Don't look at the calendar, look in your nightstand.

So, when's it over? All the laziness, and the playing, the parties, the eating? How do you know for sure when the holiday revelry has reached its natural end?

Well, I'll tell you.

It is over when the box of milk chocolate turtles you stashed in your nightstand on or about December 17th, which you have been eating for breakfast each day, before you even get up to pee or insert your contact lenses, is empty.

(Is exactly like when you finally pull the tiny felt Jesus-in-the-manger out of the advent calendar on Christmas Eve, except you get more caramel drool on your white pillowcase.)

This event happened today.

I mean, sure, there are still some mini oreos, a couple snickers bars, and some gummy bears left there in the drawer. I'm not going to starve. (I am acting on the assumption that with gestational diabetes testing, no news is good news.)

But the turtles are GONE.

When I wake up tomorrow, after a night of debauchery that (cross my fingers) includes me repeatedly beating Jake at X-box Trivial Pursuit from the comfort of our own bed, under the big down comforter (that can only be used two months of the year because it it so warm. Usually around Valentine's day I wake in the night, drenched in sweat and cursing, and throw it across the room), while each of us drinks from our own bottle of Meier's Sparkling Pink Catawba (Cold Duck will do, as well), a new year will have dawned (or will be dawning, since I still don't have any curtains on the bedroom window, and the sun is a harsh and early alarm clock. The desert sun is unforgiving. I think I might have permanent retinal damage), there will be no turtles to unwrap and scarf.

Which means it is time to pack up the nativity set, and start brushing my hair before noon.

Is anybody with me?

Happy new year.

Cousin Joe sings. And I ponder making offensive candy.

I'm back from New York.

Are you all busy like me? So much to do, even though no one would ever accuse me of doing too much. All I want to do is wear sweats, shop online, and play Christmas songs on my guitar. I also want to realize my long time dream of making divinity and dark chocolate fudge, one on top of the other, and eating it. I also planned to make some for all my new neighbors, handing over each plate of goodies with a flourish, saying:

"I'd like to give you my fudginity."

But cousin Melanie and sister Jen (among others I polled) made me promise I wouldn't.

I might consider getting out and brushing my hair to go to this, though:

My cousin Joe Whitfield's a capella group is singing with Marvin Goldstein and Kirby Heyborne on Wednesday (December 16th) at the Mesa Arts Center. You can come, too! And you can get a special friends of Beeswax discount (half price!), if you use the promo code "MC6" when you buy tickets online.

I know, I'm so totally hooked up. Joe thinks my blog is famous. I didn't want to disillusion him.

If you can't make it Wednesday, Joe and MC6 are doing their annual concert at the Mesa Temple on Friday (18th), at 7 pm sharp. Tickets are just $50, and you can buy them from me!

Nah. I'm lying. Friday's show is totally free. I'm going early so my kids can see the lights.

Quick, tell me what to eat in New York.

Thanksgiving was good. We had fun visitors. We ate stuff and cooked stuff. We were very good cooks, although very slow cause of all the talking. We patted ourselves on the back for our tasty creations. We sent the children out in the yard, where they played chicken on electric mini cars and scooters and scraped off lots of their skin. I ran out of band-aids. No one lost any teeth. (Except Jane. But it was already loose. And our flaky tooth fairy still hasn't shown up yet.) I forgot to sleep very much. I might have stayed up until 5 am on Saturday morning, woke at 8, then ate an entire box of Harry and David chocolate covered blueberries. Fell asleep for the night at 5:30 pm. 14 hours later, I rose refreshed, like a Phoenix (but in Gilbert, not Phoenix). Was a 2-days-after-Thanksgiving miracle. Then Jane started puking and didn't stop, and I got all hypochondriac-y and got nauseous, too. But so far I don't have it.

I really hope I don't get it.

I'm leaving for New York on Saturday.

Is my last hurrah before I get all third trimester big and mean and can't move. And before I start nursing, and can't ditch the infant for like a year. (Er, I mean, I would never want to be separated from my baby for even a moment.)

