Yes, that IS my name spelled wrong on my Christmas card. And no, I haven't sent them, yet.

But yes, I'm gonna. 

Is too late to fix them!

Stop asking so many questions.

Merry Christmas night to you!

Guess who was the bathroom trailer attendant in the Temple parking lot last night?

Yep. And Jake, too. And we also got a turn making sure nobody snatched the baby Jesus from the life-sized nativity. He's been pilfered before. Three times, according to Mr. Security.

And last week a lady in a trench coat jumped into the creche and opened her coat to pose for nudie pics with the babe in the straw.

People are weird.

The High Council voted to take 'host' duty at the Temple instead of a having a meeting this week. It was pretty fun, if a bit cold. There were cinnamon rolls and hot chocolate and lots of lights.

Really good cinnamon rolls.

In other news:

Is anyone else waking up at night in a cold sweat because she forgot to pick up assembled toys at Toys r Us?

Yeah, me neither.

So I guess it's just my Mom.

She waited til morn, and called me to see if I actually had forgotten.

I had.

I keep forgetting stuff.

I'm not organized enough for Christmas.

Please don't make me go to Wal-Mart this morning.

Why I'm eating raisins

Ack. Giant tin of Almond Roca is all gone. 

Have gained 3.2 pounds since Roca entered the house. Is not only reason for weight gain, but just symbol representing many bad but delicious choices I have made this holiday season. My favorite jeans are very tight, and so I was forced to wear alternate, larger jeans, with rhinestones on pockets, to party on Saturday night.

And now that Roca is gone, am now forced to eat raisins.

Is sad state of affairs.

Maybe will make cinnamon rolls (not with the raisins. Ick.) and hot chocolate, to avoid bah-humbugs produced by raisin-eating.

Rhinestone jeans really are quite festive, anyhow.

Right?

The Christmas letter my sister says I can't send to anyone, especially not Jake's Grandma, because it is foul

Dear friends and family,

So...uh...Merry Christmas!

Er...Happy Hannukah! 

(I like that I can spell Chanukuh however I like and it is totally kosher).

Hmmm...Feliz ano nuevo! 

I really need to find the tilde key, because I think without it, I may have just wished you a happy anus.

Hold up.

I can't write anus in a Christmas letter. I'm sending this to my grandma. And Jake's grandma, too. Who didn't know me as a child, and might think I'm a hussy, with all this potty talk.

Okay, let's see. What's up with the Beeswaxes?

Let's do this thing in reverse weight order.

Tommy is 2.5 years old. He enjoys telling me "NO!," eating entire jars of applesauce (which makes for a not-so-feliz ano), and pulling Jane's hair to make her scream.

We are all surprised and thrilled that Sam, 5, hasn't gotten kicked out of Kindergarten. Yet. Is a miracle, people.

Jane, 7, ate oysters at the Chinese Super Buffet one time. She's a foodie like her Mom, but with her Dad's backside. Sometimes, life isn't fair (for the Mom). Jane is pretty much a genius at riling boys up and then telling on them so they get grounded from the Wii. I'm not sure how this skill will serve her in adulthood.

Ross, 9, wants to read the Twilight books because he ran out of Harry Potters, Nancy Drews, Eragons, and cereal boxes. I told him no way, jose. Go watch Weird Al videos on YouTube like a good boy, and stop bugging me about books.

Jake is busy fixing other people's garbage disposals.

Kelly's cousin Melanie gave her the biggest tin of Almond Roca east of the San Andreas Fault, because, Melanie said, Kelly's jeans look too good. 

Kelly has been hard at it, eating the Roca practically full time, but is only about halfway through the tin, mostly because Jake tried to intervene and hide it in his underwear drawer. He was very crafty, and didn't expect that I would be doing any laundry. He was right.

Kelly is now ticked with both Jake and Melanie.

Yes, that one of the jeans is the only photo I'm enclosing in this foul letter.

Love and kisses,

Los Beeswax

(My real pictures came today. So now, I have to go write a real letter.

It isn't going to be nearly as fun as this'un.)

Oh, no, you didn't (wear that shirt to the Twilight movie)!

Oh, yes I did.

Jen got it last Christmas at a white elephant exchange, and gave it to me. I've been saving it for the perfect occasion.

It says: My heart belongs to my husband, but my neck belongs to Edward.

Somebody made it on her computer as a joke, and the letters were peeling up, and I am 35 years old, and I WORE IT OUT IN PUBLIC.

