TWO!

Tommy, you're two! Two!

TREE!

Two, Tommy. See, here are are two fingers! Today is your birthday!Two!

TREE!

You want cereal for breakfast, Tommy?

NO. COOKIE!

C'mon, cereal is so tasty.

COOKIE. COOKIE AND A BOBBLE!

Okay, since it is your birthday...and since those WERE 5 words you put together for me. Not five different words, but still. Cookies and milk for breakfast, it is.

Now, our Tommy isn't a verbal prodigy, but he can really throw a ball (any kind), shake his booty, climb like a spider monkey, and play with match box cars for hours. He enjoys long, warm showers ('shows') and walks on the beach.

He also likes pina coladas and gettin' caught in the rain.

He does not enjoy watching any TV. Which is kinda hard on me.

He is one dang cute baby.

Before Tom was born, I knew he was dark-haired, and dark-eyed. Which wasn't the most likely genetic combination, since babies 1,2, and 3 were blondies. But there he was, with a little cap of dark hair, born just a little after midnight, to his wailing, drugless mom, who hadn't had a LaMaze class in 7 years. I don't THINK I said the F word (I never have before, but if ever there was a time to start...). I can't be 100% sure, though. Jake is legally bound to back me up, I think. So you'll have to ask my Mom. She'll tell it like it was.

I would not go so far as to recommend epidural-less labor to anyone I actually like, but Tommy was so ALERT at birth! I was so alert! His dark eyes followed my voice even as he got passed from the doctor's big hands (not my Doc; he was at Les Miserables that night, and was planning to come induce me at nine the next morning), onto my belly, to the nurses with the needles who swaddled him into a tight little burrito, to Jake, to my Mom, and back to me. He looked so familiar, you know? Not a new acquaintance, but a family reunion.

He smiled at us that night. And again the next day. And then a few days after that. He never stopped the smiling.

Now, if only he'd start the talking. But I guess I can't complain. My Mom (who is a speech therapist) told me he's got the T-R blend of an 8-year-old.

And if you ask him, he'll gladly show it off.

How old are you, Tommy?

TREE!

Viva la Vida, people!

UPDATE! CALL ME BY 11:45 SAT. IF YOU WANT ME TO BUY YOUR TICKET. OTHERWISE, WE'LL SEE YA THERE!

How many of you already knew about this but didn't tell me? Come on, raise your hands high. Cause like maybe 3 million people had already downloaded Coldplay's new singles before I even heard a word about em, and some of those people are likely to be YOU. But never mind that for a moment:

WHO IS COMING WITH ME TO SEE COLDPLAY ON JULY 12TH?

Tickets go on sale MAY 17th. Plans need making. Can't waste time being ticked at blogosphere that I wasn't actually reading cause I was on vacation.

Wait a second. What is today? the 13th? MAY 13th!

Holy moly! WHO IS COMING WITH ME TO KRISPY KREME TODAY?

Dangit. I've been sidetracked by doughnuts again.

Where was I? Coldplay. Right.
So I'm checking miladies' blogs yester-eventide, and I find out Coldplay released TWO songs, real sneaky-like! I go outta town, then outta the country like one tiny time, and I miss it. No matter that I've been sitting at my computer for like a year, waiting for a new album, new single, new ANYTHING to fill my time (cause raising four kids is easy peasy and I can do that before lunch if I don't brush my hair. And who needs to brush her hair if she's just sitting in front of her computer waiting for Coldplay's new album, Viva la Vida or Death and All His Friends?) So I took up blogging, since I was already here in front of the computer, and then I blogged about Coldplay, and about how I love Chris Martin's hair, but am being driven mad by the lot of them because I've listened to X&Y more than maybe anybody else on the face of the earth, besides maybe my middle son, Sam Beeswax. Then one day (yester-eventide), I click on Kari's blog (she's very cutting edge, very plugged in, and knows all the latest, situated as she is in the thick of it, nestled against the mountains in Americken Fark, Utahar (her words, not mine). She's got her finger on the pulse of Chris Martin y sus Coldplaying Compadres. (And as long as her finger stays out of his blonde curls, we can still be friends.)

What's that? I'm not being very clear? You really have no idea what I'm rambling about? Coldplay has released two singles off their new album, the rest of which will be released June 17th. They are called Viva la Vida, and Violet Hill. You are listening to Violet Hill if you didn't already hit mute because you're sneaking a look at my blog while your husband is in the other room cause he told you THAT BEESWAX WOMAN IS A BAD INFLUENCE. SHE DOESN'T BRUSH HER HAIR NEAR ENOUGH, EVEN FOR A 25 YEAR OLD. Well, you can just tell your husband he needs some work on his adverbs. Then, he'll feel the mode. Fer sher.

So after seeing all this over at Kari's place, I skee-daddled on over to itunes, my heart beating fast, all sweaty-pitted and anxious to throw some money around. I pre-ordered the album cause then I got the title track for a buck or for free or something, immediately. Who even knows? It is all a blur. I bought Violet Hill, cause none of you fellow bloggers let me know when and where it was FREE to download. Now I'm making plans for the concert, wondering if it is appropriate to take your 5-year-old Coldplay fan along. Probly not? Well, then, that's it, I think. I think we are caught up now. So who's in for July 12th? A little pre-Bastille Day party at the jobing.com arena, anyone?

P.S. Death Cab for Cutie released their new album today: Narrow Stairs. The reviews said I'd love it or I'd hate it, and the truth is, some of the songs I love, and some I hate. I put a few of my favorites on my player over there as well.

P.P.S. It is raining outside for the first time in over 100 days. YAY! Could not be more thrilled than am right now. I opened all the windows, and now my house smells like wet-Texas-Sage-and-dirt, which is one of the best smells in the world. Now, what can I do to help people in Myanmar and China, who need something more than Coldplay singles and rain today?

P.P.S.S. Raise your hand if you don't know what "feel the mode" means.

Mexicanisimo

There we are in Los Cabos, on the Sea of Cortez. You will notice that we are standing up. This will be that last time you'll see a photo of us in this post in which we are entirely vertical. This trip was not about getting stuff done. The famous Arcos? Nah, couldn't see em from my beach chair. This trip was about relaxation. Which I can do very well. Better than most. Many people will get antsy and start looking for activities long before I've even flipped onto my belly and ordered my 2nd chocolate banana smoothie. Don't be jealous. It is just a God-given talent that I have carefully developed for more than 30 years.
We arrived Thursday afternoon. See how happy I look? That's because I read my book for nearly 2 hours straight on the airplane, and nobody bugged me. Plus, I'm in Cabo, which doesn't make me sad, either. Okay, I'm standing up in this one, too, but if you lie down on the runway, someone might think you are crazy or high, and you might get a body cavity search.

After we checked in, they loaded our bags into a golf cart and took us to our room. Andrew was just coming back from some important business at the pool. I stepped out of the cart, and part way on to a low step separating the garden from the walkway. I was thrown off balance, but just barely. I knew I was going down, but not quickly. I had time to flail my arms around a bit, then think to myself: "self, you should grab the armrest on the front seat of that golf cart, then you won't fall into the bougainvillea and make a scene." So I grabbed it, but the seat was not hooked down, so then I'm holding the seat high aloft and falling down, down, into the planter. Somehow, I caught myself, put the chair back in its rightful place on the cart, and stood up. Everyone is looking at me. Without a pause or even a word of greeting, Andrew pipes up in Spanish, telling the hostess lady that I really like to drink. I think there were hand motions, too. Which is a pretty funny joke. Only she doesn't crack a smile, and says something roughly translated as "Hey, we are in Mexico. That's cool."

