.

"But, you know" they continue 

"it just doesn't sound anything like you. At all."

Ah. 

There's the rub. 

That's because that girl who writes the blog? She isn't me. She is cooler than me, and cuter than me, and smarter than me. She's more excited about everything than I am. I'm sort of even-tempered. Not easily excited. Which seems sort of boring. For a blog.

She's also sort of witty.

And me? 

No, I'm not entirely witless.

I'm more of a half-wit, maybe?

Because I can't come up with pithy come-backs and quippy anecdotes on the fly. 

So maybe I'm just a little slow-witted.

Blog girl talks about cool subjects that make her life sound carefree and fascinating. She only complains about things that seem sort of cool to complain about (oh, poor me! I got too skinny and my pants fell down! That sort of thing). She only gets zits or PMS if it serves her writing purposes. She is only seen in pictures that she chooses you to see. She can spell check everything that comes out of her mouth, and research it on wikipedia, before anybody reads it.

Her name is Beeswax. And she is a lot like me, certainly. But she is also a little bit Elle Woods, because she is smart but ditsy. And zealous. I'm not really so air headed or full of righteous indignation.

Being indignant is fairly exhausting, actually. Kelly cannot sustain indignant very long. If I try to hold a grudge, I need a nap.

Beeswax is also a little bit Bridget Jones, because she likes to be worried about her food intake (real Kelly doesn't much care, she just eats as she likes. And she likes, mind you. Kelly also likes to write about food, so faux worrying about it in words, and feeling fake guilty is a good excuse.) Beeswax, like Bridget, is a little neurotic, and leaves lots of small, unimportant words out of her sentences. Beeswax also wants to be in a movie with Hugh Grant and Colin Firth, like Bridget was. But she doesn't think that's going to happen. Unless this blog really takes off. Beeswax is also a wannabe Brit. Okay, Kelly too, kinda. She'd like dual citizenship. All of us, except Elle. Who is true red, white and blue. Except, the Union jack is also red, white and blue, which could be confusing to Elle, and Beeswax. But not Kelly. She gets it.

Basically, Beeswax is like Kelly, only just a little bit blonder.

So you see, there are lots of us here on my blog. Kelly, Elle, Bridget, Beeswax. Sometimes Elizabeth Bennet pops in for biscuit and tea. 

Maybe on all the blogrolls, I should also be listed under "group blogs"? In the interest of full disclosure? Since we are so crowded over here?

Or maybe, it is really just the two of us. 

Me, and Beeswax. 

I cannot psycho-analyze myself effectively, but you need not fear. 

We might have multiple personalities, but we are all totally harmless.

***Update***

I wrote this some time ago, but I didn't publish because I was afraid you would think that my blogging pants were on fire. That Beeswax is just a character I play on the internets, like Seriously, So Blessed, only not as good or funny. But then Sue wrote THIS, and I thought, yes, that's it! Like Sue! (Only still maybe not as good or funny).

And since everybody loves Sue, and nobody shunned her even a little bit (that I know of) for her disclosure, she gave me the courage to come out of the blog closet, schizo-blogger-wise-speaking. 

You can fer shur shun me, if you want. But not if it means you no longer leave comments.

Shun.

Un-shun.

Please comment on my schizo blog personality, or yours, if you have one, too. Or if that bores you, talk to me about The Office from last night. How about Kelly's tape worm, eh?

Hillbilly Picture Day

So...somebody at our house forgot that today was picture day at school, because Sam wore his Mario Kart t-shirt. 

It is stained, wrinkly, and so shorty it sometimes shows his belly. 

He pulled it out of the pajama drawer this morning, and put it on with some high water pants.

The somebody that forgot about the pictures? 

I'll give you a hint: it wasn't Sam. 

He totally remembered.

The one about how my pants fell down in Albertson's, and how my Saturday plans were foiled, but then I ate some stuff and now I'm in a better mood.

Instead of folding laundry (is already dried into wrinkled mess, so what's the hurry?), I will tell you some stuff. About my weekend.

Saturday morning I got up and looked up movies. Sister Jen and I planned to see The Duchess on Saturday evening. We've been planning this for quite some time. Jen hinted that she might even have some sort of matching Duchess regalia for us to wear to the show. Which pleases me a great deal. I clapped my hands together real close to my face and grinned hard when I heard that, because...

I enjoy me some regalia.

And also, I'm pretty nerdy.