This year's trip is rather spontaneous, and we don't have plays or food planned yet. Today, perhaps? But we did find a hotel. Is not the Plaza, but it does have Gordon Ramsay and afternoon tea. (We don't like the F word, but we LOVE tiny sandwiches and clotted cream.) Also, according to the photo gallery, they have very hip, skinny, 50s style guests wearing small furs, and dogs. (They don't wear the dogs, they bring them, live, on vacation to the city.) Can't wait for that.

This London Hotel NYC patron has it all: retro suit, afternoon tea, dog.

We are thinking about seeing South Pacific, Superior Donuts, In the Heights, and perhaps Mamet's Race or A little Night Music (starring Catherine Zeta-Jones and Angela Landsbury. I'm not joshing.) Both of these shows are still too new to have reviews, so is possible are real stinkers, and pricey stinkers. No discounts on Broadway box yet.)

We will also probly go back to the Lower East Side Tenement Museum, because it is awesome and has many different tenement tours given by super attractive NYU grad students. (And by super attractive, I mean huge nerds with floppy hair and Barry Goldwater glasses.) When we were there before, my sister leaned over and said

you want that guy's job, huh?

And you think he's hot?

And I did.

And I did.

(Heaven forgive me.)

As for food, all we've settled on is Carnegie Deli and Mr. Chow. We've decided to go a little lower brow this time, cause sometimes we go to these fancy places and they like to trot out the weird animal products at dinner time to impress us. Please, we plead, don't get out the suckling duck and sweetmeats on our account. We totally dig chicken. Do whatever you like to the chicken. Or the fish, or the skeletal meat of the cow. But please, put away all the testicles, and stop stuffing that intestine with cauliflower or figs. Is untoward.

So, quick, tell me if you have any recommendations. I'm buying tickets and making reservations asap.

Then, I'll worry about the fact that I don't have any pants. That fit.

I do have one very cute dress, though. I should get some tights, or my bum will be frozen.

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.)

"The trouble with armadillo races..."

...my Dad began, last night at Sunday dinner. We all started laughing, and so he asked, What? You've never been to an armadillo race? How old are you? 

Anyhow,  he continued, the trouble with armadillo races is that sure, somebody wins, and somebody loses, but EVERYBODY ends up with stinky hands.

(Apparently armadillos are very smelly, and even strong soap won't take off the stink. Also, I looked it up, and in Texas, you can hire armadillo racers to come to your party, like a clown or a magician!)

I've often thought that I should tell you about my sister's extensive and phenomenal collection of hair accessories...

But I didn't. I never did.

And then, Christina totally beat me to it. 

Warning: what you are about to see is REAL. And graphic. And, you might accidentally break the tenth commandment* a little bit.

And then, you'll be the only one on her way to Hell, cause Jen totally shares her hair bows with everybody, and has thus far been miraculously spared from scourge of lice in a miraculous, saint-style manner.

Except, not everybody** can really pull off some of these dazzlers like she can. For instance, I learned the hard way that they don't look super marvy with yoga pants*** . But she's got a copper metallic number that wouldn't look shabby next to some of Austria's crown jewels (I've been watching a lot of Rick Steves when I'm not busy puking), that I wore to a Broadway show (last year, when I was still medium-foxy, and not brought low and nigh unto death by this bun in my proverbial oven) with my Nanette Lepore flapper dress. I was smokin' hot****, but my neck was sore from holding that thing up all night!

Okay, ready? Buckle up, then click here!

* Thou shalt not covet

** i.e. me

**btw, even my yoga pants are too tight, and the Zofran quit helping at all. So I am feeling very sad and am thinking that I need to go to Wal-Mart and buy me some scrubs. They seem very loose and non-spandexy. But I don't want to puke in the aisle at Wal-Mart, for obvious reasons, plus my sister was horrified when I told her my plan, because she is more fashionable than anyone I know, and considered it a cry for help, and I think she might have called the mean people at What Not to Wear to schedule me some sort of intervention. Which I totally don't need this week. At least I know they can't have much footage of me looking like a bag lady in the grocery store, cause I don't ever leave my house. 

Feel the mode, Stacey and Clinton! (And Jen).

****I'm a six in New York, but a seven here in Scranton (er, Mesa)

Oh yeah. Come back and tell me which is your favorite!