Here we are at lunch by one of the pools with our good-lookin' hosts, Jen (mi hermanita) and the birthday boy Andrew (thanks so much for inviting us to your party). Somehow, we lounged around the room for too long and missed breakfast. I might have eaten some dulce de leche candy earlier in the day. This was a 'working lunch' since Jen and I discussed how we should start our own European travel show, like Rick Steves only with better fashion (no fanny packs allowed, we'll just risk getting pick-pocketed), less boozing (probly no boozing), and maybe bring our kids (perhaps not all eight) and pay them to eat local delicacies on camara a la Anthony Bourdain. We are pretty sure our show could put Samantha Brown out of business. She's a little annoying. (What? If you don't know who I'm talking about, you aren't watching the Travel Channel enough.)

Also, notice that Jen is wearing one of three 4-piece swimsuits she brought for the trip. They consist of bottoms, tankini top, short swim-skirt, and matching cover up, which often looks like a cocktail dress or something one of the ladies holding the suitcases on that game show with Howie Mandel might wear. One worker at the spa asked if she was ready to go out for the night. Jake pointed out that swimsuit fabric is very expensive (don't want to know how he knows that), and Jen was carefully and modestly draped in yards and yards of it.

We spent most of our time, sleeping and waking, on our behinds. Here's Jake, checking his email from our bedroom balcony.
Here I am, doing something important like thinking about whether I want my chips with guacamole or salsa. (Answer: both.) Or maybe I'm thinking about Mexicanisimo, the buffet from the previous night. Overheard at the Mexicanisimo dessert table: Father says to his daughter "Hey, lay off the lady fingers." What sort of off-the-grid, underground lair in Kansas must this guy live in, to have seen nary a churro in all his years? Has he never been to Disneyland, or even less exotic places like the Costco snack bar? And if his daughter has never had the pleasure, either, let her eat what she likes. Only, they shoulda tried the flan, as well. It was quite remarkable, as flan goes.

All this doing nothing isn't all fun; it can have a dark side, too. I said more than once that I felt so relaxed that I might pass out. I could easily sink into unconsciousness or even into a coma for hours or days and no one would notice. Jake is demonstrating this phenomenon in the photo below:

When Jake awoke, he said he had to get up and go to Wal-Mart, because he thought he was developing bed sores. No one joined him. The rest of realized that bed sores are just the risk you take when you start lounging full-time. It takes time and patience to build up callouses in all the right places.

On our last day, I talked Jake and Jen into walking the extra twenty steps or so down from the pool and into the chairs down on the beach. No, I wasn't looking to swim. I'd already seen too many crabs lurking around to even think about getting in the water with the critters. Jen called us adventurers as we hiked down the stairs, and she kept humming "Pioneer Children sang as they walked," because nobody ever goes down there (except for the pool waiter, who followed us down with umbrellas and towels, and asked us if we needed drinks).

It was hard to leave Cabo, but I got two more hours of reading in on the plane (book turned surprisingly sad, and, blind-sided, I found myself in tears. Hungover plane neighbors probly did not judge me too harshly. They felt like weeping, too, as the ocean disappeared into the clouds.

I returned home to some good Mother's Day loot. Cards, a beaded fan and bracelet from Ross, a bookmark, necklace and ring (which has a beaded tail that hangs down about 5 inches from my hand) from Sam, a card and poem from Jane, and flowers from Jake. My Mom made green chile burritos to alleviate our culture shock and help us smoothly re-assimilate into Arizona society. It is good to be home.

Now to the laundry. Mi ropa esta muy sucio. Except, I keep hearing a rustling sound coming from the laundry area, and I'm pretty sure there is something alive in there. It sounds too big to be una cucaracha. Maybe it is el chupacabra.

Mexican travel tip of the day:

The super savvy traveler who wishes to maximize her celebrations will be in Los Cabos on Saturday, May 10 for Dia de los Madres, then return home to Mesa on Sunday for Mother's Day, Estados Unidos style.

No tengo tiempo blogar. This Gringa is tan ocupado lying by pool drinking Coca light, eating guacamole, reading in my hot tub, and getting ready for spa appointment a las tres y media.

Backhanded compliments, scorps, and more

This morning I was showing Jake my prematurely gray hair, and I commented that maybe I should just let it go, then we could be that couple, you know, with the little kids and the old people hair. Then I realized what we would really be: that handsome, distinguished, J.Crew-model-looking-guy with the salt and pepper hair, with his wife, the old witch. Jake replied, "no, no, you'd be the sexy witch. You hear about the sexy librarian, but you never hear about the sexy witch." Well, now, I could be both. Still, I'm not sure if that was a compliment, Jake.

***********

While at the Urgent Care last week, the doctor said:

So, two kids, huh? (Had Jane and Tom with me).

Er, no. Four.

(He wrinkled his brow). How old are they?

9,7,5,2.

He looked at me weird, then continued to check in everybody's ears. A few minutes later, he pipes up: So, what are you? 25? 26?

No, 35. (I'm not actually 35 yet, but I like to start practicing early, so by the time I actually am 35, announcing the fact will be old hat.)

So I decided I was offended, because he was implying that I started having kids at 16, but then I realized, no. I have two choices here. I can be offended, or I can be pleased that he thinks I'm 25. The only way I can be 25, and still be dragging all these old kids around, is to have started birthing them extra young. Or maybe I can pretend to be their nubile young stepmother. But no. They might be permanently damaged if I publicly disown them.

So, teen mom it is.
And 25 already.
I'm so pleased.

***********

Last night at the Fresh and Easy, I ran into the Efnors, who told me they had just seen a scorpion in my yard while they were walking their dog, but decided not to to kill it. It was yea big, they said. (Which is to say, BIG. I've seen smaller squirrels). Um, HELLO? What kind of neighbors don't squish the scorpion, then TELL me about it? I'm going to get a black light, then catch any scorpions I find and release them into the Efnor's yard, because apparently they have a soft spot for scorpions. Which I do not. They can run the SR Ranch Scorp Sanctuary, si quieren. Normally, any scorps I find would get the business end of my hammer.

***********

This morning as we got in the car to take Sam to preschool, Sam says:
Mom, I hope my teacher doesn't see you in that outfit.

What, this outfit? This outfit was carefully crafted to look purposefully vague. Jammies? Maybe. But I could also totally be on my way to yoga. Witch yoga, maybe. My hair is sorta crazy like I already explained. Or braless yoga. Cause I forgot to add my suppotive underfashions, even though I do still have them, because I didn't throw any at Michael McLean.

Then I explained to Sam that 25-year-olds can get away with this sort of haphazard grooming. It's only when you approach 35, that you gotta worry about keeping your stuff tight.

Which, for me, is a long way off.

What happens in Provo, stays in Provo.

Women's Conference up to the BYU was extra super fun and educational. I learned many, many things, all of which I will not relate now, because the day is far spent, and I am far spent.

But I will tell you that Sheri Dew dissed Oprah (I think). Sheri Dew was sneaky and wily with her dissing, so as to not bring down an Oprah reign of terror or libel suit on her smarty self. But I am also crafty and wily, and I am capable of understanding moderately thinly veiled disses, and I think that was one. Maybe.

If this is Oprah reading this, I will not be a witness in your lawsuit against Ms. Dew. So don't call me.

Okay, if this is Oprah reading reading my blog, that is really super cool. So you can totally call me. We can discuss the suit over lunch at Flancer's or something. But Sheri told me you might not be a good role model, which is probably true. Anyway, thanks so much for reading my blog. I'm so flattered. Please come back soon. And leave a comment.