Jen and I read the book Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire a few years ago, and we both dug it. I love these history monographs that are part biography, part social history, part ye olde thyme 18th century tabloid. (I spelled time like that to sound more more old-timey, not herbal). 

I read all the movie reviews, and they are not good. They complain that the movie ignores Georgiana's (Keira Knightley) political life and focuses on the steamy love quadrangle she gets into because her husband (Ralph Feinnes) is a no-fun, dog-breeding meany-face. Also, maybe she is a little bit slutty. In the book, you see she is a product of her corrupt environment, and so you determine that she isn't all slut and no substance. Unsurprisingly, though, Hollywood doesn't see her that way. But I was not dissuaded. Our date was still on.

But when I searched a 25 mile radius of my zip code for theaters showing Georgiana's big-screen, un-enhanced cleavage, nothing came up. So I widened my search. Then, I widened it again. 

And, then, one more time.

Whew. Something came up.

Lovely! 

We'll be going to see The Duchess at 8:00 pm.

At the Landmark Theater.

On Pico Boulevard.

In Los Angeles.

Jake tells me, "You'd best be on your way, then, if you are going to make the show."

So we flew into LAX about 5 pm and had time for a quick bite before the show...

Nah. We didn't. The Duchess regalia is just going to have to wait for the movie to go into wider release.

So then I broke the bad news to Jen, who was in shock and denial for a bit. Then she snapped out of it, as she is a pragmatic sort of girl, and she quickly took charge, and found us a double date with some foxy ladies.

Hillary and Nedra. Hillary says she reads my blog but she doesn't ever comment. Let's see if she does this time...(Only she has a three week old newborn, so maybe she isn't actually reading any blogs right this second? Oh well.)

We went to Cafe Luxe at Fashion Place in Scottsdale. Which is brought to you by the same people who brought you Cheesecake Factory. Only at Luxe, they don't just have cheesecake, they have doughnuts. Frenchy doughnuts.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Tasty things I've tried there: mushroom burger, chicken pot pie (Hillary wore a happy, glazed expression while she consumed her pie, which was big enough to feed 4 big, athletic men, or one small mama, plus Jen and Kelly), and shaking beef (Jen and I shared). All delicious. Nedra had a salad that looked a lot like the luau salad at Cheesecake, only I didn't even make eye contact with it, since I was busy making doe eyes at the pot pie.

We ordered beignets (doughnut-type pastries with three dipping sauces) and the chocolate molten cake. Both worth the drive to Scottsdale, by themselves.

Nedra had just finished a 10 day, 230 mile backpacking trip through the Sierra Nevadas, and hasn't eaten treats for a year. I think we scared her a little with our intensely amorous foodiness.

I don't know if she'll go out with me again. I wonder if my hearty appetite is what scared off all the boys back in my single days? I still haven't pinpointed the reason all the boys didn't beat down my door like my parents promised they would do. Lucky I was able to nab the smart and pretty Jake, with the very dry wit that makes me laugh and laugh, and who knows a wench with a lusty appetite is a good find.

Er. Anyhow.

This morning I went to Albertson's and bought lots of chicken ($1.77 a pound plus $5 off $20 Fresh and Easy coupon equals cheap poultry, like $1.35 a pound). I'm going to can it tomorrow.

When Tommy and I returned home, we watched a House Hunters episode where the family is looking for a vacation home in Curacao. The family's actual home is 6,000 squares on 5 acres with a ginormous pool and 500 feet of private waterfront with a dock in North Carolina. The Dad says, as the camera pans the ocean, "so you can see why we need to get away from it all." Seriously? You need to get away from it all? Which part, exactly, are you so desperate to get away from? 

So I rewound that part, and watched it again. Cause I got nothing else to watch, yet.

And now, I sit here waiting for the mail to come and bring me my latest Ebay purchase, William Rast Savoy Wide Leg trousers in Princess wash (henceforth: WRSWLTP). And you might think that I have a little problem with discount designer denim. And you might be right. And you might think my poison is spreading to Shellie. And it is. 

But, see, I fired the gardeners, mostly because they didn't come, even though we paid them, usually. And another gardener friend of ours hinted that our gardener was having wife troubles and hitting the bottle too hard, which is why he didn't show up. So now I am the gardener, which I hate. But the good news is this: I've been spending all the money that might have gone to the boozing horticulturalist, on ebay pants, used books on Amazon, and sunblock. 

