Free books, cheap wheat

Just a few deals for you:

I just got Paulo Coelho's The Alchemist (I've been wanting to read this) FREE on Itunes! You can get the audiobook through July 14. I'm going to try to listen to it on the way to California next week, even though I HATE being read aloud to, even by Jeremy Irons. I mean, hey, it's FREE.

Costco (at least the new one on Sossaman) has 45 pound buckets of Red Wheat for $27. That's not a bad price, and it is a REALLY easy way to stock up on on wheat. I usually make my bread from Hard White, but that is much more expensive and harder to get these days. I am tempted, even though my whole closet is already full of wheat. There isn't room for my Imelda-like shoe collection.

Now, is anyone out there willing to lend me Counting Stars by Michelle Paige Holmes? I need it for book club next week and I don't feel like going to the bookstore. 

How my Pringles and I celebrate the 5th of July

As you probably already know, it is bad manners to not eat anything on major holidays. Especially if you talk about not eating anything, or give eaters the hairy eyeball for their caloric intake. People will notice you are not eating, and it might make them a little uncomfortable as they stuff their faces in celebration. You do not want to cause anyone discomfort. It is not genteel. So, if it's Christmas, drink your egg nog. Eat a little fudge. If it is Thanksgiving, do not ask your Grandma to make you your very own green beans without the crunchy onions on top. She is old, and doesn't have time for that. Oh! And eat your pie. The crust, too. And don't whine that there isn't any diet cool whip. Only ask for a recipe if you really want to duplicate it at home, and not because you are searching for hidden fat deposits.

I'm not saying you need to stuff you face for Arbor Day; that is totally unnecessary. Don't even try to make a case for it, unless your dad is Johnny Appleseed or Al Gore or something. And it shouldn't really have to be said, but Canadian Thanksgiving only counts if you are Canadian. If your passport says USA, politeness cannot be your excuse for going to the Canadian Super Buffet on the second Monday in October. If such a place exists. Is just run-of-the-mill gorging, and not the mannerly gorging of the well-bred. And of course, if you are abstaining due to diabetes, lactose intolerance, or being a Jehovah's Witness who cannot celebrate these holidays, you have a valid out.

So, in an effort to be courteous and polite to my co-celebrants, I had myself an Independence Day feast. Those Declaration signers deserve this much, at least. I mean, once the ink was dry on that auspicious document, those guys were pretty much toast if they lost the war. Before that, they were disgruntled, skirmishing colonists, who might not have known better. But a new country? Treason. They'd be strung up for sure, once they lost the war. And it totally looked like they would, obviously. And then, I don't want to spoil the ending for anyone who hasn't seen the movie, but they WON! That sort of bravery and great good luck, coupled with divine intervention, deserves a celebratory hamburger with all the trimmings, in my book. I even bought myself a can of Pringles to go along.

Instead of regular Pringles, though, I bought the NO FAT ones. Then, on the 5th of July, when I have no excuse at all for indulgence (not being sociable, not a real holiday) I ate the whole can. Then I read the fine print. There is FAKE FAT in there. OLEAN. Which can cause some fearful intestinal difficulties. I won't go into this further, because not one of you commented on my circumcision joke last week, so I only can deduce that you all must be a bit prudy. Which is cool. I don't want to offend your delicate lady-like sensibilities with potentially leaking diarrhea.

Sorry. I did it, anyway. I really felt like saying leaking diarrhea. Which sounds much worse than the regular kind, you know? But luck was with me. I won the olean lottery! I didn't get any LD. I mean, seriously, who else would get the LD, except the girl who eats the whole can while reading her mediocre novel, Double Bind? I will not push my luck, though. I should have bought the regular chips in the first place, in celebration of my freedom. I was breaking my own rules. No more Olean for me.

Still, I refuse to feel bad about my little Pringles slip-up. The 5th of July must be an important holiday, too, right? Those Declaration signers probably took all their wives out to Sizzler or somewhere good that day to celebrate their likely impending demise, with gift cards courtesy of the Continental Congress (who had voted for independence on the 2nd of July, but asked Thomas Jefferson to make it official with a fancy document. That took a couple of days, even for TJ.) Maybe they all sat in an enormous booth, that first 5th, sipping cokes and brainstorming the preamble to the Constitution.

No, that can't be right. Gouverneur Morris wrote the preamble, and he didn't sign the Declaration, so he wouldn't have been invited to the Sizzler party.

His brother, Lewis, was there. Maybe he took notes.

The primary sources are unclear on food and beverage preferences of the founding fathers, but I think they were a well-mannered crowd, and celebrating a major event, so they probably splurged that night and ate the real Pringles with their burgers.

'Cause Sizzler probably served Pringles in 1776.

Gentile hot dogs, Krispy Kreme Sundaes, and Sam's doppelganger

I have to put something up to displace Guns n Roses from the top-o-the-blog before we leave for our 4th of July festivities at the cabin. Axel's mug, coupled with all the meat talk, was making me mildly nauseous. I can only imagine you felt the same...

Last night at cousin Isabella's party, there was a crock pot of assorted hot dogs: cheese filled, general beef and Hebrew National. I asked Jake's brother Brigham, "How can you tell the Hebrew Nationals from the other weinies?"

He didn't get the joke. It was probably the crummy delivery.

No matter, because soon we had KRISPY KREME SUNDAES: raised doughnut, scoop of vanilla ice cream, sprinkles, and a cherry. I shared Sammy's, so I wouldn't regain any of my NINE lost pounds, but it was GOOD. Otherwise, I would have put away three of those, no trouble. Thanks, Gini, Sam and Janae!

Jake's Mom found these pictures on Rubberball.com, a stock photography website. Do you think this kid looks like Sammy?