Err, sorry, back to Provo. I learned in a class about raising boys that boys are just sort of wild and crazy, and I shouldn't try to make them stop acting so, because it is just these sorts of behaviors that will allow them to grow into strong and capable men. I really hope their future wives appreciate all the work I'm doing here. Because it would be nice if they would sit still sometimes when they aren't on the toilet. (except for Tommy, who doesn't yet sit on the toilet. But he does slow down and get glassy-eyed when he's filling his pants. So it is sort of the same.)

Wednesday night as we arrived in SLC, it was snowing. Which thrilled me.

Thursday night we went to a concert full of well-behaved ladies, and we all listened to the latest Mormon Muzak. I would like to be a cool cat and say it wasn't my thang, which it ain't, usually; but it was actually really fun, and for a tiny moment I actually considered throwing my bra at Michael McLean. But then I remembered that it is my favorite bra, and it has been discontinued. Plus, what would he do with it? And really, we were so far up the side of the Marriott Center, that without some sort of slingshot contraption, it would have landed on some other lady down near the front. Maybe even Sheri Dew. Who might think that I was an Oprah-corrupted, bra-tossing, worldly woman, which I'm not, cause I got no time for Oprah.

Or maybe she'd just think: "Awesome. Free bra."

Friday I went to the Minerva Teichert exhibit at the art museum. She is my favorite Mormon artist, and here is my favorite painting, Wash Day on the Plains.

Friday afternoon President Monson came to close the conference. I have seen the prophet a few times: at BYU Firesides and Devotionals, at General Conference. Each time, as he enters the room, the spirit is so strong, he is less a still small voice, and more a knock upside the head, with an accompanying kindly shout in my ear: HEY LADY, THERE IS A PROPHET OF THE LORD. LISTEN UP. In addition, there is a burning in my bosom not caused by the smashed-flat York Peppermint Patty I've eaten for lunch, and I can't join in singing We Thank Thee o God for a Prophet, cause I'm all choked up.

I was accompanied on my trip by four wonderful and beautiful ladies of the Book Club: Dior, Allyson, Heather, and Holly. They were kind enough to let me crash on the floor of their dorm (Helaman Halls- Merrill Hall) and hang about with me. I learned many things from them, as well. Things that are secret lady-things, and unbloggable. Things even John Bytheway cannot teach me, unless he, too, is at Smith's at midnight, purchasing laxatives (not for recreational drug use, but for...an uncomfortable friend). Plus, if I tell all the secret activities, they won't invite me back again next year.

I also learned that the fry sauce at Training Table contains barbecue sauce, and is mind-expandingly delicious. I think next time, I might fore go the cheese fries and eat it with a spoon.

No, no, that's crazy talk. The fries are essential. I must be further spent than I even suspected. Must get to sleep.

I'm diggin' it...Part One

This is my 102nd post! I totally missed number 100, which I think I was supposed celebrate by bragging on myself in some way. I can still do that, though. I can.

When your Grandma turns 100, it is a big deal, right? Well, when she turns 102, even bigger deal, eh?

So don't leave in disgust because Beeswax is eating a Beyer's light ice cream bar for breakfast to celebrate her 102nd post. Because I love these ice cream bars. And that is the theme of this post. Things I like. One hundred and two of them.

1. Ummm, I told you about the ice cream bars, righty-o? They are mighty tasty and a much better choice, calorically, for my Sunday night ice cream bender than an entire pint of Ben and Jerry's Phish Food, which is also fairly delicious.

2. I just read People of the Book by Geraldine Brooks. I just started to write a synopsis, but then I remembered it is about a book conservator who finds clues to a medieval manuscript's provenance, with many fascinating historical flashbacks, but if I write that, then you'll know I'm a big nerd, and you won't read it. Which would be too bad. Also read The Opposite of Fate by Amy Tan. An interesting writing memoir, although it got a little whiny at the end. Uh, Amy? You are one of the most popular living writers in American literature. Who cares if someone labels you "Asian-American writer?" If someone wanted to publish my book (the one that isn't yet written), they could totally label me Asian-American if they wanted. The readers might be disappointed, though, by my lack of Asian content. I guess I could write about the big crush I had on Steve Chang in 7th grade. That Steve was one foxy 12-year-old.

Okay, where am I? #3? At this rate, this post could be my first book.

3. Bumble and Bumble curl creme for medium to thick hair. This stuff makes it possible to wear my hair curly and not look like a witch. And at about $100 for the giant quart size I buy, they ought to be adding some kind of black magic. But if your curls need cold rinsing, then creme-ing, then wrapping in a turban like some sort of sheik, then diffusing and shine spraying, this is for you. I'm actually sort of cheap, so I've tried all the drugstore curling products. (I am so cheap I sometimes can't help myself and buy generic Oil of Olay Complete moisturizer, even though I know it makes me break out and the real Oil of Olay should really be cheap enough.) I figure I'm saving money because I don't use my Bumble and Bumble on the kids; they get the below-par drugstore products I have rejected. So ladies and gentleman, if your hair has always been curly but not curly enough to do anything with, try this. (Buy the small bottle first).

4. Jeans that don't gap in the back and show my crack. In a later post I will amaze you all with my revolutionary sewing technique which has made plumber butt a thing of my past.

5. Going to Women's Conference. I leave tomorrow afternoon! I have never been before and so am really thrilled, but sad because I will miss going through the Temple with Liz, and because I will not be able to eat my way across Provo as previously planned because...

6. I'M GOING TO CABO! Jen might have invited us because I whined that my mental health is suffering from all the sickness at our house (started nearly three weeks ago, but now we are down to only secondary infections, so I think I can see a light at the end of the pus-filled, infected eardrum). But who cares about eardrums, and whether I'm acting a little bit crazy, when I am going to CABO?

7. Jake coming home Saturday night from Mountain biking in Utah and getting a babysitter immediately. That was very nice of him, especially since he was pretty much exhausted.

102 seem a long way off? Okay, sorry. I'll pick up the pace.

8. Converse low tops
9. British stuff
10. libraries
11. Orange toenail polish
12. a stack of unread novels by my bedside
13. babies
14. guacamole
15. family history
16. Masterpiece Theater
17. babysitters
18. Gary Jules
19. Food Network
20. Nutella
21. traveling
22. warm beaches with no fish because I am scared of fish
23. collecting/hoarding books
24. pretty jewels
25. hoarding stuff for sentiment's sake
26. hoarding stuff cause I can't help it
27. baking cookies
28. eating cookies
29. history books
30. blonde curly hair
31. my book club
32. Rick Steves
33. trouser-cut jeans
34. my family

I think I will stop before you lose interest.
What, too late?

TO BE CONTINUED...

Deep thoughts with Sam Beeswax

Mom, how did they make the world again? Did they make land or plants or animals first?

I go into long monologue about days of creation that bores him a lot. He stops blinking, and stares out the window; finally, he cuts me off.

Okay. But Mom? Why did they pour in the spiders? When was that?
I visualize Sam's idea of the creation of the world: a big stew, wherein the Lord adds a pinch of this or that, according to his whim. If Sam could only figure out when the spiders got added, he might be able to better understand their purpose; or maybe determine if their addition was ON purpose, or, more likely, a big misunderstanding.

Which makes complete sense to me. I think he asks a good question. Why, ever, did they put in the spiders?

Like me, Sam isn't a fan of the arachnids. No, no, hold on. I don't need your lecture about the supply chain or the food cycle or how this is earth week or blah blah blah.

Do YOU have hairy, 2-3 inch long wolf spiders at your house that you have to spray with hairspray before you kill? Because if you don't spray it and smack the mama anyway, thousands of tiny eight-legged babies will crawl off their squished mama's back and onto the shoe you squished her with, then up your pant leg and all over your house where they will incestuously multiply and bite you 126 times while you sleep in your bed? Do you have those?