It is still 100 degrees out there, people! Somebody please call the Sonoran Desert and tell him that Autumn begins this week, and that he can dial it back just a bit. Thanks.

Also, I really needed the pants, because the old WRSWLTP I had were too big. I was over to the Albertson's last month, and as I reached long to grab some cheap meat (do you see a theme?), the old WRSWLTP fell down! To my knees! People! Is bad news! 

The new ones are four sizes smaller. So. Is good news! Am now safe to go to Albertsons! Oh, wait. I already did. Couldn't wait for the pants. Needed to get chicken before cousin Melly got there and cleared the place out.

So that's it. That's all I got. Now must go fold some clothes and cook up some cheap chicken for dinner.

Reading, writing, and...I don't do maths. I got a D in Algebra. Twice. So now I just read and write.

So, have you submitted something to Sue? Cause she wants you to write something for the book she's doing to raise money for Stephanie Neilsen. And she said if we want to be in it, we have to promote it. Which I don't mind doing, as is for a good cause and all. Except that if I don't make it into the book, then you'll all know that I tried and failed, and I will feel a bit sheepish.

Like a little fluffy lamb, I am, stuck in a catch-22. 

Sounds painful, I know.

 I wrote about cleaning out my closet, which might be as bo-ring as it sounds. Uh-oh. Maybe I should send a back-up submission? Something from the archives? What's something super funny that will knock Sue's panties right off her bum?

Today is my Mom's Birthday. I got her a stack of books, because she loves stacks of books. She also loves food, but I did not make her treats because she is trying not to eat treats. She has already lost 20 pounds, and is mean to sabotage people's treat-less lives with treats. But if some kind person leaves Swiss cake rolls or other treats on my porch, I will not be upset. Quite the opposite, really. I am looking forward to Halloween, when the Phantom comes and leaves us treats. Sometimes, I do not put up my paper phantom right away, and then we get more treats. Is a good scam. But then the kids insist we make treats enough to pass on both phantoms. Becomes a lot of treats. Good thing my Bosch can make a quadruple cookie dough recipe with one beater tied behind its back.

Anyhow, books. Books are calorie-free. Mom likes to keep a stack of unread books on her nightstand, because seeing them, and anticipating all their yet-to-be-revealed secrets, gives her great pleasure. Maybe like an unopened box of cake rolls, or a full TIVO. So, I've been saving all the middling to good books I've read, and passed them on. 

Used books, you ask? Isn't that a chintzy present for the woman who gave me life? Well, yes, so I also spent about 3 hours on barnesandnoble.com reading reviews and picking out some new titles. That maybe she will let me borrow when she finishes.

Here's the used stack:

Book of a Thousand Days. Shannon Hale. LDS author, not LDS subject. Loosely based on a fairy tale I'd never heard, set in Mongolia. A lady is bricked into a tower by her father because she won't marry her father's pick. Her maid joins her, and they live in the windowless dark.

The Goose Girl. Shannon Hale. Same sort of thing, with the fairy tale, only it didn't touch me like Thousand Days. Still okay, especially if you love the fantasy/fairy tale stuff. Which normally, I don't.

Angry Housewives Eating Bon Bons. Landvik. Book club book, that explores ( I've seen this before) female (not the lezzy sort) bonding. Sort of a Ya-Ya Sisterhood sort of feeling, only not as good. But not bad, either. I would tell you all to read it, but if you do, skip the part when one lady's brother comes and talks to the book club about his experiences in the war. I tried to skip it, but I still wish I hadn't read even what I did. I hate nasty violence.

Peony in Love. Lisa See. Not as good as Snow Flower and the Secret Fan, but still fascinating. Yet another young girl is being forced to marry by her parents. She regrets her disobedience.

Love in the Time of Cholera. Marquez. I didn't finish it because I got yucked out, but Mom enjoys a good writing, and it is well written, I guess. I'll let her decide for herself.)

The Birth House. Ami McKay. Loved the amazing descriptions of the Halifax Explosion (how can I have a degree in history and never heard of this? I read another book on this since, I was so fascinated), but I did get annoyed by the author's not-so-subtle pro-choice agenda. It didn't feel true to the WWI historical setting. I also get annoyed by this cult of the goddess thing that is going on in literature right now. I think our ability to carry and bear children is magical, but not magic. And men shouldn't be left out of it. It feels like women's lib gone way too far, making men out to be ignorant, cheating, beating losers. Um, as far as I can see, men don't have to be worthless for women to have worth. It doesn't have to be Big Male Medicine OR Midwifery. Sorry, getting off topic. Even with this criticism, I found many things to like about this book. It really made me think for a long time afterward.