Your blog makes me barf

I know. You clicked on the title because you think that here in the post body, I will take it all back. That I'll tell you, no way, I'm totally kidding! Your blog doesn't make me barf.

But the sad truth is, it does. When I read your blog, I want to vomit.

If it makes you feel any better, my blog makes me barf, too.

So does checking my email.

And reading. (Like computers,  all the words make me feel seasick.)

And smelling any sort of Asian food, sitting up, drinking water, watching Rick Steves eat pickled herring in Belgium, brushing my hair, or taking a nap. 

To be fair, I should also list things that do not (usually) make me chuck: lying in my bed without moving anything but my eyeballs and the index finger that changes channels on the TV remote, lemon sorbet, and vanilla mint chapstick.

In other news, thanks to our friends at Dr. Beck's office, who prescribed the zofran, I only fantasize about going into a Michael Jackson style induced coma like twice a day. And I almost never wish I were temporarily dead. Anymore.

And finally, remember when my pants fell off in Albertson's? And I pretended to be horrified by it? And then I went and got pants 4 sizes smaller? 

Let's just say that if I decided to go to Albertson's today and purchase raw chicken (seems super-duper unlikely, since I am dry heaving a bit, just thinking about it), that those pants aren't going anywhere. They are uncomfortably snug. (And I'm talking about the big pants. Those little ones only fit for like two weeks).

At least there's that. (We won't talk about how I can be simultaneously barfing and gaining weight. I'm sure there is some kind of scientific explanation that won't make me feel any better.)

Happy 8.5 weeks to me.

If you ask me in October, I will tell you I am super excited, and that it was all worth it.

I do love me some babies. 

Do you get sick? How sick? Please tell me about it. Cause it might be very wrong of me, but one thing that makes me feel better is hearing about other people who feel worse. But please don't tell me stuff like: Oh sure, once I was like, 6 months along, and I drove past this swamp that smelled like decomposing bodies, and it was totally touch and go there for like 30 seconds, but I ate some saltines, and I held it together! 

Which reminds me: no one is allowed to say anything about eating saltines. It will make me very angry.

The TeeVee is dumbing me up.

The weather people this worming were gushing about how it is going to be so much cooler today. Only 110! (Yesterday was 115.) But then, I think the news people are more frantic in general cause nobody watches them anymore, now that we watch TIVO. They are sort of desperate and scary. (Scary mostly cause of all the huge fake boobies aggressively wrestling their way out of tiny tops while they try to read the news. Is super professional.)

Sorry. But I have been watching all kinds of TV lately. TV during the day. Stuff not on TIVO. Even commercials. I'm not proud of it, but it can't be helped. It has prompted me to think: who watches The View? Is horrendous. Truly horrid. Like a circus side show. I wouldn't be surprised if one of those angry, ignorant ladies decided to eat fire or grow a beard. 

And what is up with this Wendy Williams Show? Is she kidding? Is she really a she? I can't tell.

And did you know Kathy Lee is back on TV? Yes, she totally is! Is unbelievable! She has some dog and pony show she does with another lady named Hoda, who looks like she got demoted from Good Morning America or similar, and is willing to be Kathy Lee's slave so she won't be sent back to wherever she came from in defeat, admitting her career has been flushed. Today they were dressed up in western gear and acting like clowns in San Antonio, drinking beers at like 7 am.

The commercials are horrifying. Have you seen the one for The Hartford insurance, that asks "What if you are in a car accident? Who is going to walk your dog?" Apparently, THEY will. They are taking MY insurance premiums  (if I had a policy with The Hartford, which I don't, and now never will have, on principle) to pay for dog walking. Not only that, they think enough people will find this idea so super fantastic, that they are paying lots of money to run ads about it. Seriously, people? We need dog-walking insurance now? I say nay!

Plus, last night I got super desperate, and decided to watch The Bachelorette finale, even though I hadn't seen the rest of the show. It was surprisingly easy to catch up. Lots of boys with lots of rings, probably looking for modeling careers more than love. What was up with the wedding dress? Why? And all the legs wrapped around all the boys? And all the making out with everybody? Yickety-yick. Yick.  I seriously cannot deal with all the extreme trampiness, stupidity, and completely scripted soap opera style pathos. Although, watching a girl get chased by good-looking men is infinitely preferable to seeing ladies slutting it up over some bleachy-toothed, lying loser (The Bachelor).