I went to see Twilight last night. I know I'm a little late. I'd heard it was pretty awful, so I wasn't expecting much. I have read all the books, but if you know me at all, you know I am not at all picky about my literary intake. I'm not proud if this, I'm just telling you so you know that when I read like 2000 pages of syrupy romantic teen vampire cheese, it doesn't mean I am fully invested.  I consume all kinds of literature, willy-nilly. (For instance, I am right now concurrently reading Gilead by Marrilyne Robinson, which won a Pulitzer Prize, and Angus, Thongs, and Full-Frontal Snogging, by Louise Rennison, which has not. Yet. 

Okay, fine. I'm lying. I'm actually reading the 4th book in the snogging series, who's target audience is fast 12-year-old girls.)

So, anyhow, what I want to know is: what's not to like about the Twilight movie? 

Sure, we could talk about cheesy dialogue, or shoddy camera work, or how that Jasper character didn't talk or move his face, and looked like he was wearing a rubber Josh Groban mask. Honestly, though, I didn't care. I can see good acting anytime, but where else can I see the stink-eye elevated to an art form? (Edward is a natural talent). Because, this movie had me from the first moment the Cullens entered the Forks High cafeteria. I was laughing hysterically while Edward sat next to Bella in Biology, sniffing about like he smells the worst fart ever, and throwing up a little in his mouth. Looking back, I'm not sure I OUGHT to have been laughing, perhaps it was meant to be a serious moment, but the terrific campiness was what took this movie from a 7 on the fabulous teen movie entertainment scale to a 10. Okay, maybe 9.5. But still, I ask you again: 

what's not to like?

I actually want to know! So, if you aren't tired of talking about it, please discuss. And if you so desire, please rate it on the fabulous teen entertainment scale.

New York travelogue, long style. I am incapable of Cliff's Notes, people.

Yesterday I was acting crabby cause the kids wouldn't do anything I asked, like bathe or practice the piano, and Jake said "you look like you need a vacation." 

To which I snapped back: "I just had a vacation." 

"Oh," he replied, "but I don't think running about New York for 5 days in high heels and frigid temperatures is an actual vacation. A trip, yes. But not a vacation."

Which is totally true! Because I am still recovering from my vacation! Not that I would ever trade my trip to NYC for 5 days on the beach, because I like trips way better than vacations, but trips do take it outta ya. You know? 

Such a sage, brilliant man, that Jake Beeswax. And also, so good at finding things. And fixing things. Although, I DID take apart the broken roller ball apparatus on my Blackberry, scrubbed all the many, many microscopic parts with dish soap and a toothbrush, and put it back together all by myself this weekend with directions I found on the interweb. So I'm not a completely helpless female.

So, NEW YORK. We left the hotel by 9 am most mornings (7 am our time), came back to change before dinner, and didn't come in for the night before midnight. Which is the best way to do it, of course. Who sits around in their New York Hotel rooms, even at the Plaza? Nobody, that's who. Nobody smart, anyhow.

Don't be mad, okay? Because, I totally forgot to take a picture. I brought my camera, but left the battery at home on the charger. My Mom took like two, though, with her iphone. I'll try to get her to send those over.

I'll just start at the beginning. We checked into the Plaza and started to get ready for dinner and Billy Elliott, when Jen informed us that she had brought fancy, fancy dresses for all our evening escapades, and that night would be the fanciest of all, so we should try to keep up. (Okay, she did not tell us to keep up, she knew this would be impossible.) But luckily, I had packed my Nanette Lepore black-with-the-copper-sequins flapper dress for just such an emergency. And coincidentally, Jen had brought the biggest hair accessory ever made, to go with it. So we dressed as if we were going to the Oscars, and headed further down into midtown, to DB Bistro Moderne (French American 55 W. 44^th St (between 5^th and 6^th Ave) 212-391-2400) where we ate hamburgers.

Okay, not just hamburgers. Like, the fanciest hamburger ever: sirloin filled with braised short ribs, black truffle and foie gras. All the food was great. You should go there. Then, we had extra time before the show, and plus I couldn't walk because I was wearing the worst shoes EVER, so we stopped to eat pie. It seemed reasonable at the time, people.

By this time, as you can imagine,  we were quite full. Luckily, flapper dresses are quite loose-fitting.

Billy Elliot (Imperial Theatre 249 W 45^th St. Between Broadway and 8^th Ave) is brand new from the West End. I'd never seen the movie, but heard it was cute. Tickets were quite dear, so our seats weren't fabulous. Couldn't bring myself to pay scalper prices.

First, the bad. I cannot recommend this show to anyone, for two reasons:

1. Small, tiny children, cussing up a storm. (I am not being super prudy. F bomb dropped by 9 year old almost before curtain all the way up).