Here is Sam, 2 years ago, just after he cut his own hair and made me cry:

Then his hair grew back, so he looks a little like the shaving kid's fro'd twinner, maybe:

So, is this kid Sam's brother-from-another-mother? His alter ego?

Did someone clone Sam, like they did Dolly the Sheep?

Welcome to The Jungle

NO, NO. This isn't about them or that horrid song.

So then, are my children even crazier than usual, and my house extremely humid like a tropical rainforest, due to 6 pre-Church showers? Well, yes; but no, that's not what this is about. Keep guessing.

What? Am I finally going to post photos of Jake's golf trip to Costa Rica last December? Um, I wasn't planning on it, since he's got his own blog he could use if he wanted; but here's one if you are interested (playing Tarzan instead of golf):

Well, then, if none of those, could I be referring to the graphic, stomach-turning images of unhealthy meat packing, made famous in the 1906 Upton Sinclair novel, The Jungle, a book that I have never read?

YES, YES, that's it! You've guessed it! (I really didn't think you would).

You see, unlike everybody else, (who totally loves it like they love puppies and chocolate chip cookies) I am not a big fan of raw meat. I avoid it, mostly. I buy flash frozen, boneless, skinless chicken breasts, so I don't have to manhandle them, much. Or whole, seasoned, cooked birds at Costco. Semi-annually, I buy a roast and cook it in the crock pot until it is shrivelled and nearly charred. I have been known to attempt a few rather tame things with ground beef. I do prefer the people at In-N-Out to do the work for me, if possible. If I had to kill my own meat, there is 100% chance I would be a vegetarian.

In college, my roommate/cousin Melanie would occasionally make me buy meat, but she would mostly cook it, all the while making jokes that she was going to leave the little blood-soaked pillow at the bottom of the package under my bed pillow. These good-natured jabs would often give me horrible dreams, which in psychiatric jargon are called meat-mares (or should be).

These days, Melanie has been canning her own meat at home. When, say, chicken goes on sale at Albertsons, she buys 20 pounds and 'puts it up'. I once walked in on one of Melanie's meat disciples, Heather, with a sink full of raw meat, while I was in the throes of morning sickness with Tom. I nearly puked on Heather's living room rug.

One day, though, Melanie gave me a 1/2 pint jar of beef and told me to go make some tacos. When I finally got around to it, 6 months later, Jane told me it was the best meat she ever had in her life (course, the standard is quite low at our house, but it WAS good), and the rest of the kids concurred. So when Melanie told me the beef prices were low because the cattlemen can't afford to feed them and are slaughtering them, I thought, okay, I'm ready. Let's do this.

So we did. I canned meat. 18 pints in Aunt Ardy's pressure canner. Then, I might have gotten a little crazy, and did more on Saturday night, since we couldn't find a single babysitter; even though we called like 40 of them, who all had better things to do. You know I totally would have gone to that party and maybe seen Get Smart, instead of playing with meat, given the chance. I may have joined the meat cult, but I haven't been fully brainwashed. YET.

I'm fairly sure at some point in my past, I said something like "Me? Can meat? Sure, right before the world comes to an end." So you all better watch out for the Apocalypse. Cause I think I also said something similar about me driving a minivan. And we've had 4 mini-vans. So, repent if you need it (and we all do). The time could be nigh.

If this is the end, though, I'm ready. With lots of beef in jars. (I'd put a photo of my actual jars on here, but Tommy took off with the cable that sucks pics from the camera to the computer.)

This morning, Melanie called and tried to lure me back into The Jungle with cheap chicken tenders at Sprouts. (Tempting, since tenders don't need any butching before being stuffed into jars). But I haven't given in to temptation. YET.

Still, I have joined the ranks of the meat packers. I've got the bloody apron. Now, is there some sort of union I need to sign up for, or some Safeway I need to picket?

Just let me know.

Charlie Bit Me: Why Can't My kids Speak the Queen's English?

Why don't my kids sound awesome, like these kids? Huh? Cause like, their 5th great grandfathers and 17th cousins thrice removed in England sounded (and currently sound) like this:

It really ticks me off that we sound like a bunch of hicks from the Colonies.

Oh, wait. We are a bunch of hicks from the Colonies.

How did this happen? I mean, there are lots of Britishisms we shrugged off for good reason: the monarchy, powdered wigs, black pudding, aristocracy, and unreasonable taxes on our tea and pesky stamps on all official documents. (Um, that's all I got; unabashed anglophile that I yam.)

I really think we should have thought twice before throwing out all those delightful-sounding vowels, though. I know our forefathers (many not English) got over here with a mish-mash of accents already, then had to borrow names for all the new stuff they saw: raccoon, squash, moose from the Native Americans; cookie, cruller, and stoop from the Dutch; levee, portage, and gopher from the French; barbecue, stevedore, and rodeo from the Spanish. (I stole all that from Wikipedia.)

The changes started so early, it really does seem as if they shrugged off the 'English English' like many other niceties that must have seemed impractical in frontier life. Many smarty linguists think that General American (like newscasters speak) was already in use by the time of the Revolution, because the Canadians sound more like Yanks than even the Southerners do (all that's different is a couple of vowels and some slow-talkin'), and almost all immigration into Canada from the colonies was before 1820. Thus, if they sound like us now, they sounded like us before 1820, too.

I sort of think it was a Puritan conspiracy. They didn't want to sound like English Country Gentlemen. An English Country Gentleman was THE MAN to them. When Noah Webster published his first dictionary in 1828, it was partly to prove to the world that Americans had their own dialect. In it were 12,000 words that had never before been published in a dictionary. When he published his school spelling textbooks he hoped to rescue "our native tongue" from "the clamor of pedantry." (Here: 'pedantry'= British Aristocracy). Webster, at least, was proud of his hick talk.