Certain Girls. Jenifer Weiner. Not as dirty, nor as funny as some of her others. And the end totally threw me. But not bad. I'm passing it on.

Of all these, my favorite was Book of a Thousand Days. I would recommend it to all.

Now, for the new books:

Three Cups of Tea. Mortenson, Relin.

Pope Joan. Donna Cross

March. Geraldine Brooks

Those Who Save Us. Jenna Blum

On Cecil Beach. Ian McEwan.

I think she'll like them. I can't wait to get my hands on Pope Joan and March. I like stacks of books maybe even more than she does. When I die, someone should tuck books around me in my coffin. The whole being buried thing sounds better if I've got books to read. Makes me feel less panicky and claustrophobic. I wouldn't want to be bored in eternity. 

Sorry, is creepy and morbid. I'll stop.

Have you read anything fantastic lately? Or not lately, but at any time in your whole life? What is your favorite book? PLEASE leave me a comment. I am looking for my Book Club pick for next year, and am currently reading like crazy. Right now I am leaning toward The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver. I am going to reread it after I finish Gilead by Marilynne Robinson.

Note to self: Do not buy Swiss cake rolls for "children's lunches"

Some child-o-mine is going to read this post title and say: 

Swiss cake rolls? I didn't get any Swiss cake rolls in my lunch.

And I will have to confess, sheepishly:

Why, no, you didn't, small person. You won't get one, neither. 

For they have all been consumed. Your mama ate them. She cannot be left alone in the house with the Swiss cake rolls. Is unsafe cake roll environment.

And so, you may never taste a Swiss cake roll, darling offspring of my heart, cause mama isn't buying any more, ever again. She has a little self-control problem with the cake rolls, even though they are a little bit grossy-ish. 

But they are cake. 

And they have a creamy filling. 

And that is enough for Mama. 

Who has low standards as well as low control over her baked good consumption.

Is a dangerous combination, mi hijito. 

(My tiniest poodly-puppy. My sandwich of ham. My itty-bitty cake roll.)

Es muy peligroso. 

(Mama thinks lots of people share her weakness. Otherwise, Hostess would not be doing such a brisk business.)

Poor Mama wishes she had some more Swiss cake rolls right now. 

A Long September: Counting Crows Concert Review. And Neil Diamond, and Jimmy Buffett. And more. Make me stop talking, will ya?

Have I told you about the Ryan Layton Concert Series?

Well, my brother Ryan likes his music live, when he can get it. My parents, not so much. So when Ryan wants to go to a concert, Jake and I take him. My parents get the tickets, and they don't have to go. They think it is a good deal. So do I. I am not sure how Jake feels, exactly, but he is a good sport.

Ryan (left, above, with bro-in-law Andrew, at Versailles last year) might be mentally handicapped, but his taste in music is not impaired. He leans toward the oldies, though. And the oldies, as their name suggests, are aging. So I figure, we need to go see them sooner rather than later, before somebody slips a hip.

We have seen some great acts. Some, not so great. I think the worst was Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys, who looked like he stroked out maybe 10 years ago. But then some brainiac had carted him out on tour, and plunked him down in front of a keyboard on a stool. I think he couldn't stand up without falling over, so the keyboard was a sort of prop to mask the not-too-vertical vibe he was giving off. He didn't play the keyboard. Even once. And then, I'm 90% sure, he lip synched. He had this huge back-up band, who were really wailing "Good Vibrations," and the sound was great, but poor Brian's chest barely rose and fell. The sound was just too huge to be coming from poor Brian's broken body.

He opened for Paul Simon. I think Paul picked Brian for the opening act, to either: 1. help Brian pay his hospital bills, or 2. make himself look young and spritely in comparison. Because, he did look spritely. Paul was FANTASTIC. Course, he's like my absolute favorite song writer of all time. But seriously, he had maybe 30 people on that stage, playing all sorts of crazy instruments. His percussion section was bigger than most bands. And he didn't stop moving the whole time. Bouncing, like high impact aerobics, while singing. 'Twas one of the very best shows of the RLCS (Ryan Layton Concert Series), thus far.