2. Small, tiny children, cast in the role of small, tiny gay children. (Okay, just the one.)

Lastly, the good. The music was very good, the choreography fantastic, and the child stars incredibly, horribly, unbelievably talented. With just a few changes, this could have been a family show. But it wasn't. I repeat. It was not. So sad.

Came back to hotel where the third toe on my right foot was entirely bruised because of bad shoes. It was totally worth it. Sometimes it becomes very clear why women are a mystery to men. Am a mystery to myself, occasionally, wearing such stupid shoes, and enjoying it.

The next morning, we hurried downstairs to the Palm Court for breakfast. 

I immediately spied some scones, nearly hidden under some chocolate croissants at the continental breakfast table. We procured them. They were deemed fabulous. We each got three, with some berries. Except Mom, who was still under the delusion that she would eat only healthy foods on this trip (silly, silly Mom), and got nasty oatmeal, but then shared my scones. We ate scones for breakfast every day, which were even better when we thought to ask for clotted cream with which to slather them.

We headed out for some serious shopping, 5th Avenue style. First we stopped in the diamond district (47^th St between 5^th Ave and Ave of Americas [6^th Ave]) because, well, Jen had some loose stones she needed to get tightened up.  (That was our rationale, just go with it.) We pressed our foreheads up against the windows for a great long while, then went to go see our friends at H. H. Jewelry. They are our diamond BFFs, and fixed Jen's ring asap. We tried on lots of enormous stones, then went to some sort of brasserie in Rockefeller Center for lunch. Had some mushroom soup, croque madame, panini, artichoke salad. So good, we will probly put it on the permanent food itinerary. If we can remember the name of it.

Then we headed over to Saks Fifth Avenue, which was packed full of people, scrambling over each other to snatch up 40% off handbags. There were no handbags left on the shelves, except for one. I reached for it, and was able to catch a glimpse of the price tag- $2,500, but of course, 40% off! what a deal!- before a lady yanked it from my loose, untrained-in-handbag-shopping grip, saying, sorry, that's mine, and slid it onto her arm with 6 others. I'm not lying to you, people. There were ladies in actual fur coats (I touched one, surreptitiously) yelling at each other about 3grr purses. It was fantastic, really. It really didn't feel like there was a recession going on over to the Saks.

But Jen was starting to panic, because of the crowds, so we quickly went upstairs and bought matching jeans with rhinestones on the butt. Which also seemed like a good idea, at the time. On the way back down, the elevator opened on the shoe floor, where boxes and tissue were literally flying through the air, people were yelling for sizes, and one look at Jen's stricken face told us it was time to get outta Saks, 40% off or no.

A quick trip to Bloomingdale's, and a few other quick stops, and we were back at the room to change for the show: August: Osage County.

So, here is another show I cannot recommend to you, even though I really, really want to. It was three and a half hours long, with two intermissions, but would have been only two hours long, without all the profanity. But yes, even so, we stayed. I would have sat longer, had they kept acting. It was one of the best plays I have ever seen. Mom loved it. Jen loved it. Jen said it restored her faith in serious theater. It doesn't give you everything, like a musical. It expects something of you, as an audience. Like, it expects that you know some t.s. eliot:

This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

Not with a bang but a whimper.

And at the end, you are such an emotional wreck, it takes you some time to recover, and get on your feet, and give them a standing ovation. 

(But you also feel like washing out their mouths with soap.)

But guess what? Afterward, there were no cabs to be found, because it was Friday night in the theater district, and it was COLD. So we walked almost all the way to Carnegie Deli (854 7^th Ave at 55^th St [kitchen hosing begins at 2:30 a.m., so best to be out before then, or you could get dampened by errant hoses]), where I got giant piles of pastrami with a side of sauerkraut, pickles and mustard, and then did not listen to Jen and my Mom's warnings not to eat so much or I would get very sick, and finished it up with cheesecake with strawberries. I totally dominated that meal, and didn't feel even so much as a single quease.

So sorry, I thought I could make this travelogue compendious, but it turns out I can't make anything short; is just not a skill I have. So I will have to post the final New York installment later in the week. 

Tune in next time for more food, three more shows, more shopping, eating, the Tenement Museum, an (unsuccessful) attempt to go to Church, and snacks! I'll bet you are on the edge of your seats! If so, you should get up. Your bum will get sore.

Coldplay Phoenix Concert Review by the Minivan Mama

You know, most of my best concert experiences have not in been in big, giant arenas. I mean, the big shows are big deal, so you invite all your friends and do your hair up real big for the occasion, and you might even buy your favorite missionary a $35 Depeche Mode t-shirt and send it to the Philippines to rub it in that he didn't get to come along (not realizing until you were actually married to said missionary and folding his laundry that three other lady-admirers attended the same show and sent him identical shirts). 