(You might, if you live near me, in this great Sonoran desierto. Here is the family photo below: mom with all the babies. Heartwarming, isn't it?)
If you don't have them, don't try to tell me that spiders are my friends. My friends don't bite. Very often.

At least we don't have a house full of scorpions. (Like you, Jane and Todd, and Mom and Dad.)
I'm not sure I could answer all the deep doctrinal questions those horrid little fellas (also arachnids, btw) might provoke.

Flat Yael

Heard of Flat Stanley? In this children's book by Jeff Brown, Stanley gets flattened by a bulletin board, which sounds painful, but apparently makes it possible for him to be mailed to his friends around the world. Which is cheap travel. My friend Shawna's daughter, Yael, sent her flat self to us from her 1st grade class in Castaic, California.

Flat Yael's time at the Beeswax home has been full of exciting adventures. At first, I wasn't exactly sure what Yael's teacher wanted from us, but in my mind it looked something like this:

but that's just staged (I know you couldn't tell). Ross, Jane, Sam, Tommy and Yael didn't get to go to the Grand Canyon during her visit. Yael was wearing those super high heels, which didn't seem very practical.

Instead, as soon as she arrived, we put her to work. Yael was a good babysitter. Here she is reading stories to Tommy:This allowed Kelly more time for her own stories:Flat Yael took Ross to the eye Doc at Wal-Mart because she suspected Ross was blind as a bat. She was right! Too bad she wasn't around to stop Sam from busting the new titanium frames. That was expensive, Yael!
Jane and Yael sponsored an art show. Read the rules if you can. When I asked Jake what he would enter, he told me he couldn't tell me, because then I might be tempted to break rule #2.

Like the rest of us, Yael spent a lot of time watching Ross' Little League games. Ross is pretty good, but Yael was more interested in the concessions. She heartily enjoyed the icees that taste eerily like grape Hubba Bubba. Here she is, watching with Tom:

Things have been a little crazy around here. Yael thinks this is what all hungry and harried Arizonans eat for dinner:

Well, sometimes they go to Little Caesars. Right, Yael?

Anyway, I think she had a great time. It has been a suburban cultural feast!

Thanks for coming, Yael!

My Boyfriend's Back

That's right, folks! (Be sure to say the 'l' in folks like they do in the South, home of the Kremes, where these 'nuts grow wild on the roadside and knee-high by the fourth of July). Jake just spotted this sign outside the Krispy Kreme on Superstition Springs.

Is this real? Is this a mean and tardy April Fool's Day prank? Does anybody know anything about this? Why haven't you told me?

Anyway. MAY 13! Whatever shall I wear? I am tingling with anticipation.

But wait. Now that I've had a little time to think about it, I'm not so sure it's a good thing. Krispy Kreme is like a bad-boy, bad-for-me ex-boyfriend, to whom I keep returning. At inopportune times. After I've already gotten over him. Learned to live without him.

I won't lie. Things were bad for awhile when he first left, but now I've found healthier replacements for that co-dependant relationship. I mean, we totally ended things as friends. I've seen him around a little, and it has been okay. Not weird at all. We're like Bruce and Demi. Really, it would be impossible to avoid him in my travels. He's so cosmopolitan. The last time we met up was nearly a year ago, in London:

Honestly, it has been months since I've driven by his old place to see if the lights were on and he was back in town.

But now he IS back, I can't say no, and I'll let him woo me, lure me in, even though I know it'll never work between us. But he looks good, he smells good, and I already know we have a great time together, even if afterwards I feel sick, guilty, and swear I'm never going back for more. But then I do. Things were much easier when he was out of the state. I am a weak woman. A weak woman with glaze on her chin.

Maybe this time, the Krispy Kreme and I can just be friends. I don't need to jump right back into something I can already see will have a miserable, unhappy ending (my rear ending), right? I can set up some boundaries, like:

1. Can't use the drive thru. It is dangerous for us to be alone in the car together. I might end up doing something I'll regret later.

2. Can't get doughnuts after dark. A single doughnut during the day, well, that's just sociable; A box at home in the evening? That sounds like a date. Plus, would would my new scale think?

3. Can't ever buy one of those discount cards that gives me two dozen for the price of one. It is an evil trap. Those doughnuts seem so cheap, but who ends up feeling cheap in the long run? Uh-huh. You know.

Anyway. Welcome back, Krispy Kreme. I did miss you. Wal-Mart doughnuts are disgusting, and though the churros at Costco are tasty, things just haven't the same while you were away. Save me a raised, glazed, creme-filled.

I'll see you soon.

The next Disney Princess

Mom, what is this song we are listening to?

Another Suitcase in Another Hall. From Evita.

Oh. Is Evita a Disney Princess?

Well, Sam. No. But that's such an interesting question. I think I'll stew about it all day while I nurse my sick babies. (Sam pukes, Tom pukes and poops, Jane coughs and sneezes but does not puke. Yet.)

I'm not sure even Disney can add enough sugar to that story to make it a palatable fairy tale. I will give it to you that Andrew Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice vilified her somewhat unfairly, if very beautifully, in song. Eva Peron wasn't a fascist or a Communist. (Why does cybersitter keep taking out fascist but leaves communist?) She really did try to help the poor. She also went on that Rainbow Tour of Europe, where she wore fancy clothes and got ridiculed cuz she was friends with Francisco Franco, who was not the coolest kid on the continent at the time. She has a classic rags (to actress of questionable morals to political activist) to riches story. There really might be something for Disney to work with there.

If an opportunistic wife of a South American president/dictator will ever break into that exclusive princess cohort, it will be Evita. But it will be a tough go. Not only will she have to fit the glass slipper, but she's got to get through the palace's glass ceiling. Once she's in, she will still need to sell a heck of a lot of merchandise to really secure her spot, with Cinderella breathing down her neck all the while. Pocahontas couldn't do it (even with her own feature-length animated picture and Vanessa Williams insisting this Indian maiden could paint with all the colors of the wind); she just didn't have the right dress. Animal skins just don't cut it in this clique. One should not underestimate the importance of the dress. The Little Mermaid got a dress exception, but she had to show more cleavage to make up for it.

In a 1996 interview, Tomás Eloy Martínez referred to Eva Perón as "the Cinderella of the tango and the Sleeping Beauty of Latin America".

Aha! So there's at least one guy out there who thinks she's got a shot at the big time.

(To be fair, Martinez also said many other, non-princess-related things in the same interview, including this:
"Latin American myths are more resistant than they seem to be. Not even the mass exodus of the Cuban raft people or the rapid decomposition and isolation of Fidel Castro's regime have eroded the triumphal myth of Ché Guevara, which remains alive in the dreams of thousands of young people in Latin America, Africa and Europe. Ché as well as Evita symbolize certain naive, but effective, beliefs: the hope for a better world; a life sacrificed on the altar of the disinherited, the humiliated, the poor of the earth. They are myths which somehow reproduce the image of Christ."

I don't think he was starting a grass roots campaign to see her as a cartoon. In fact, if he thinks Christ's ideals are naive, what do you think he'd say to "when you wish upon a star"?)

If Peron gets her Princess role, I think her countryman Che Guevara should at least get his own ride in Fantasyland. It couldn't be any weirder or scarier than Snow White. That's one creepy ride.

Who else might make a good Disney heroine? Maybe Joan of Arc? She and Mulan have a lot in common.

I got an F on your lame-o book meme

Okay, this book meme is so 2007, but I just got it so I thought I'd try it. I like it because the books are so random. I've read 51 out of 99. That's an F, people. What did you get? Leave me a link to your post if you try it.

Bold the ones you’ve read- Italicize the ones you want to read- Leave unaltered the ones that you aren’t interested in or haven’t heard of.