Who else have we seen? Don Henley, and then later, all of The Eagles (Ryan's favorite). James Taylor, Neil Diamond. Let's spend just a moment on Neil Diamond (or Needles to Diamonds, as Ryan used to call him, when we were children). Neil had a cool rotating stage, so his older-lady fans could see his sansa-belt pants and shiny, sequined shirt from all the angles. He had a Stevie Nicks type to sing with him on his Barbara Streisand duets like "You don't bring me flowers." He had some cool 70s moves. He had the 60-year-old ladies on either side of us bawling like a babies and screaming during "Brother Love's Traveling Salvation Show." Which is a great song. My eyes could have been a tiny bit moister than usual. Maybe. But, see, I'm a fan of The Early Neil. The Boat that I Row, Shiloh, You Got to Me, Sweet Caroline. That sort of thing. Not so much after that. Unfortunately, since his voice has degraded, he covers the fact with lots of instruments, and The Early Neil is mostly gone for good, I think. My Mom is a Speech Therapist, and she said in school, they used poor Neil as an example of how not to sing. He has had many surgeries to remove nodules from his vocal chords. And it just doesn't sound the same. But the crying baby boomer ladies didn't seem to care. Ryan either. He was in heaven. Jake wasn't as thrilled.

One of my favorites was Jimmy Buffett. I've seen him twice, actually. Once with Ringo Starr and James Taylor in Tucson. Everyone else I knew was at Sun Devil Stadium in Tempe that night, seeing U2. (1992, I think.) Not me. Jimmy totally stole the show. From a Beatle, people. Course, it was Ringo. But everybody was there to see Jimmy. Seriously, if you haven't been, you should go. And wear a parrot hat, a coconut bra, or a shark suit, if you want to fit in. You might even decorate you car like a tropical 4th of July float, if you want to tailgate for like 6 hours before the show. But don't get grass seats, unless you like secondhand grass. I learned that lesson early on, at the Cranberries/Toad the Wet Sprocket show. Cousin Melanie is allergic to pot, and started sneezing, wheezing and swelling out there on the lawn. Anyway, for a good time, call Jimmy Buffett. Seriously. I think we'll take Ryan back again when he comes to town.

The inaugural show of the RLCS was was back in, oh, maybe 1993? Ryan and I went to see the Gin Blossoms at the Mesa Amphitheater and stopped at Filiberto's for some rolled tacos afterward. Jake wasn't around. Maybe he was off gallivanting in the Philippines. Someday I'll post about all the Gin Blossoms shows I've seen, but alas, this is not that day. Don't be sad.

Anyway, Ryan was getting antsy, because we hadn't seen any shows in a great, long while. So I heard about this Counting Crows/Maroon 5/Augustana show, and I thought, hey, why not. Even though Ryan doesn't know who they are.

It was last night.

We missed Augustana. We heard them as we walked in, but they were walking off stage as we took our seats. I was a little disappointed, cause I like some of their songs.

Maroon 5 was sort of fantastic. The lead singer has a great voice, in the same vein as the Vienna Boys Choir and Michael Jackson. I used to think he was pretty hot, but then he did some weird effeminate hands moves. So, now I don't think he's so hot, but we can still be friends. Like he probably is with Jessica Simpson. The lead guitar was fabulous. Seriously, that guy plays better than any inactive Mormon, Eddie Vedder look-alike, that attended my cousin Hailey's play once, that I've ever seen. I'm not lying to you.

I am going to say that the Counting Crows were mildly disappointing. The crazy-haired lead singer? He looked toasted at the beginning. Totally out there. He seemed to sober up over the hour they played. And you know how he sorts of sing-talks sometimes? Last night, he talked more than sang. Which bugged. You know the best part? When Augustana came out and joined them on Rain King. It was extra fabulous, people. Really great. And remember, I hadn't gotten a good gander at Augustana yet.

They are worth gandering.

They look like some European type fellas went up into the Alps or somewhere for like 6 months, and forgot to bring a mirror, an extra shirt, or a washcloth. Or food. They are skinnyish. And at first you think: EEWWW. But then you look closer, and you think, hey those kids might be good looking underneath the filthy knit caps, creepy girly haircuts, and 6 inch long beards.

And they were! Look at this picture from 2004! Cute as buttons, they were!

A year later, somebody was already sporting the knit cap. But still, undoubtedly, some fine looking lads!