Me, in Jake's shirt before I sent it halfway round the world. 1993?

Or maybe you drive all the way to Vegas, to see R.E.M. through binoculars, and then ride all the way home to Provo in the trunk of your OWN car, because no one wants to sit three across the back seat of your Acura Integra next to a guy named Balls. Including you. Thanks for driving, Jeff. (Brown. No thanks to you, Balls. Because, I think your real name was Jeff, too.) And thanks to Traci Fong and Kelly Robbins, who refused to get into the car until Balls was sitting shotgun. It was like a Chinese Fire Drill/Musical Chairs game, wherein I was clearly the loser.

Or maybe you went to see Ringo Starr, James Taylor, and Jimmy Buffett in Tucson, on the same night everybody under 40 in the state of Arizona went to see U2 at Sun Devil Stadium.

Nobody ever accused you of being extra cool.

But last Wednesday night, a mere 18 hours before our fabulous turkey supper, you were treated to the best big-concert experience of of not-so-young, not-terribly-cool life.

(And, remember, by YOU, I mean, ME. But also, maybe YOU. In case you were there, too. But really, this third person thing is getting tiring, so from now on, YOU just means, YOU. Not ME.)

I'm talking about COLDPLAY.

When I googled a bit to find the setlist, I kept finding things that said "Coldplay: The band you love to hate."

Which I don't get. Because I just love to love them. But then I think I figured it all out. See, everybody knows that they are awesome, and so they love them. But then, lame-o's like me show up to the concert in blue Honda Minivans with vanity plates. And when my former college roommate, Kari, and I sit squaw (I don't have to be PC, do I? It's my blog) in the second-row black leather bucket seats, and I say, hey Jake, the child locks are on, will you get my door? He just hits that button in the front and-wallah!- the door opens! Which, looking back, doesn't seem very rock'n'roll. Any actual cool people in the parking lot who saw that might think, I hope those mini-vanners are headed to Elmo on Ice featuring the Wiggles. And then they see me, stepping out with my big hair, 4-inch heels, and William Rast jeans, and think, Coldplay is clearly losing their edge, if that gal is here. Although, I will grudgingly admit that she is medium-foxy.

See, I'm just not edgy. And neither are most of the thirty-something soccer moms that totally dig Chris Martin (in a totally platonic, wish-we-could-set-up-a-playdate-with-Gwyneth-Apple-and-Moses-but-also-wouldn't-mind-seeing-his-blonde-fro-up-close kinda way). So I think maybe they'd like us to keep on buying the albums, but just keep quiet about it, and not write long, rambling concert reviews that include stuff about minivans with automatic doors.

Whoopsy-daisy.

So anyhow, the concert was GOOD. Really top-notch. Here's the setlist:

1. Life in Technicolor

2. Violet Hill

3. Clocks

4. In My Place

5. speed of sound

6. Cemeteries Of London

7. Chinese Sleep Chant

8. 42

9. Fix You

10. Strawberry Swing

11. God Put A Smile Upon Your Face 

12. Talk

13. The Hardest Part

14. Postcards From Far Away 

15. Viva La Vida

16. Lost

17. The Scientist

18. Death Will Never Conquer

19. Viva La Vida (remix interlude)

First Encore

20. Politik

21. Lovers In Japan

22. Death And All His Friends

Second Encore

23. Yellow

I would like to focus on my favorite parts: numbers 6, 11-15, and 23. Cemeteries of London just sounded GREAT. Better than the album. Then later, they went out into the audience a bit and got into a tight little pack, where they played these fast, short techno-ish versions of God Put a Smile... and Talk, and then Chris played The Hardest Part, and then this pretty little piano thing-y called Postcards from Far Away, which is on the new Prospekt's March EP, which you should get because it is good, and then, when he hits the last, heartbreakingly beautiful note and you think, this can't get any better, BOOM, they go straight into Viva La Vida. Wowie. This minivan mama can die happy, now.

The encore, Yellow, was also fab. It is just a GOOD song, people.

I would also like to say that I have new respect for the multi-talented drummer, who drums so fast that when you watch him you get a little seasick, and who can play the Church bell, some sort of mandolin and a tambourine, and also sing fairly well, although in the style of Kermit thee Frog. But I shan't look up his name to tell it to you, because his hair is not blonde and curly. It is baldy. To each his own, eh, ladies?

Anyhow, they say they are coming back next year! So, who wants to come along? Kari already said she's in. But don't tell her relatives, because they will be ticked if she skips town for any more major holidays.

Check out this video for LOST! It is all concert footage. Thanks, Kari!

Want more Kelly blogging about Coldplay? You are in luck!

Why I dig blonde afros

Why Coldplay was driving me bonks