1. The DaVinci Code (Dan Brown)
2. Pride and Prejudice (Jane Austen)
3. To Kill A Mockingbird (Harper Lee)
4. Gone With The Wind (Margaret Mitchell)
5. The Lord of the Rings: Return of the King (JRR Tolkien)
6. The Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring (JRR Tolkien)
7. The Lord of the Rings: Two Towers (JRR Tolkien)
8. Anne of Green Gables (L.M. Montgomery)
9. Outlander (Diana Gabaldon)
10. A Fine Balance (Rohinton Mistry)
11. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (JK Rowling)
12. Angels and Demons (Dan Brown)
13. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (JK Rowling)
14. A Prayer for Owen Meany (John Irving)
15. Memoirs of a Geisha (Arthur Golden)
16. Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone (JK Rowling)
17. Fall on Your Knees (Ann-Marie MacDonald)
18. The Stand (Stephen King)
19. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (JK Rowling)
20. Jane Eyre (Charlotte Bronte)
21. The Hobbit (JRR Tolkien)
22. The Catcher in the Rye (J.D. Salinger)
23. Little Women (Louisa May Alcott)
24. The Lovely Bones (Alice Sebold)
25. Life of Pi (Yann Martel)
26. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (Douglas Adams)
27. Wuthering Heights (Emily Bronte)
28. The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe (C. S. Lewis)
29. East of Eden (John Steinbeck)
30. Tuesdays with Morrie (Mitch Albom)
31. Dune (Frank Herbert)
32. The Notebook (Nicholas Sparks)
33. Atlas Shrugged (Ayn Rand)
34. 1984 (George Orwell)
35. The Mists of Avalon (Marion Zimmer Bradley)
36. The Pillars of the Earth (Ken Follett)
37. The Power of One (Bryce Courtenay)
38. I Know This Much is True (Wally Lamb)
39. The Red Tent (Anita Diamant)
40. The Alchemist (Paulo Coelho)
41. The Clan of the Cave Bear (Jean M. Auel)
42. The Kite Runner (Khaled Hosseini)
43. Confessions of a Shopaholic (Sophie Kinsella)
44. The Five People You Meet In Heaven (Mitch Albom)
45. The Bible (Can't say I've read it cover to cover yet.)
46. Anna Karenina (Leo Tolstoy)
47. The Count of Monte Cristo (Alexandre Dumas)
48. Angela’s Ashes (Frank McCourt)
49. The Grapes of Wrath (John Steinbeck)
50. She’s Come Undone (Wally Lamb)
51. The Poisonwood Bible (Barbara Kingsolver)
52. A Tale of Two Cities (Charles Dickens)
53. Ender’s Game (Orson Scott Card)
54. Great Expectations (Charles Dickens)
55. The Great Gatsby (F Scott Fitzgerald)
56. The Stone Angel (Margaret Laurence)
57. Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (JK Rowling)
58. The Thorn Birds (Colleen McCullough)
59. The Handmaid’s Tale (Margaret Atwood)
60. The Time Traveller’s Wife (Audrew Niffenegger)
61. Crime and Punishment (Fyodor Dostoyevsky)
62. The Fountainhead (Ayn Rand)
63. War and Peace (Leo Tolstoy)
64. Interview With The Vampire (Anne Rice)
65. Fifth Business (Robertson Davis)
66. One Hundred Years Of Solitude (Gabriel Garcia Marquez)
67. Catch-22 (Joseph Heller)
68. Les Miserables (Victor Hugo)
69. The Little Prince (Antoine de Saint-Exupery)
70. Bridget Jones’ Diary (Fielding)
71. Love in the Time of Cholera (Gabriel Garcia Marquez)
72. Shogun (James Clavell)
73. The English Patient (Michael Ondaatje)
74. The Secret Garden (Frances Hodgson Burnett)
75. The Summer Tree (Guy Gavriel Kay)
76. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn (Betty Smith)
77. The World According to Garp (John Irving)
78. The Diviners (Margaret Laurence)
79. Charlotte’s Web (E.B. White)
80. Not Wanted On The Voyage (Timothy Findley)
81. Of Mice And Men (John Steinbeck)
82. Rebecca (Daphne DuMaurier)
83. Wizard’s First Rule (Terry Goodkind)
84. Emma (Jane Austen)
85. Watership Down (Richard Adams)
86. Brave New World (Aldous Huxley)
87. The Stone Diaries (Carol Shields)
88. Blindness (Jose Saramago)
89. Kane and Abel (Jeffrey Archer)
90. In The Skin Of A Lion (Ondaatje)
91. Lord of the Flies (Golding)
92. The Good Earth (Pearl S. Buck)
93. The Secret Life of Bees (Sue Monk Kidd)
94. The Bourne Identity (Robert Ludlum)
95. The Outsiders (S.E. Hinton)
96. White Oleander (Janet Fitch)
97. A Woman of Substance (Barbara Taylor Bradford)
98. The Celestine Prophecy (James Redfield)
99. Ulysses (James Joyce)

Why I'm not at yoga right now

I should be in the 9:35 Body Flow class right now, but since I'm not, I think I'll blog about it.

A few days ago, Tommy grabbed a big knife off the counter while I was cooking dinner and cut his pinkie finger, and he did not cry at all. Jane and Sam both yelled and cried and made him quite nervous while I washed and put an Elmo band-aid on it, but my baby still shed no tears.

That is because Tommy likes to reserve his "I'm being stabbed with a big knife" screams for the Kidzone at the gym.

My children don't have any stranger danger. They like new people, not one has even turned around to say goodbye on his or her first day of nursery at Church. (They usually start whining when they start Primary. I hypothesize it is all about the treats/no treats.) Anyway, now Tommy is hanging on my legs, whining, and doesn't want to be left anywhere, with anyone. I think he should cry it out, but the tenderhearted (or tender eardrummed) ladies of the Kidszone don't want to let him bawl.

Yesterday, I had an appointment with my trainer (actual friend named Jodi, who is very nice and not at all like my old trainer of which I will speak in the next paragraph), who wanted to talk to me about my fitness goals, but all the talk was just to get me loosened up for the real reason we were there: measuring the circumference of my thighs in front of the whole gym, then pinching me with calipers and telling me my fat content (which I totally already knew because of the new scale). I had to try to hold my thighs still while wrestling Tommy, who had already been kicked out of child area.

Just a quick story about last time I did this Trainer Talk (yeah, I keep coming back for more). Whilst lecturing me about my sometimes habit of breakfast-skipping, my old trainer sneezed into his own hands, and upon finding himself with two hands full of boogers and without a tissue, excused himself. Excused himself not to get up and find a snot rag, but to lean under the table to remove a green lunger from his upper lip, then wipe it and all the rest under the desk. Unfortunately, his hands were still wet, so he rubbed them on his nylon exercise pants.

Me, inside my head: Um, hello, Senor Trainer-man? You aren't actually under the table. I can totally see you, and I am fully grossed out. Note to self: I really must get some anti-bacterial weight lifting gloves.

Him, out loud: Okay, I'm back. Shall we have a look at those thighs, then? (Might not have been the exact words. It happened over a year ago. The snot story is 100% real, though. I can't seem to forget it. )

Sorry, I have a hard time staying on topic. (What's the topic? Quick, read post title for clues. Ah, yes.) Of course, this whole Tommy thing is all about me. He is trying to keep me down. He doesn't want his mama fit and hot (ter than already am), so he's pulling this stunt. He's so naughty.

I really do need to go to the gym during the day, though. Nights I am tired and weak. Let me illustrate: Tuesday night I planned to go meet Liz for a class where a bunch of non-dancing, mostly white ladies try hip hop moves, so it should be as entertaining as it is sweat-inducing. Instead, I found myself in a Lexus rental car, picking up 5 sundaes in the Sonic Drive-thru. (No, they weren't all for me, but you see my point, right?)