So sometime since, they decided against razors and scissors and what-nots, but bathing was still on the agenda. See below:

I could not find any photos that really capture the greasy look from last night. Just picture Grizzly Adams, in harmony. They sounded great, anyhow.

Here is Adam Duritz with Augustana and the Dashboard Confessional guy singing Rain King. It sort of gives the idea. There is a you tube clip of the song from the concert about a week ago, but the sound is so bad, your ears bleed. So this one is better:

Next up in the Concert Series is the State Fair. I vote Goo Goo Dolls, Jake votes Weezer. I also vote for deep fried twinkies. Anybody want to come along?

We've also got some dream shows we'd like to see: Simon & Garfunkel, Fleetwood Mac, Abba, and Bread. Some are more likely than others, obviously.

As we walked out last night, I asked Ryan: "So what was your favorite part?"

"I liked it when the (Maroon 5 singer) guy threw the guitar and broke it, then gave it to the lady in the audience."

He continued: "So, when are New Kids on the Block coming?"

Oh, boy. Who told him about that? I'm not sure that's going to be part of the RLCS, if I have anything to say about it.

So, what's your best show ever?

Your dream show?

Ever seen any of the acts in the RLCS?

Anybody want to fight with me about Neil Diamond?

RED: The OTHER white wheat

One day my Dad overheard some Native American fellas on the reservation (my Dad served in the Northern Indian Mission, in Montana and North Dakota) talking about how they liked the "red kind." They were referring to red wine, which they sometimes preferred over beer, which could be more expensive and lower alcohol.

Nowadays, when my Dad talks about "red kind," in the short, staccato syllables of his Navajo accent, he is talking about strawberry pop. Yum, strawberry pop! Only thing better than the red kind? The purple kind.

Today, I speak of yet another sort:
Wheat. The red kind!

So, you know how everybody is always like, "So you got some wheat? Sure you did. But is it WHITE WHEAT?"

And by everybody, I mean, some ladies in your ward who ask you about wheat because you used to be the Food Storage Lady? (And I also mean me, cause I totally bought the party rhetoric about white wheat superiority). And also, by always, I mean, like, a few times, but really, less often than before, less than when you were the Food Storage Lady. Cause now you are a Primary Lady, and who wants to chat up their Primary ladies about wheat? What do they know?

Nothin'. That's what.

Well, that's nearly true, I'll freely admit.

But whatever, cause you and I both know that all the cool kids wear Guess Jeans with the little zippers at the ankles, side ponytails, and only buy their wheat WHITE.

You know this isn't about skin color, right? It isn't a Cowboys and Indians thing. It's what's inside that counts, of course. And white wheat's got a little more gluten inside than red.

So, because of that, you can't buy RED wheat and show your face at Enrichment Night. (Yes, you can. But it is so 1950. And not in a cool, vintage sorta way). Red is the red-headed step-child of wheat. It is only good for hiding in the closet for 30 years. You couldn't possibly EAT it. And if you've got a closet full of RED wheat, then that means you don't know a single thing about making delicious whole wheat concoctions. Cause if you did make said concoctions, you'd use WHITE for them.

That's just how it's done, in 2008. By all the cool wheat girls. And they will say to you: "It is really super sad how your family will suffer, gagging down their second class wheat, when a big emergency comes. If you have livestock, chickens and cows might eat your crappy red stuff. But who has livestock? Not us cool girls. An alternate use might be to give it out to your hungry, entirely wheatless neighbors. Then come on over to our houses, where we'll be livin large on the white stuff."

Now, I will admit that in the past, I did hear some occasional mumbling from the older girls (AARP set), that red might be a bit heavier, but it also had a nice, nutty flavor. I totally ignored them, because what do wise, older women ever know about anything?

Nothin'. Or something like that.

But then I went all crazy and made some some bread outta RED wheat. And it was good. And my kids liked it BETTER than the white wheat bread.

And then, the Whole Wheat World shifted on its axis. Because everything I'd ever been told about wheat was a LIE.

Okay, not everything. Just the part about red wheat being worthless and tasting horrid. That part was a LIE!

(What? I'm being melodramatic? But I'm writing about wheat, so I need to act very excited and thrilled, or you might fall asleep. Is distinct possibility.)