Maybe I should be proud, too? I took this quiz to see exactly what I'm dealing with: a starting point, if you will.

What American accent do you have? Your Result: The West Your accent is the lowest common denominator of American speech. Unless you're a SoCal surfer, no one thinks you have an accent. And really, you may not even be from the West at all, you could easily be from Florida or one of those big Southern cities like Dallas or Atlanta.
The Midland
Boston
North Central
The Inland North
Philadelphia
The South
The Northeast
What American accent do you have? Quiz Created on GoToQuiz

This quiz could not tell you that I am from the San Fernando Valley, which makes my native dialect even more tremendously embarrassing than just Western American English. It is a close relative to the infamous SoCal surfer. I was known, on many occasions in the 1980s, to use the terms "grody to the max" and "gag me with a spoon" with a completely straight face. I still say 'like', like, totally too much; as if it were, like totally awesome fer shur, instead of painful to the ears. I have noticed that when I get on the phone with my friend Shawna, I regress into my junior high vernacular, and I enjoy/am horrified by listening to myself speak. Jake said that I sent him an audiotape on his mission in which I spoke in such a way that the Filipino missionaries did not believe I was speaking any sort of English at all.

Some of you might have a 'special' version of the Western accent, known as Utahnics. This is really outside the scope of today's post, but you can read someone picking on you with great aplomb here. I can proudly say, that my 'teat-chers' (professors) there in Provo at the BYU (a true and living school if ever there was one), even those from American or Spanish 'Fark', had no lasting impact on my accent.

So you see, Noah Webster or not, there really isn't much coming out of my mouth of which I can be proud. I decided that, with my language handicap, I was in no position to teach my kids to speak like Charlie and his brother, or even Harry and Hermione. So my sister Jen (we are of one mind on this issue) and I decided what we needed was a proper English governess. A nice orphan like Jane Eyre would suit nicely. Turns out, though, those aren't as cheap as you'd think. So plan B is: have our Mom tutor our kids in the Queen's English. Mom is a speech therapist with a knack for imitation. She can parrot almost anybody, anywhere; and does, wherever we travel. We normally find this hilarious, but now, it is serious business. Ross also has a special talent for it. His Bahamian as well as Indian Colonial is really prodigious for a nine year old. With just a little help, in no time he'll sound just like Madonna and Brittney Spears.

I had been mulling this over for some time, but I think my thoughts were perfectly expressed on Saturday night at Gammage, by Professor Henry Higgins, in My Fair Lady (this is the movie version, with Audrey Hepburn, and Rex Harrison, plus some helpful Portuguese sub-titles):


"An Englishman's way of speaking absolutely classifies him, The moment he talks he makes some other Englishman despise him. One common language I'm afraid we'll never get. Oh, why can't the English learn to set a good example to people whose English is painful to your ears? The Scotch and the Irish leave you close to tears. There even are places where English completely disappears. In America, they haven't used it for years! "

So I guess I'm uptight, pompous and priggish like Professor Higgins. Unfortunately, I sound more like Eliza Doolittle (before her speech lessons).

Like, I am so fully lame. I wish I could talk like, TOTALLY RAD, like Charlie's brother. And Henry Higgins. Oh, and Colin Firth, and Emma Thompson.

And the Queen, God save her.

The story with the elusive moral; or, how Tommy learned to waterproof his own bum

Yestermorn, whilst I was doing laundry, dishes and making beds (i.e. catching up on blogs after mini-break in Payson), Ross yells "Mom! Do you want to come see this?"

I do want to come see that.
I've been a mom long enough to know to always answer that question in the affirmative.

While still en route to Tommy's room, I can see from the far end of the hall that Tommy has disrobed entirely, has climbed up on the changing table, removed his wet diaper, and taken a new diaper from the drawer.

He's changing his own pants.


It isn't until I enter the room, though, that I see he has also located the Desitin, and is applying it with great care and skill to his own backside.

He's doing a marvelous job. There will be no diaper rash in his immediate future, not with such thorough coverage of his nether regions.


I'm not sure what to make of this. I think there are some clear lessons, certainly. The two that first came to mind were these:

1. Do not read anything while Tommy is awake. At 2 years, 1 month, he is at the zenith of his destructive game. On the smart/destructive scale, he sits evil-eyed in the center of the graph. From here, he will only get more smart, and less destructive. Of course, there will be a period in his teens, when he first gets his driver's license, when there might be a spike of destructive, as well as a dip in smart, but that doesn't change the fact that today, he is very, very dangerous.

2. He is capable of changing his own diaper, and looking after the welfare of his own crack; ergo, he should be capable of using a toilet.

The more I think about it, I feel I am missing some more subtle lessons. I just don't know what they are. What is the moral of the story? Maybe if I squint hard, I can read between the lines:

1. My children are capable of much more than I appreciate, and I can expect more if I teach more?

2. My babies are only pretending to be helpless; when my back is turned, those sneaky babes are probably online betting on the ponies, or studying calculus by the sof glow of their fishy night light. Then they cry for a bobble, and fill their pants. I've been duped. We've all been duped.

3. I should just be happy that, although he isn't out of diapers YET, I won't have to change them anymore. Which is almost as good, but still expensive. (Really, am I willing to let him have a go with any solid waste? No.)

4. I should be thrilled that Ross actually noticed something that was going on outside of a book, the computer, or the wii.

That's all I've got. I got no more.

I'll think about it some more while I get ready for My Fair Lady over at Gammage tonight. Janie is coming along for the first time, with Jen and Mom, too. Dinner first at House of Tricks off Mill Ave.