Since I saw a little of Idol Gives Back last night, I fully understand that lack of mosquito nets and malaria in Africa = real problem. Nearly-2-year-old son of stay-at-home middle class Mom in suburbia who won't go to childcare at gym? = not real problem. I get it. I really do. Just because I sometimes find myself writing my blog in the voice of Bridget Jones does not mean I am shallow and self-absorbed. It just means I read embarrassing novels sometimes.

(I do not in any way endorse the reading of Bridget Jones Diary or Bridget Jones the Edge of Reason to my blog readers. Bridget has terrible potty mouth.)

Lunch in Globe: quel romantique!

10:00 am, last Monday. Sam, Tommy, Mom, Dad, Ryan and I loaded into the Beemer and head east. At the same time, Grandma Layton got in her pick-em-up (grandpa was alt fuel before alt fuel was cool) and drove west out of Central. 1.5 hours later, we arrive almost at the same moment at our mutual destination: the Taco Bell parking lot on the west end of Globe. But then we backtracked a bit, and went to the McD's so the kids could climb around while we ate Big Macs.

So we had some lunch with Grandma Lavada Layton, and my Dad wowed her with the the technovoodoo that is his iphone.

I asked her if she had known Grandpa (Corthel Layton) when she was a girl, since they had lived in a pretty small place (Central, Graham County, Arizona). She told me, sure, he was always around, getting in trouble, getting in fights.

The first memory Grandma (Lavada Layton nee Allred) has of Corthel was a day when she was out in front of her house. She was in big trouble for running off (I picture her 3 or 4 years old, but I forgot to ask), and she had been tied with a rope by the wrist to a bed post. (You'll remember this was before Dr. Spock. Plus, there were no fences in the yards, and anybody who's got a 1000 square foot house and couple of kids they want to keep out of the highway might attempt something similar. To wit: Mom says Grandpa Taylor also remembers being tied to the front yard.)

Corthel came riding by on a horse. He came up to her and asked why she was tied up. She explained.

"So did he untie you?" I asked, breathlessly. (He rode up on his steed and save the fair maiden (er, toddler!)

"No," she said. "He laughed. He laughed and laughed and kept laughing while he and the horse continued on down the road." (Out into the sunset, maiden-free.)

What's the point of this story? I learned that my Grandmother and I both met our future spouses while in our own front yards. This is apparently an excellent place to meet boys. Single girls, take note.

C'est l'amour!

(I also learned that I can google Frenchy phrases, to make my posts very chic and classy.)

Sugar, spice (water, fat, muscles, bones) and everything nice.

What am I made of?

This morning I decided I really needed a body fat analyzing scale, and I needed it immediately. I wanted to know how much fat I'm toting about even more than I wanted clean underpants (today is laundry day). So I loaded up Sam and Tommy and went to Target, where I located a Taylor 5593 scale on clearance for only $15.00. "Bag it up, lady. I'm taking it home!" I announced to the check-out clerk. Only, the lady didn't hear me. I saw the sign that said she was hard of hearing after I'd already performed my short monologue. Then, there was an awkward silence. Well, awkward for me, anyway.

Maybe it was good she didn't hear me, because I wasn't being totally honest. Before I went home, I had to pick up the kids (it was a half day), and stop by In-n-out for some burgers, shakes and fries with Jake and Todd. I wanted to enjoy my greasy lunch in an Eden-like state of innocence, kind of like taking one last lap around the garden before before partaking of the fruit and stepping on the fat scale. After I got on, I'd KNOW. I'd be responsible for the knowledge. This analogy isn't working very well, is it? Maybe if the burger could be the fruit? Or maybe somehow I could incorporate the pink spread I put on my fries? No, no. It is getting worse...I'll stop.

So, back at home we unwrap our new toy and start her up. This scale is cheap entertainment, people. For 15 bucks my kids and I have spent a happy afternoon weighing, measuring, and trying to trick the scale by standing on one foot, alternately peeing and drinking (it also measures your percentage of water), and telling it we are 90 years old or extreme athletes. We also washed our feet and left them a little damp for potentially better results from the electrical impulse the Taylor 5593 shoots in one foot and out the other. It doesn't sound entirely safe, which is half the fun, of course. We are all thrill-seekers over here. Especially when it comes to our bathroom scales.

So, how did I do? How much of me is blubber? Well, I'll share a lot on my blog, but there are some things a lady needs to keep to herself, don't you think? To keep the bloggy mystery and romance alive? Yes, I think so. Let's just say I'm not at all horrified by the result. My first thought as I saw the result was "maybe I shoulda had the Double Double!," but then again, I've never been much of an overachiever. I'm 57 percent water, including those 2 diet cokes, which were totally necessary to wash down the fries. 57% sounds okay, I think. Or maybe I'm terribly dehydrated, and one of you will tell me. That would be humiliating.

Now, I think I'll make the kids all go clean their rooms so I can be alone with the new scale and try it out in the buff ! (All in the name of accuracy and scientific method. Directions say it works best when you're nudie).

I've said a bit too much? Yes, perhaps.

After that, though, I'll do some laundry. I promise I will.

The nose knows...occasionally.

11:15 pm.
The lights are out.
I hear munching and smell...

"popcorn? Jake, are you eating popcorn over there?"

"Uh... yeah." he confesses.

"It smells like old popcorn. Like old movie popcorn. Do you have old movie popcorn over there?"

"You caught me. I've got a bag under the bed over here."

"I knew it! Can you believe my sense of smell? Your wife is pretty much a genius! Come on, tell me I'm a genius!"

"Okay, genius. Too bad I'm really eating Doritos."

"No popcorn?"

"no."

Dangit. "You have any dip over there?"

From the mouths of babes. (Other than me, I mean.)

On the dangers of mid-earth travel

Sam: Mom, I know why it is so dangerous to travel to the center of the earth.
Me: Why?
Sam: Because if you go down there you can break the heart of the earth.

On scamming the Easter Bunny

Ross at Layton egg hunt: Hey Grandma. I didn't get any candy at all. Just money. So I bought a whole bag of candy from that other kid for only a dollar! (What he isn't saying: he went around shaking eggs, only picking up ones that sounded like cash). In the end, he gets the cash and the candy. Grandpa Ross was very proud of this scheme.

On 'Who's your puppy?'

Tom: Daddy! (he's pointing to our wedding portrait in the hall.)
Me: Yes, Tommy. That's Daddy.Who's this? (Pointing to myself in picture.)
Tom: Daddy!
me: Here. In the big white dress. MMMM....
Tommy: Puppy?
Me: No, Tommy. Right here. You know, the lady who feeds you and loves you and keeps your backside feces-free? Who's this?
Tom: Puppy. Puppy! Woof.

On how all great kid parties include pedicures for Mom:

Jane chose a day out with Mom for her 7th birthday, instead of a party this year. Itinerary:
Mall for new Webkinz
Lunch at Flancers
Enchanted at Dollar movies
Pedicures

It was a tough job, but somebody had to take her. Grandma and Grandpa Layton and Ryan met us for lunch, then Grandma came with us to the movies. I think I liked Enchanted better than Jane did. This was my kind of party. Jane loved it and blogged about it thoroughly. She's over yonder under "Janie."

Are we going to do it again next year, babe? I'll save the date.

Sweaty pits and hairy eyeballs; stickin it to the MAN

UMMMM, I told you so. At least, I think I told you. I told some of you, at least.

But then, you likely already knew...because your underarms are suspiciously damp...

Summer begins today. Unofficially, of course. But still. The weather lady said it will be 90 degrees, which in my opinion is HOT.