So then I went to Costco this morning and bought 6 buckets of red wheat, which they are practically GIVING away (may be clearing them out, not sure) for $21 for a 45 lb. bucket. (They used to be $27. And $27 was a good deal. I bought 3 of the white wheat $27 dollar ones. Before the red wheat epiphany. But I still like white, too. Is my first love, o'course. My heart is big enough for both sorts. And soft wheat, too, even. But that is another post. Don't get so excited.)

Also, the cannery doesn't have any white wheat right now, but they DO have red. So you can get it there, if you want cans. If buckets seem declasse to you.

Or maybe hoarding food seems declasse to you? And you don't think there is any such thing as the cool wheat clique?

You could be right. It is possible, of course.

But if you hoity-toity wheat snobs are really out there, I call on all you cool cat bread-bakin' ladies to reconsider your stand on poor, misunderstood RED. What did he ever do to you? Have you ever given him a proper chance? Add a little gluten to your recipe and give him a shot at the big time. Or mix him in with your white.

Give wheat* a chance.

*The red kind.

Blogs that keep me up at night

I LOVE to read your blogs. Sometimes, I keep thinking about your blogs for days. Yesterday, while I was at the car wash, I kept thinking: "I need to get home and check Shellie's ebay listing!" I wonder if her Postum sold for more than 86$? Seriously, check it out. You can still bid. It ends in 26 minutes. I'm going to see if anybody snipes that Mormon coffee at the last possible second!

Then, I saw that my cousin-in-law, Kristen, has had her identity stolen, in the most creepy way, ever. Even creepier than the guy who opened a credit card in Jake's name and moved to Italy, where he lived quite happily for a long time, making the minimum payment. I mean, if it's my card (what's yours is mine, right, baby?), I think I should get to live in Italy, you know? I'm the one who watches House Hunters International.

Anyhow, that's just what I've been thinking about. That and getting Counting Crows/Maroon 5/Augustana concert tickets for next week, and pondering what to clean out next.

Got to go wake up the kids and make lunches.

I'm not even the tiniest bit OCD, dangit.

MMM, so did you notice I haven't been blogging up a storm, like I sometimes do?

Well, something has come over me, and I've been feeling driven to clean things out.

No, I'm not nesting. I'm NOT pregnant. If I were pregnant, I would be lying on the couch, not cleaning anything at all, in a woe-is-me type posture (one hand slung over my forehead, one dangling to the floor), with a look of supreme, saintly patience and suffering. Or maybe I would be crouched next to the toilet in a fetal position, ready to spew my just-consumed meal. For the 8th time today. And all over my pale, saintly face, but especially around the eyes, would be tell-tale broken capillaries of the puking mama, and I would look like a rabid, saintly raccoon. And somehow, still ravishingly beautiful.

But I do not look like that. And I am not pregnant. I am just cleaning stuff. For no reason at all.

Which, for me, is WAY more unusual than just being pregnant. WAY.

And while clean stuff, I wear my new apron that my sister-in-law Jane made for me (yes, she sewed it herself) with my Nanette Lepore heels. It is super duper fab, and I can't believe I can't wear it out of the house. At least I can dress up in it and take pictures for my blog!

So, where was I? Ah yes, the cleaning spree.

The pantry. Threw away lo-carb bbq sauce from 2004. Who wants to risk ruining dinner over small amount of calories involved in such an important condiment? Not me.

The refrigerator.

All the cabinets under all the sinks. Big job because I keep my hoarded toiletries under there. If a girl is going to store a year's worth of Sure unscented anti-perspirant and Colgate Total in her house, she cannot be lackadaisical in her organizing. Which I might have been, before yesterday.

The food storage. I reorganized and put all like items together, which should make finding black beans in an emergency situation easy-peasy. Plus, I cannot shove junk under the beds in the house, if I have already crammed every cranny of space with wheat and beans, right?

My jewelry box. Which is a big job cause I like to keep lots of crap like tiny sterling silver armadillos from when I was 10, even though I don't know where it came from, and the 50 cent piece the Tooth Fairy left me when I lost my first tooth at my Grandparents' Laytons' farm in Willcox. And a tiny, one-legged ceramic puppy that I got after mommy and me tap and ballet that we took with Melanie and Sherry at Northridge Park in 1979. Assorted locks of hair and baby teeth. Solitary gold hoops and broken silver chains (because you never know when the government will start collecting our precious metals for the war effort, like they did in WWII. Plus, you can't throw away gold. Is like using cash for toilet paper. And only Oprah can do that. Not that she does. I haven't heard anything. I'm not starting any rumors.) Also, there is the beautiful shiny wooden box that my engagement ring came in (engagement ring has been lost for 2 years). And a broken watch made in the USSR that used to be my sister Jen's, that she was going to throw it out, cause she's a little OCD; but then I kept it, because I've got whatever the opposite of OCD is. There has to be a more PC term than 'pack rat,' and if you know what it is, please let me know. And don't say 'hoarder', because the only thing worse than being called a rat is being called a... Anyhow, all my pretty jewels are there in the box, too. And much more. It is a big jewelry box. And it is packed full of crapola.