Stuff I did instead of blogging:

Took all kids to pediatrician for check-ups. Doc says: "does Jane eat enough? She is in the 20th percentile for weight, but she is very tall. From whom does she get it? No offense, but you are a sort of medium-boned gal."

Oh, of course. No offense taken, even if by 'medium boned' you meant 'big arse-ed.'

I've lost 8 pounds since Dr. Smithe (sneaky name change, eh?) made this observation. I should send him a note of thanks!

Was busy keeping Ross in Harry Potters. He read numbers 4-7 in 1.5 weeks. Plus some other books. Was like 2000 pages. Then he quit and started Calvin and Hobbes comic books.

Took kids to Payson. Ate Dairy Queen for dinner. Forgot to take computer for to blog up a storm, as planned.

Instead, painted all nails in 'orange you cute.' Is more tomato red than orange. Is show of solidarity with save the tomato cause.

Re-read some of 1776 by David McCollough for book club (only got to September 1776 this time around, but in my book club, no one ridicules me if I don't finish official club-sanctioned text because have read "The Seduction of the Crimson Rose" instead. It is just that kind of awesome book club filled with wonderful non-judgemental ladies. LOVE my book club). 1776 is great book. Worth finishing out the whole year, even a second time around. Author's depictions of both George Washington and George III very three dimensional. Whole book is chock full of juicy, lengthy quotes from primary sources. My kind of history. Also, I have small crush on Henry Knox, because even though he was short and thick, he was also very smarty and brave, and ran the Brits outta Boston.

Saw Emma Smith movie. How can any one woman have so many trials? Compared to Emma, I have no actual problems. For Emma, my problems would be like Disney vacation. My attitude is fixed completely. No more whining about having kids at home all summer. Is unseemly and mortifying to whine, plus kids and I are actually having a good time. Things are going much better than expected. Unlike they did for poor Emma. Movie is beautifully filmed and her hair is spectacular. Not that I notice such trivial things anymore. Because now, I am a non-whiny and non-shallow, Emma-like, tough cookie. It is still playing through the 26th at the theater by the Bass Pro Shop.

Is nearly 2 am. Need sleep.

Save the (potentially-infected) tomatoes. Or not. Your choice, really.

UN-TOMATO-RELATED-NOTE: There's a little preview of the new Coldplay album on my player over yonder, not due out 'til the 17th! I've got all but two songs here. Don't worry, Chris will get his dough: I've got it pre-ordered at itunes. Now, back to tomato business...

Yesterday I read an article that said the country's tomato business was in 'complete collapse.'

For some reason, the idea of all the red, ripe, juicy, mostly-salmonella-free tomatoes, all across the country, rotting in warehouses, in trucks, behind grocery stores, or on the vine, is making me sad. I keep thinking about it.

Yes, I know, it doesn't make any sense. I do nothing about Darfur, I've never saved any whales, and I always use more than one square of toilet paper, but finally, over fruit-masquerading-as-vegetables, my conscience is pricked. I feel moved to action. It makes no sense. I don't pretend otherwise.

See, there are likely just a few bad tomatoes, but all the tomatoes are being punished. For some reason, the spinach scare a couple years ago did not effect me in this way. Or meat recalls. Bad meat is too scary. Cannot save it; though, of course, it is a sad waste of life.

No, this is not a joke. I am not employing sarcasm as a literary device. This is a call to action.

Gentlemen (and Ladies), start you ovens.

I looked it up, and if you cook the tomatoes at 145 degrees for only 15 seconds, guess what? Wallah! Dead salmonella (if there ever was any on your tomato).

So then I thought, I should go to the Superstition Ranch Market, and save some tomatoes. I could buy boxes of them, and slow-roast them (at 200 degrees for 11 hours, that salmonella will be super dead, see?), and freeze them for sauces and soups. I'm wondering if the prices are good? Or if they will sell them to me at all, because maybe they are afraid I'll sue them or something? If I die (from handling raw tomatoes)?

So you see, the poor tomatoes don't deserve to rot. You can save them, too. Think how good you will feel if you save just one tiny grape tomato from the rubbage heap, landfill, or compost pile(no, wait, grape tomatoes are already in the clear; buy a sad little roma tomato, who would otherwise go without a home)!

UPDATE: My sister Jen has talked me out of eating potentially infected tomatoes. She said is very creepy and I should not blog of it. But I already blogged of it (see above rant on eating sicky tomatoes), and these days, with all the house cleaning and offspring-entertaining I'm doing, I find I have little time to write. So cannot waste even creepy, partially misguided (even if my heart was in the right place) posts. She also reminded me that I am not a Freegan. Which is true. I am not. I have no stewardship over those tomatoes. I have no responsibility for those tomatoes. I need to let the infected tomatoes ROT.

So, to kick off my tomato therapy, I just roasted the tomatoes from Melanie's certified-disease-free-garden (Tommy picks any of my tomatoes with the first sign of orange color, then chucks them against the block wall, so I have none of my own.)

(Okay, I'll be honest. I did get one. Like three weeks ago. Sheesh.)

I will make delicious soup, but maybe add no cream this time. Have lost 5 pounds this week (even though slipped and ate 1/2 a frozen brownie, three candy orange slices, and a handful of caramel popcorn), and have gone to gym twice.

TWICE, people.

Here's the recipe I use to roast fresh tomatoes:

see more details on Kalyn's blog
Slow Roasted Tomatoes Kalyn's Way
(slightly adapted from Alanna's master recipe)

20 Roma type tomatoes (same size tomatoes are best if your garden cooperates)
2 T olive oil, plus a little to oil the pan if you don't have a mister
1 T ground fennel
2 T dried basil
1 T dried oregano
1 T dried marjoram
(Any combination of herbs that appeals to you can be used.)