Wait, you say. Spring just sprung! The vernal equinox was just last Thursday!

Well, people, this desert doesn't obey calendars. There is no law in the Old West. We've been springing since January, and now begins the long, hot summer.

I think we should have a moment of silence for the 80 degree days, which are gone forever. Or, maybe not forever, but until the end of October, if we are very lucky.

I think the government should fix our weather. It seems to be required to tend to all our other complaints and ailments. Why not this? Maybe Washington should pay for our air con bills, if it can't figure a way to shade the whole state. If I get skin cancer, I'll know it is George Bush's fault, and I'm totally suing.

As a symbol of my discontent, I might be joining the other hot and grumpy aging bourgeois revolutionaries, who wear dolphin shorts and tank tops with horrifyingly large arm holes to Costco. In this way, we can gross you and THE MAN (Feds) out with all kinds white and pasty, flabby and veiny thighs, and sometimes worse, in protest, until somebody fixes this weather. It is a diabolical plan, and we all know that diabolical plans almost always work.

In other news, big landslides closed the Beeline Highway in both directions, so we had to come home from the cabin in Payson via Globe and the many, many Renaissance Fair-goers. This took lots of time. Kids were very whiny and so I became very whiny. I got home and ran to Wal-Mart to buy food for Easter dinner (Beesons came here; thanks for doing all the dishes, ladies!) but the shelves were nearly bare. I grabbed the last bag of frozen hash browns and turned around to see a pinched-faced lady giving me and my frozen potatoes the hairy eyeball. I felt rather smug and happy that I'd gotten my hash browns, until I realized it was Easter and Jesus would totally have given the hairy eyeball lady his hash browns and gone without funeral potatoes (which is easily my favorite part of the meal), even on his big day. I guess I have a long way to go. I'm not so much like Jesus yet.

So now that I have gorged myself on potatoes and kept the party going with carrot cake for breakfast, I would like to make an announcement:

My rear end and I are going back to the gym! (No, I'm serious. April fool's is next week, and I was going to pretend to be pregnant, not pretend to exercise.) Do you wanna go with me? Ross is selling 3 month passes (little league fundraiser) to Fitnessworks (Baseline and Higley) for 20 bucks. Like, you slip Ross a Jackson, you go to the gym for three months. If you don't know Fitnessworks, they have the best classes in town. Seriously, they all are so entertaining I occasionally forget that I am exercising and that I actually hate it. Except for the spinning class, which was taught by my friend Marci. Even though she did an admirable job, I was wholly miserable and thought I might die a little bit.

If you are interested, leave me a comment or call me if you've got my #. The last day is Thursday.

Embarrassing teenage journal entry #1, and why I've still never been to the Prom

"March 21, 1992
Boys to hang out with this semester:
1. Rob,
2. Jean-Marc,
3. Lee,
4. Bruce (home teacher),
5. Klaus,
6. Adam

New ones I met washing my car last Saturday, at the beginning of Spring Break:
Kevin and his friend Jake and also this guy from across the street named Bill.

I have to go pick up Stacey from the airport. I'll finish later."

(This is my first mention of Jake in my journal. I was a freshman at the University of Arizona. Liz and Stacey were my roommates. Liz and I treated boy-meeting as a team sport. Apparently, this was quite a good list. Liz and #2 are now married and have four children.)

Obviously, it was love at first sight in that soapy driveway on that warm March Saturday.

You can tell by the way I wrote "and his friend Jake," that I could see eternity in his eyes. Maybe.

This is how it went:
Mi hermanita Jen and I were washing my car in the driveway of 1946 E. Lockwood the first morning I was home for Spring Break. I loved my car, a white 91 Acura Integra. When I drove around in it with my big 90s hot-rollered hair, the boys would turn and stare. Anyway, just as we finished drying, two 18 year old boys, Jake and Kevin, pulled in to the driveway, and asked if we would put a scrubbin on Kevin's Civic, tambien. I had already started to re-fill the bucket when I heard Jen telling them :

"we don't know you and we won't wash your car."

"Oh, yeah", I thought, "maybe I shouldn't seem so eager. Play it cool. Play it cool." Jen was only 15, but she seemed to know instinctively that teenage boys only want one thing from pretty girls:

free car washes and movie treats.

Wait, that's two. Anyway, once you do chores for boys, they don't respect you any more. I learned that in Mia Maids, I think.

So I turned off the hose and we chatted a bit, and I tried to resist, but then I gave in and washed the car anyway. (I can't believe I was so easy, washing cars even before the first date). I think Jake helped, while Kevin and Jen stood by supervising. It seemed the boys had driven all the way from Glendale to visit Sarah, the girl across the street, who had promised to wash the car. Since she wasn't available, they went to the next nearest bikini car wash (only with no bikinis, just shorts that would surely violate the BYU honor code. At the UofA they were very nearly prudy, however.) After the cars were shiny, we all went to the movies to see Fried Green Tomatoes. I sat by Kevin, who tried to get me to buy him popcorn by telling me he lived in his car and didn't have any money. I think Jake was chatting up Jen while mentally calculating how long it would be until she turned 16, so he could put some moves on her, officially. (He denies it now, but I was there. I got eyeballs.)

It occurred to me perhaps one month later that Jake was smart and cute and funny. It also occurred to me that since he was technically still in high school, he or Kevin could invite me to the prom (I had never been to a prom, and it was my secret dream). So I tried to flirt with them. Too bad I'm a horrible flirter, because no Prom materialized. By the fall, though, Jake and I were fast friends, and I might have let him kiss me if he'd tried. Alas, he did not. But that's a story for another day.

Here we are at Disneyland, January 1, 1993. You'll notice Jake is wearing his Mickey ears.

What does all this mean? It means Happy Belated Anniversary, Jake! You pulled into my driveway 16 years ago last Friday. March 14, 1992. I'm so glad you did.

I'll wash your car anytime.
I'm just a girl who can't say no.

Are you a Kristen or a Lobster?

"Is he a Kristen or a Lobster?" Jane asked this morning as we headed west on Guadalupe, while zipping her Sun Chips into her backpack and giving them a loving pat through the pink satin.

I had been trying to drown out the distasteful conversation (which included, but was not limited to, the hilarious possibilities of getting run over by a cow, and poop and farts) with The Eagles Greatest Hits, Volume 1.

I turned down the music. Tommy's head stopped bouncing, but he didn't complain. I glanced at him in the rear view mirror, where he gave me the sign for 'more' and said what only his Mother can understand is 'blueberries'. Blueberries account for about 50% of his total food comsumption this week. I got him some raspberries and blackberries, but he won't touch 'em. You should see the black poop. (More potty talk. Sorry.)

Back to Jane's question. The one I didn't understand. "What, Jane? Who?"

"Josh in my class. Is he a Kristen or a Lobster?"

I am lost, but I am starting to think that this'll be fun. I'd rub together my palms in anticipation, but I might wreck my awesome blue van.

"Like, you know, what Church does he go to?" Jane elucidates. (Jane talks like a Valley girl. I wonder where she got that?)

"You mean a Christian? Well, yes, he is. His family were our neighbors in Gilbert, so they went to Church with us. They are Mormons. What is a Lobster?"

"I dunno. Another kid in my class told me he is a Lobster."

"Lutheran?"
"Protestant?"
I start throwing out religions that start with L or have a short O vowel sound.

"Dunno."

Jane has her answer and is losing interest in being grilled about Lobsters. Ross chimes in:

"What are Lutherans and Protestants?"

So I start with the Catholics, and mention Martin Luther and the 95 Theses. (I am feeling good because I can finally use a little of what I learned in the "History of Christianity" class I took at the U of A, which was really only about Catholics because the Prof was a friend of the Pope or something. I'm not sure I'll ever have use for all the First Council of Nicea info I've got stored somewhere up in my bean.)