In the future, when someone writes a "Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire" equivalent for America, I think Whoopi Goldberg, Kathy Lee Gifford, The Bachelorette, and dog-walking insurance will have their own footnotes. (In the chapter entitled "If the Puritans could see us now!")

I haven't started watching any Soaps yet. Maybe after I have seen everything on HGTV twice. But probly not.

Anyhow, I feel bloated and gassy with pop culture. And, you might have noticed, medium-angry. I started to feel like my brain was rotting, so I played sudoku on my iphone while I watched this morning. It didn't help. 

Plus, I tried moving up from VERY EASY to EASY puzzles, and it gave me a headache.

I think the TV is making me dumber. 

My Mom told me it would happen.

What have you seen lately that has left you more stupid?

What I got: a brand new iphone and a big 'ol crush on Rick Steves.

Well. Sunday was me birthiversary. 

Yep. Got birthed and hitched on the same day. 

Well, not the same day, exactly.

Two July 19ths. 23 years apart.

Jake got me an iphone for my birthday. Which is fun. I use it to play sudoku and try to best my 10-year-old son Ross' time on The Moron Test, since no one really calls me on it. I don't have a fantastic track record for actually carrying a phone on my person. Or hearing it ring from inside my purse.

Normally, you won't be able to ring me on my mobile. And don't bother leaving a message, cause I don't know how to retrieve them. I like texts, if I remember to check for them. But now that I have such fancy technology, which allows me to take videos of people picking their noses on the freeway, then send it to my blog, youtube, and email simultaneously, plus look at each person in my Ward's home from space (google maps on istake), I resolve to do better.

For our anniversary Jake got me ALL 80 EPISODES of Rick Steves' Europe. Jake says that he understands my attraction to Rick is purely physical, so he isn't threatened. Very much.

I know. Hubba. Look at him in that Members Only style jacket, leaning sexily on that column.

I have like all of Rick's books, so I think that means I am, in some not-so-circuitous fashion, helping to legalize marijuana, a cause dear to sweet little Ricky's heart.

I think I just have a thing for the bad boys.

(And geeks.)

Can't help it.

That's me and Jake at Versailles, with Rick's Paris 2007 guidebook under his arm. I loved that thing. When we got to the Louvre and found that we had left Rick back at the hotel, Jake went to the museum store, where he asked the American clerks if they carried any Rick. "Oh, you mean the bible?" they asked. But no luck. So Jake cabbed it WAY back down the Champs-Elysees, picked up Rick, and brought the Bible back to the Temple of Man, just for me.

What a nice boy, that Jake. I think I'll keep him around another 13 years, at least.

Do you think Rick has podcasts I can carry around with me on my iphone?

I'm gonna go and check that out.

You got an iphone?

You actually use your cell phone?

You like Rick Steves?

You hate Rick Steves?

You were there at my wedding?

You were there at my birth?

uninspired. and yogurt pants. and how to trick the UPS fella.

So, Jake moved my computer from the kitchen to the office. 

So that the kids' computer can be in the kitchen, and the kids can be permanently banned from the office, where they like to pretend they are an 80's hair band in a three-star hotel room. 

(They ransack it, almost daily.  Just spelling it out for you, in case my hair band metaphor wasn't super clear.)

Anyhow, so far I find the office rather uninspiring. Which could be why I haven't posted anything new in two weeks. But it could also be cause I've been gallivanting about Arizona (Payson, then Flagstaff).  And I'm trying to talk the family into a trip to Mt. Graham next week. My kids have never hiked ladybug saddle, which seems a shame. Plus, Phoenix is supposed to be 113 degrees this weekend, so why stay here? 

The office is not only uninspiring, but uncomfortable. Jake gave me the cruddy wooden chair, and he got the leather one.  At least I got a window seat.

I think they say that if you can't think of anything interesting to say, you should type lots of other stuff. 

Til you have to pee,

or you develop carpal tunnel,

or your backside goes numb cause your chair is horrible, hard, and spindly,

or you remember those generic twinkies you hid in your purse. Which is in another room.