Preheat oven to 250 F (about 9 hours roasting time) or 200 F (10-11 hours roasting time.)

Wash tomatoes, dry, and cut each tomato in half lengthwise, keeping the stem spot in one piece (to grab when peeling the tomatoes later.) Put tomatoes in a bowl and toss with olive oil and herbs.

Spray cookie sheet with olive oil mister (or brush very lightly with oil). Arrange tomatoes cut-side down on cookie sheet.

After about 8 hours, start checking tomatoes. They're done when skins puff up and tomatoes are reduced in size by at least half. It's a personal preference as to how dried you like them, and I prefer to cook mine until they look fairly dense, but still a tiny bit juicy.

R.I.P., Granada Hills High School.

So, you know how classmates.com sends you (and by you, I mean, me) emails, like twice daily, telling you that 10 old friends have signed your guest book on their website? And that for only 3 bucks a month, for a contract period of only 36 months, you can read what these potential long-lost loves and BFF's (who are only just trying to honor their solemn yearbook promises to K.I.T.) have got to say to you?

And you totally want to know who they are, and what they said, because you didn't go to your 10 year reunion because your actual BFF from High School, Shawna, thought she wanted new ceiling fans more than tickets to the event. And you sort of agreed with her that ceiling fans would be the better investment, in the long run.

Fact is, you REALLY didn't want to go to the reunion alone, or even with just your super-hot husband on your arm. You were afraid you wouldn't know anyone there, because only the extra, icy-cool kids would come to the reunion, the ones you had almost nothing to do with. You were busy editing the Editorial page on the newspaper, not dating any boys, and adjusting your kilt and pulling up you knee socks on your horrifying drill team uniform, while they were busy being awesome, 90210 style. Only their zip was 91344.

You pretty much looked exactly like the above googled image of the Highlander Drill Team (is amazing what you can find, eh?), except somehow these kids got outta wearing the knee socks with little flags on them. Lucky ducks. And even though you had John Elway's very, very OLD Spanish 3 book, it didn't make you look any cooler; not while you were wearing that jabot (lacy neck thingy), or when someone had to explain to you who John Elway is.

Even though you are in all the fake yearbook photos of the prom, you didn't actually go, like the cool kids did. (The prom was on a boat out of Long Beach. I have no idea who this guy is/was.)

Anyway, you were pretty sure the highest tier of class-of-'91 society only attended the reunion with the evil plan to make the not-terribly-cool kids feel like they did in high school, just one more time before they died. (that is, mildly lame, like when they've found broccoli bits from their morning omelettes stuck in their braces as they floss before bed).

Plus, people might have noticed that you looked a little squishy, and that your legs were not in top kilt-ready form, since you just had baby Jane just 2 months previous to said reunion.

Of course, you were just being dumb and paranoid, as usual, cause then you got emails and cards from people who missed you at the reunion, and you were a little sad you didn't go. Because your actual friends were there, ones you lost because you moved from California to Arizona within weeks of graduation in 1991. And some of them were cool kids, only you'd forgotten. You also forgot that almost everyone (cool, uncool alike) spends most of high school feeling like they've got the broccoli teeth.

Really, all this mental turmoil took took all of about 15 minutes, over the course of 10 years. So, really, you are making a bigger deal of it than it is, in reality. For blog effect. As usual.

Still, in the 7 years since, whenever you get the emails from classmates.com, containing potentially expensive messages from the past, you would wonder what they might say. Because you are human, and your extreme inquisitiveness is what differentiates you from the rest of the animal kingdom. That, and your opposable thumbs. Wait. That's not right.

Whatever. It's not important.
Because now, you know what the guestbook notes are about. You figured it out, without your Visa's help.

Those old friends just wanted to tell you that your high school, as you knew it, is gone. Since 2003. You don't really keep close tabs on things like that, and you just found out today. It is a charter school now. So now, the cheerleaders scream "GHCHS" instead of "GHHS". Apparently. And The Jets won't come and throw the whole student body a free concert in the gym because those kids wasted the most in-school, potential learning time, and killed the most trees, of all the kids in the whole of Los Angeles Unified School District, writing KIIS FM rocks GHHS on like 100,000 little pieces of paper. Those charter school kids would have to write GHCHS, and they'd likely think The Jets were even lamer than we did. (Though we screamed a lot, just to be polite. They did get me out of Algebra 2 for the day.)

And there might be even bigger changes at GHHS, besides the name, and the knee socks; you just don't know what they are. You're not really in the mood to google it, either.

So, RIP, GHHS. Now, if the gangsters have burned down Sepulveda Junior High School, somebody should let you know. You won't be surprised. Remember the drive-by shooting drills during PE? And all the ladies-of-the-daytime you could watch through the chain link fence, sidling up and down the other side of Sepulveda Boulevard? Course you do.

So, friends, how many of you attended (or will attend) your 10 year reunion? What about the 20 year? Has any one out there ever had any actual fun at one of these events?

P.S. You should tell classmates.com to stop harassing you. You aren't going to pay them. You are cheap that way.

El Charro Rocks the Taco

Until Saturday night, I hadn't been to El Charro since my first date with Rendell Lofgreen in 1992. (Maybe I shouldn't have used the fella's name? Maybe he'll google himself and find me, over here in this deserted corner of the internet, blogging about our 16-year-old dinner, and think I'm a big, giant nerd? I'm not too worried about it.)

I'll need to back up a tiny bit. First, we went to see Joe's band at this Music Festival. They were quite good. Joe has a beautiful voice, and when he sings, it sounds like he isn't much trying. Like he just opens his mouth and good stuff just flys out, stuff like fairy dust and tiny blue hummingbirds, stuff that makes you feel like your nice uncle James Taylor is singing you a lullabye. (My actual Uncle Nyle Layton sounds this way, too. And Chris Martin, and Don McLean. So you see, Joe is in good company.)