I'm also going to give away half my clothes to Deseret Industries, if I can find a few hours to go through them when Tommy isn't trying to sneak out into the street. Street-sneaking is his primary vocation, these days. I get stressed and nervous, and I start to freak out when I think about it. Even though right now he is safe asleep in his crib tent. So I won't speak of it any more. But now my eye is twitching a little. See?

I am going to go through the book shelves and cull the herd again. I have such trouble getting rid of books. Even bad ones. It is like I'm their adoptive Mother, and I have some responsibility to care for them, and keep a roof over their heads. The eye twitch is getting slightly more pronounced as I write about giving away books.

Why can't I be just a tiny bit OCD? Just enough so that as I lie in bed at night, I won't be able to sleep if the sink is full of slimy dinner dishes. So then, I'll have to get up and do them. In the morning, my kitchen will be clean, and I will be so happy about that. Life would just be...better. As it is now, I can sleep like a baby. Stinky, crusty dishes and all.

Sorry if I'm giving you nightmares, Jen.

I realize that OCD is no laughing matter for people suffering with it. What I'm saying is that in its lowest possible concentration, it might be a little bit nice. People call you 'organized, efficient, tidy, and overachiever." Instead of B-pluses, you get A's. Because who can stand B-pluses?

Me. That's who. I stood B-pluses. Many of them. Cause I didn't get all worked up and study all the time and do my reading assignments before each and every lecture, like someone I know (Jen), who I think never even got an A minus in all her years over to the BYU (Jen).

When I was about ten, Jen kicked me out of our shared bedroom for my slovenly habits. Then, I would invite my friends over to watch her clean (she was so tiny, fast, and single-minded, it was pretty entertaining). For fun, we'd sneak in and walk all over the the careful, straight lines she'd made in the carpet with the vacuum, then watch as she'd roll the vacuum back down the hall to start all over again.

This week, with all my organizing, I've been feeling a little like the mild OCD case I've always aspired to be. And my house is happy. And my husband is happy. And my kids...are not happy, because we started piano lessons again, and they don't like practicing.

Which reminds me how when I was a kid, Jen practiced circles around me on the piano, even though I have the huge, potentially wonderful piano hands, and she is 3.5 years younger than I, and eventually our teacher fired me and kept Jen as her prize pupil. Thanks, Sister Reese. I like the guitar better, anyhow.

It is really a wonder I even LIKE Jen, isn't it? But I do. Everybody does. She's quite likeable, dependable, trustworthy, etc., even if her house DOES always looks like a model home. We have so much in common, like we both can't wait to see "The Duchess" with Kiera Knightley, which was a great book. But we are Felix and Oscar. Only very recently has she stopped threatening to send the people from Mission Organization (she loves that show) over to my house and put everything I own on the front lawn (and I don't even have a front lawn, people, just rocks and creepy desert plants that look like giant spiders and can potentially kill you with their pointy poison parts, and occasionally shoot out giant, phallic growths, straight up in the air, that I find mildly embarrassing. They would give the whole yard a PG-13 rating, if yards had ratings like movies, which they don't), and then the MI people berate me for not being mildly OCD like all the people that work on that show. Even the cameraman, probly.

I told her that I always look through the peephole in my door, and if there are people with cameras on the porch, I'm not opening the door. Cause my house is NOT THAT BAD! Really, it isn't! Actually, it is sort of good. Unless you look in the drawers and closets. (Cause that's where I stash stuff. Important stuff I really, really need, like tiny,three-legged ceramic dogs from the late 70s.) But anyhow, I guess if Publisher's Clearing House comes to give me my millions of dollars, I'll miss it. Cause like I said, I'm not letting them in.

So then, I won't be rich.

All because I'm not mildly OCD.

(Except this week. This week I am a little. It has been nice.)