(Don't ask.)

This morning, I asked the kids: So, who wants to go to Target and get some yoga pants?

(Also, don't ask why my current yoga pants have grease stains the shape of In-n-Out fries on them. Let's just pretend the old yoga pants are worn clean out from rigorous and zealous  yoga use, and have been stretched beyond their cottony-spandex limits by my constant and crazy bendiness.)

Tom replied: No, momma.  I do not want yogurt pants. 

Do you have a certain place you feel creative? 

Do you fervently believe that yoga pants are a 21st century version of the 1950s housecoat? Because they are awesome, and you can keep a rolled up yoga mat by the front door in case the UPS guy comes, and you can throw it under one arm before you answer the door? So he'll think you are very fit, and not slovenly?

I don't actually do this. I don't have a yoga mat. 

What do you wear around your casa?

Muu muus?

Hair in rollers with a kerchief?

Manolo Blahniks?

I'm pretty ticked at you cause you didn't tell me about this.

But also, I'm pretty thrilled.

THE TIME TRAVELER'S WIFE IS A MOVIE! AND IT WILL BE OUT ON AUGUST 14TH!

Will it live up to the book? 

(Warning: book has serious potty mouth. I don't recommend it to people, normally, but I still LOVED it.)

Uh.

DUH.

Course not. 

I'm okay with that.

So, are you guys all going together? Without me? Is that why you haven't said anything?

Well, now you are stuck. I'm coming along. And you are going to buy me some Whoppers. 

Oh. 

And I forgive you.

If you also get me popcorn with lots of oily butter, and some of that fake cheese powder that grosses out everybody but me.

I prefer the white cheddar flavor, in case I am saving your seat while you are seasoning my popcorn.

And buying my cherry Icee.

Don't let this happen again.

Love, 

Beeswax

Jesus hit me.

Another tale from the Odyssey.

Not Homer's.

Mine.

(It has black leather seats and lots of cup holders and I used to judge women like me, but now I know that whoever invented the minivan should get a Nobel Prize for being smarty and awesome.)

Tom: Momma, my toe is ouch! Look at my BLOOOOOOD!

Me: I can't see it. I'm driving.

Lengthy pause while he examines his toe more closely.

Tom: Momma, do you think Jesus hit me?

Me: I doubt it.

WARNING: photos of my kids and good-lookin' husband, and a note to SCOTT WRIGLEY. It isn't my fault if you click here and get super bored.

You know I don't normally post lotsa photos and go on about how my kids are cuter than everyone else's (probly even yours), but that's not because I'm super humble and don't want to make you feel bad. It is just cause I'm pretty lazy about getting photos off my camera.

Sunday afternoon at Aviara. At the meadows, next to the golf course. (Carlsbad, California.)

Ross, Jane, Sam. Checking out a frog. They named it Freddy and visited him nearly daily.

Tom and Jake. Finally, Dad's found a kindred spirit. (I was going to say something about how they both really love their balls, but it didn't sound nice).

Kids with sticks.

Kid with ball.

Thinking about poking Freddy with a stick.

The hair is remarkable, no? And it smells good, too. Like sunshine, unicorns and rainbows. I like to kiss his forehead and rub my face in that yummy hair.

Outta focus, but still outta sight. Legs of a thoroughbred.

Returning from our foiled attempt to hike down to the Bataquitos Lagoon. The hotel is up on the hill.

P.S. Note to SCOTT WRIGLEY:

SCOTT WRIGLEY! I will totally give you credit for all the great spots you told us about in North County, but Jake said your blog is private, so I don't know to what I can hyperlink your name: SCOTT WRIGLEY.

will totally give you, SCOTT WRIGLEY, of MESA, ARIZONA, credit for sending us to Moonlight Beach and to Pipes (very delish, thanks SCOTT WRIGLEY, the famous accountant), but Emily in Japan told me to go to VG Donuts. If you told Jake about it, he did not pass on the info. It was a grave oversight on someone's part, btw.

And, dear SCOTT WRIGLEY, you can have credit for sending Jake to Macrumors, but if that is true, I might hold a grudge against you for a year or two.