Did I mention that Joe and I were in a band together for like 2 weeks? Yeah, if you count Joe and some squirrelly guy named Skye Wolfee, and one other sort of cool guy, who's name eludes me, and me, sitting around in my apartment at the Riv (Provo, UT) and plucking out some songs together. I can't remember what happened to the band, or why we broke up. We had so much promise. It was probably Yoko's fault (aka my cousin Melanie, Joe's squeeze).

Anyway, I think Joe should keep MC-6, but moonlight with his guitar, playing Lemonheads songs again. You set that show up, Joe. I'm totally there.

So after the show, we were cruising Main street in Downtown Mesa, and after coming up with like 4 fruitless ideas (not that we were looking exclusively for fruit), we decided on El Charro. El Charro es muy viejo. That's OLD, for you gringos. It has been there more than 70 years, run by the same family. And it looks it. El Charro obviously isn't into nips, tucks, or botox. Or into hiring a cleaning crew who isn't near-sighted. Apparently my bug-eyed face said it all, because Jen wanted to take a phone photo to send to Andrew, who was at home, attempting scorpion genocide (a story for another day).

Is it the broken down booths, or the weird oil portraits of extra-bosomy, just short of PG-13-rated senoritas circa 1910? Or was it the way my skirt kept sticking to the underside of the table, or the way they brought Jen and Jake pops with that great tiny ice like at QT, but my tap water had horrible big chunky cubes and tasted like dirt/pennies? No, none of these. Somehow, the entire effect works, in a Mel's Diner meets El Greco sort of way. I think it is because there is no pretense. I was surprised our kind-but-emo young waiter didn't tell us to 'kiss his frijoles'. It is what it is. And you know what it is? Great Mexican food.

Now, I have no idea about authenticity; and actually, I don't care. I'm not about that. I am no Mexican food snob. I like it all, really. Some of my favorites: Tia Rosa's, On the Border, Rubio's, Serrano's, Filibertos (rolled tacos: GOOD). It's all good. El Charro has something called Spanish Tongue on the menu. Which sounds gross, to this white lady. But es posible que it is authentic. Or could be the Latino version of the French kiss. No se. Either way, not ordering it.

What did I order? My 'first-time-at-this-place' standard: A bean and beef chimichanga with green sauce. You can tell a lot about a place by its chimi (Grandpa Taylor loved em, too. When he ordered one, it rhymed with that game, Jenga). But first Jake got me an RC, so I'd stop drinking his.

That chimi was GOOD: Insides, GOOD. Deep fried tortilla, GOOD. Green sauce, GOOD. Now, I should warn you that I could not locate any tomatillos in the green sauce. Is guacamole, as far as I could tell. But I love guacamole. It was GOOD. And the beet garnish on the side? Who the heck knows. I'm not eating that.

Jake got some kind of enchiladas (sour cream I think), floating in a delicious red sauce-y, cheesy soup. The red sauce was quite remarkable. Maybe next time I'll order the chimi with red sauce and have them put the green on top. Yummy. Jen got a single taco (I know. That's why she looks like that in her tiny, awesome jeans, and I look more like the buxomy mujeres on the walls, except I'm more buxomy on the bottom than the top, si es posible). Skinny or not, though, Jen knows her tacos. And she quickly texted Andrew to let him know that 'El Charro rocks the taco'.

So, to sum up: El Charro. GOOD. Me gusta mucho. I can't remember too much from my first visit there, at age 18. I was so young, so boy-crazy, I failed to see the obvious: the only potential for a lasting relationship that night was with the chimichanga, and not with the cute boy. I had already met Jake at that point, and Rendell was wasting his pesos on me. Too bad I didn't yet know it; I could have focused on my dinner. Think how many delicious El Charro tacos I might have eaten in the last 16 years.

Dangitall.

El Charro is on the northeast corner of 1st Street and Country Club.
105 N. Country Club Dr.
Mesa, Arizona
(480) 964-1851

Here is a recipe book published 1959:

So, what do you think of El Charro?

What's your fovorite Mexican spot, and what do you order? (No special reason for asking. I'm probly not going to eat my way through America's best burritos. I likely won't leave the state for dinner, gas prices and all. Unless you know a great spot in San Diego, cause we are going there soon.)

Seeking: some lunch ladies, and 2 quarts of almond extract

No time for cyberspace.
Have got 4 bored children.

Monday we went to the first of our series of summer movies at the Harkins. On our way out, Jane asks me, "So what ELSE fun are we doing today?" I had to break it to her that the Veggie Tales: Pirates Who Don't Do Anything was probably going to be the highlight of her week.

Tuesday we babysat Mel's twins, cleaned the house and went to the library.

Wednesday I took all the kids to In-n-out for lunch, then to Ross' baseball game.

Yesterday we made 8 loaves of bread, plus some other interesting shapes produced by kids, including a 'regularbread man'. A regularbread man is a gingerbread man made of regular bread. Apparently.

Today we are making fresh cherry pie. We are out of almond extract again, so we will need to go to the store before we make the pie. We've been going through almond extract like water around here, mostly because Tommy is bathing in it. He dumped the last bottle all over himself, and then he smelled super delicious for like three days, even after soap. I also like to put it in many of my baked goods, and now I'm even considering wearing it as perfume, as Tommy does. Or maybe Jake should wear it as perfume; I'm sure it would entice me more than those perfumes with creepy synthetic pheremones in them. I AM extremely attracted to treats. Anyway, I'm hoping that pitting the cherries will keep children occupied for a very, very long time. Maybe 6 hours or so? Cause I'm running out of ideas, and school's been out just a week.