I pause for a moment while Ross snickers because he thinks I said 95 feces.

Then I quickly explain (this is taking longer than it did in real life) that all of them (including the rest of the Protestants and their ilk, Lutherans and progeny-sects like Presbyterians, Methodists, Baptists, Unitarians, etc...) are Christians with different ideas on the way Christ's Church on earth should be run and who has authority to do it.

"Are Vegetarians a kind of Protestant?" Jane queries.
Ross snorts.
Jane grimaces and grunts. She is like an expert grunter. Extra deep, throaty, and menacing for an almost-seven-year-old.

"Many are, but not eating meat it isn't a religion, exactly." (Except maybe for the Lobsters.)

"Did that guy get in trouble for nailing stuff on the Church? Were any of his complaints real?" Ross says quickly.

"Um, yes. And yes." I replied. "He made some good points and a lot of people listened." Not the Pope, though, not at first.

There is sort of a long pause. I figured they were all back there pondering Martin Luther. I have a warm, good-mother feeling in my heart.

Ross finally pipes up: "How do you spell feces? What if you got run over by a cow and landed in feces?"

Hardy har har.

I lost their attention before I got to tell them that we aren't Protestants (nor will most Protestants claim us even as fellow Kristens), but it was due to men like Martin Luther, that Joseph Smith had a bible in English to read. It was due to itinerant Protestant preachers with wildly differing doctrines, that the confused 14-year-old Joseph went into the woods to pray, and saw God and his son Jesus.

I never found out what a Lobster is.
Probably not a Kosher-keeping Jew.

Googling me, googling you

Whilst googling this fine Monday morn, I noticed the drop down box is full of all kinds of fun goodies. It is like a trip down short-term memory lane.

Webkinz.com
hotwheels
trumpette baby socks
Arizona Statehood Day
Arizona school cut off date
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Peninsula hotel New York Reviews
Rick Steves Italy
New office episodes
Kelly Beeswax (insert actual name.)
Pikachu Pokechow (wasn't me)
Far Side Cartoons
Strep throat symptoms (Went to Urgent care, where they swabbed and jabbed me, then told me I was clear for strep and mono.)
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Purposegames.com
Chicago fire cow

Do you know who's googling Jean Claude Van Damme? Lots of people.
Do you know who they are getting? Me.

That's right. Every day I get visitors from all over the world coming to see this early blog entry. (If you haven't seen Jake with Hugh Grant's hair lately, it is worth a second look.) Occasionally, people are looking for Hugh, but mostly just Jean Claude. I found this when checking out my visitor map. If I click on the location, it tells me they came from Google image search. Where have my Jean Claude googlers come from JUST THIS MONTH? I'm glad you asked...

Stockholm, Sweden
Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada
Liberecky Kraj, Czech Republic
Slovakia
Delhi, India
Helsinki, Finland
Iran
Italy
Paris, France
Honolulu, Hawaii
Ontario, Canada
Bucharest, Romania
Warsaw, Poland
Auckland, New Zealand
Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, Canada
Tokyo, Japan
Costa Rica

Now that I think about it, I shouldn't have told you all about Jean Claude. I should have just posted the visitor map on my blog so you could all be shocked and amazed at my cosmopolitan readership.

What have you been googling? Who is googling you? Take a peek and leave me a comment with your findings!

The end begins

The other night Ross and I were googling Far Side cartoons (Ross is really into comics lately, mostly Calvin and Hobbes). We were having some good times until this one popped up:

Foreground: "It seems that agent 6373 has accomplished her mission" says one cow to another.
Background: "Chicago" in flames.

"I don't get it," I say to Ross. "Apparently some cow is causing trouble in the city," then I move to click to the next cartoon.

"Wait!" says Ross. "I know what it is about. You know the great Chicago fire of 1871? It was started by Mrs. O'Leary's cow who kicked over a lantern in the barn. Whoo hoo. That's funny. Like the cow was a secret agent..."

I scratched my head.
I paused for a moment, for dramatic effect.
I felt something shift.
I felt the tide change.
This was a pivotal moment in our lives.

You might be thinking, it is just a cartoon.

It isn't. You see, I'd never heard of Mrs. O'Leary's cow. Yet, I know something about American History. I like to think I do, at least. I have a degree in it.

Of course, I began to rationalize, the whole cow story was made up by a newspaper reporter, who knew an Irish Catholic immigrant scape-cow would sell newspapers. He later admitted the lie. I just learned that on Wikipedia.

But, you see, Ross knew it, and I didn't. We weren't talking about Pokemon or sports, subjects in which no one expects me to know anything. Including me.

He's only just nine. I think this Far Side cartoon begins the end. Obviously, I still have a few things to teach him, but how much, and for how long? This whole cow incident isn't just a one-off, and I know it.

I suppose I should have been expecting this. I've had years to get used to the idea, ever since he was 18 months old and I would ask, "Ross, show me the letter B, " and he would respond:

"upper case or little case?"

It is different now, don't you see?

I knew the letter B.
Both of them.

Tuesday Night in Suburbia

There are days to cook. That was yesterday. 6 hours making chicken pot pies. Not including clean-up.

There are days to lie about in bed and read novels you are mildly embarrassed to name on your blog. I'm still waiting for an entire day of that, but I carve out time for the embarrassing novel or two. They aren't collecting dust.

There are days to go out for ice cream with your OBGYN. (Well, not mine exactly, just the one who delivered Tommy on May 19, 2006 because the real one was at Les Miserables. That was the night I decided that epidurals were maybe overrated. Which they are not. It was far too late, though, when I decided I had been so totally, terribly wrong. In between these momentous decisions, I screamed a great deal, not thinking I would ever see any of these people again...socially.) That day was Saturday.

There are days to clean. That was today.

I am sleepy.
My throat hurts.
I need a bath in my clean tub.
Maybe some Paula Deen brownies from the freezer.
Then bed.
Maybe about 500 mg of Tylenol and a little Anita Shreve "A Wedding in December" to wash it down.

NONONO.I need to stop dreaming so big. Ross has a non-fiction book report on ice hockey due tomorrow.
I think I'd rather take a puck to the head.

Last night was much the same. I shut it down about 7:30, all tucked into my bed, teeth brushed, jammies donned, then realized I didn't have the remote control and Baywatch was starting. I secretly pride myself on having NEVER watched even a single episode of Baywatch. Not even 2 minutes in row. I was so sleepy, though. I was feverish. Almost paralyzed, really. I could easily have let myself be lulled to sleep by the soothing voice of David Hasselhoff. But I didn't. I was able rouse myself enough to roll out of bed and flip it to PBS. I was rewarded with Rick Steves travels in Bath and York. I fell asleep somewhere in his descriptions of the amazing Georgian architecture. Which goes to show how tired and sick I really was. I have a not-so-secret crush on Rick Steves. Ask anybody. (But don't ask Jen. She thinks my RickWatch has a dark side,and that I read Rick's blog so I can evilly stalk him in distant and exotic locales, with plans to do him bodily harm. FYI, Rick was all the way over in Italy this summer while we were in London and Paris. Which I thinks proves my lack of evil intent.

Jake had a computer guy with an orange tie come over this morning and configure things so all our 5 computers (even the geezerly, won't-run-the-webkinz one, plus one not plugged in) will play nice and print wirelessly. He also did something to make the network stronger so we can watch netflix movies on the laptop in the bedroom without the troublesome pauses. Important stuff. Thanks, Jake. You are right. There aren't words or room enough on this blog to thanks you properly. Maybe I'll have to share the brownies with you later.

There are also days for washing stinky clothes. That's tomorrow.