Hey! Maybe I should stop baking, and take the kids to the gym with me. Maybe Tom won't scream bloody murder again when I leave him in the kidszone. (Not likely, of course, but there is time killed in the trying, eh?) If he will stay, then perhaps I won't gain 15 pounds this summer from boredom baking.

The gym is an excellent idea. But really, I should save that idea for next week. I am super busy with all the pie and the exract shopping today. Though I LOVE the gym, of course. Is my favorite place, after Krispy Kreme.

Oh yeah. One more thing. I've got a hair appointment next Wednesday the 4th. Anybody want to meet me for lunch about 1pm, since I'll already have a sitter and some really awesome hair? A few ladies, perhaps? I'm thinking Flancer's, but am open to other delicious suggestions. Let me know. RSVP in comments or by email.

Update: As far as I know, Jake does not wear cologne, much less cologne with phremones to attract ladies. Just to be clear.

What kind of Stephenie Meyer reader are you? Take my quiz!

I pretty much do what I'm told.

(Sometimes not right away, of course. And occasionally I'll say that I'll do something, then I actually don't. But I probably won't ever tell you NO, not right out loud. And mostly, I just do it.)

But anyway, some of you told me you want a review of The Host (great hordes of you, numbering maybe in the double digits). I have been accosted not only on my blog, but by email, phone, and even in real live life. I have just started reading a book entitled Well-behaved Women Seldom Make History, so maybe all this passive aggression and obedience will soon be in my past. Maybe reading Women's History textbooks will turn me into a lawless, bra-less, big-mouthed libber, but so far all I've learned is that making t-shirts with catchy phrases on the front is very lucrative. And honestly, those shirts are gonna look better if I've got a bra under them.

So, The Host. I feel nervous embarking on this, because the Twilight books excite such strong feelings in such normally mild-mannered women. Ladies don't just take em or leave em: they

a) REALLY, REALLY LOVE them, and sometimes accidentally call their husbands 'Edward'

b) Really love them, and have read them more than once

c) just love them a little

d) read them, all of them, immediately upon their hardback release, even though they don't totally love them, and cannot explain why they keep throwing cash at them

e) read them, but without letting them disrupt their lives and laundry (these are women who might be dead inside, or have nary a romantic bone in their bodies)

f) can't read them because the books have been burned or banned in their countries, and besides, they don't know how to read. And if they could read, they wouldn't waste their time on such fluffy American drivel.

g) sort of hate them but can't say that out loud because they fear they will be shunned by their Edward-lovin' peers

h) haven't read any of them yet (only because the books haven't been translated into Farsi).

i) haven't ever seen or heard of them (a la Helen Keller)

I am a 'd'. I was intrigued by Twilight. I felt like a teen again while I read it. (Or more, like I wished I'd felt as a teen, because I totally forgot to have exciting, amorous adventures with vampires or even regular boys back then). I couldn't put it down, but then when I was done I couldn't figure out why I got so caught up. (Da Vinci Code was another of these. I ended up reading everything Dan Brown ever wrote and then was very sorry I did). I don't love her writing (though it isn't terrible), or the characters, but I can't deny that Meyer has got something going here. I'll give ya that, Stephenie. I didn't like the next two books nearly as well, but I read em.
I'll admit it (sheepishly).

The Host is even further out of my literary comfort zone than than the Twilight books. We are talking alien invasion, people. Parasitic aliens who need human host bodies to survive, and have taken over the earth before the beginning of the novel. Course, it turns out they aren't all bad. There has been something of a misunderstanding. And, whoops. One strong-minded human whose spirit (my word) doesn't wholly disappear when the alien is inserted into the back of her neck. Which can be so embarrassing. For both parties involved. It is like when you steal a car, and as you drive off you notice the owner is handcuffed to the back seat. And the handcuff keys are lost. And you really need THIS car, because if you get out of the car, you will immediately die.

Yeah. It is pretty much exactly like that. I'm SO good at analogies.

You know something I really enjoyed? That most of the novel is set out in the desert by Picacho Peak. I have always had a special place in my heart for Picacho Peak (funny shaped hill sticking out of desert to the west of Interstate 10 between Phoenix and Tucson.
They used to have a grimy little old Dairy Queen there that I used to frequent as I commuted back and forth on weekends between school at the U of A and all the cute boys (and my family) in Mesa. And did you know that Picacho Pass was the scene of the westernmost battle in the Civil War on April 15, 1862? Well, it was. All that and a gift shop with velvet desert paintings, too. Which is great, but don't head down there expecting Gettysburg, cause then you might be a little sad.

The human protagonist in this novel has a little more gumption than her Twilight counterpart, but the alien is just as wimpy as Bella and you want to slap her around a little. I actually enjoyed the bizarre relationship the two women shared, but then Meyer muddies the waters by introducing their love interests (yes, that was plural. And yes, they just have the one body.) An aside: Why does she always have boys physically carrying girls around? It bugs. Girls know how to walk, even alien-infested girls. I can't decide if I was generally more annoyed or fascinated. But I do know that at some points I was neither; I was bored. Things really slowed down. Melanie/Wanda mopes around in a dark hole for what felt like 200 pages. And then the end was mildly disappointing, and mildly pedophilic. No, maybe predatory is a better word. (Especially in the case of all the vampires.) Maybe Meyer uses the teen girl/older man relationships to titillate her younger readers. I thought it worked in Twilight. I was just creeped out a little here.

But even boring and creepy didn't slow me down or stop me. I pressed on, and finished the book in a 24 hour period. So as much as I complain, I still can't explain why I keep coming back.

Someone told me the 4th Twilight book is on its way. You know I'm gonna read it. And you probably will, too. Unless you are a closet 'g'.

What sort of Stephenie Meyer reader are you? You can feel free to add additional letter choices if you cannot fit comfortably into mine.

Step 1: Admit That Michael Jackson is the Problem

Warning: This first part is gonna get graphically whiny. If you don't want to read about me feeling sorry for myself when I have absolutely NO reason to whine, skip down to the word THRILLER.

Okay, so the rest of you are all ready to wallow in completely unearned self-pity? Let's go!

A few months ago in Relief Society a really nice Mom that I highly respect said something like:

"I don't know how some of you get all stressed out by summer, because there is nothing I like better than having all my kids around me, all day long." And the way she said it was like, the rest of you whiners need to fix your attitudes.

Which I know I need to do. (Although, to be fair to That Sister, it is perhaps possible that I read more into her tone than she actually meant to say.)

In my defense, though, That Sister does have a swimming pool, which can take up lots of time during the 115 degree days, when you aren't frying eggs on the sidewalk. I do not have a pool. And she also has a great teenage daughter who is one of our favorite babysitters. I do not have one of those living at my house, yet, so I have to go to That Sister's house and borrow hers, then pay that wonderful teenager for her company. Which doesn't happen every day, for a myriad of reasons; some financial, and some involving me not wanting to clean up my house, or call people on the phone (also, I don't like rejection).

So, anyway, I start to get anxious as May begins. The last couple of weeks have already been rough (when I've been home. Cause mostly I've been on vacation without my kids. I know. WAHWAHWAH. Stick with me. I am trying to paint a stark and bleak portrait of my general malaise, so that I can make my point. I'm just so terribly long-winded). The kids having been fighting more than usual, I end up in the middle of it, dinner isn't getting cooked very well (there was actually Mac 'n' cheese with cut up hot dogs last week. I could hate on hot dogs for an entire post. My Dad used to make dog food for a living), and I am so exhausted I am in bed by nine more often than not. Plus, I haven't been feeling so great since Mexico (I'm fairly certain I've got either Monteczuma's Revenge or Malaria), and I've been so busy with all the Coldplay singles, and reading romantic fiction about body-snatching aliens.

(No, I'm not pregnant. Why, do I look it? You shouldn't ask that. It is RUDE.)

I keep thinking, how are we going to get through this summer? Is this a sample of things to come? What is going on around here?

Then it hit me. During Jane's fifth meltdown in as many days.

This is totally Michael Jackson's fault.

THRILLER is the problem.

You see, maybe a month ago I watched some kids on the news, dressed as werewolves and moonwalking and celebrating the 25th anniversary of Michael Jackson's Thriller. That night, Jake was out of town, and Ross needled me until I went on YouTube and watched his favorite Weird Al videos with him. I thunk to myself: Pastiche? Parody? Reality? It is a slippery slope. You love Eat it? How about Beat it? I set the 80s scene: Did you know that when Thriller came out, they played it at the top of every hour on MTV? Because almost nobody else had made a video yet, except that one for Video Killed the Radio Star.

So they ask, what's MTV? Oh, yeah, I blocked that, didn't I? Never you mind about the MTV.

So we watched all 15 or so minutes of Thriller. Only, Jane didn't totally get the subtle differences between tongue-in-cheek-horror-dancing-music-videos and actual horror movies (to which she has never before been exposed). The crud was scared completely out of her. By her own mom. She has been sleeping in my bed ever since. She won't take a shower unless someone is in the room with her. I heard her hiss at someone last week: "I HATE Michael Jackson. He is so scary." And she isn't referring to the the real reasons we should all be scared of Jack-O.

Which explains why Jane and I are like mean, Michael Jackson-dancing-zombies-with-the-creepy-yellow-eyes these days; with all the crying, kicking and whining (won't say who's), no one is actually sleeping. Even Jake, usually immune, seems more blurry-eyed than usual.

You know what's funny? I actually feel like a better Mom since I figured out what the problem is around here. Jane is causing a ruckus cause she can't cope with lack of sleep and her irrational fears of the dancing dead, and I'm just too sleep deprived to be nice about it. So I actually have hope that the summer can, and will, be better.

I still feel pretty bad about freaking her out with Thriller, though. I'll bet That Sister wouldn't have made such a mistake. Ross doesn't seem any worse off for it, though. He's still begging for more Weird Al.

Now, I wish Jake had consulted me before renting Raiders of the Lost Ark last night. Jane said: "Mom, there were melting faces! It was really scary. Can I bring my blankets to your room?"

P.S. I might have exagerated my whininess a little for blog effect. Am actually thrilled silly over glorious, rainy weather.

Things you might be wondering

Why I'm wearing a pink juicy track suit when it is 110 degrees outside. (Good question)

When I will clean my kitchen. (Today)

How I figured out that the little voice in the back of my head that tells me to eat two pounds of See's candy in one sitting isn't my natural man or even Satan. (It is the real me, Kelly, only she is trapped inside here while my body plays HOST to an alien invader that does most of the running around and the laundry. I've decided to let it slide because she obviously is doing a much better job than I could. Plus, she placates me with See's candy. Sneaky, cunning alien.)

Why I keep reading Stephenie Meyer's books. (I honestly don't know. Does anybody want to borrow THE HOST?)

Where I'm sitting at Coldplay (Section 101)

What I'm going to do with all my kids at home for two months in this wretched weather. (No clue. Open to ideas.)

Why I ran over that snake. Twice. (I ran over something, and I thought, perhaps that was a snake! So I threw it into reverse, just to check it out, and ran over him again. Ba-dump, ba-dump. Whoops. In the headlights, I could see his creepy head and tail still squirming around, but his middle section was stuck fast to the asphalt. I gagged a little bit.)

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.