Will Swap Cookies for Breaking Dawn

So...Breaking Dawn came out nearly two days ago.

You guys should be done now, right?

That's why Relief Society was only half full today, I'm sure.

Who wants to lend it to me?

I'll make you treats.

Mesa ladies preferred. Shipping costs on that size book are gonna be hefty. Plus, who wants stale cookies?

(I know, I know, I bagged a little on The Host, and whined about the whininess of New Moon, but that doesn't mean I can't read them, does it?)

My Sweet, Sweet Moves are Going Private; or, Loose Hips Sink Ships

I'm gonna tell you, with some immodesty, that I am pretty good at yoga for how much time I've spent actually doing yoga. Which is like none, compared to most middle class white ladies. (Or at least, that guy thinks so, and he put it in a book, which we have sitting by our toilet.)

Let me reiterate: I did not say that I was actually good at yoga.

You see, as Phoebe of yore, I'm very bendy. Extra flexible, for a no-spring-chicken-of-a-pear-shaped-white-lady-who-has-birthed-4-children. I'm NOT bendy like that guy in Oceans 11. So really, I'm more like medium bendy, if you are comparing mine with all the bendiness in the whole world.

How bendy am I? Well, even when I sit on the couch and eat Cheetos for like 6 months straight, I can get right up off the couch and do this:

And from there, I can lean forward, rest my chest on my feet, put my head on the floor, and cat nap, er, meditate (on world affairs, or whatever I'm supposed to be thinking about when really I'm just lying on the floor, wondering what sort of havoc Sam is wreaking in the gym's Kidszone), if I so desire. I can even put my legs behind my head (only one at a time, though, and it isn't as comfortable as it looks.) On the sit and reach test in my freshman aerobics class, I pretty much wiped the floor with all those Arizona Wildcat Cheerleaders. In full honesty, though, I might have been helped, in that case, by my creepily long, ape-like arms.

You see, I have some crazy loose hip joints. Among other things. I'm mildly surprised my legs don't fall right outta their sockets. I'm sort of lifted up in the pride of my heart over them, if you want the truth. (And that's not the righteous kind, you know.)

Actually, this whole post is really an excuse to let you all know how extra-bendy-awesome I am, but in a mildly self-deprecating, and thus potentially palatable, way.

Last night, though, in my Body Flow class, when the teacher told us we could move from bridge pose:

into this pose, apparently called chakrasana:

I realized something. (Maybe the meditation is paying off, cause I had a tiny little epiphany.)

I might be too old to try out potentially crazy stuff in public. You know how they warn you "don't try this at home"? Well, this is poor advice when it comes to crazy yoga poses. I totally should try them at home.

After all, I'm closer to 40 than 30, ever since last week.

Now don't get the wrong idea. I chakrasana-ed, alrighty. I held that pose a good long time, too. I pretty much dominated it.

Mostly because once I got up there, I was afraid to come down.

When I finally did, I bonked my head, right good, on the wood floor (that is covered in other people's sweat and shoe-bottom germs, and likely worse. If you just don't think about it, it should be easy to ignore things that are microscopic. It worked with the plague, small pox, and cholera. Oh, and ecoli. What? Okay, maybe it didn't work). I also pulled something out in my shoulder on the way down. Something, there in my shoulder, that is necessary for being able to lift my arm up and down. Which I enjoy doing, even more that I enjoy the chakrasana.

See, the thing is, I'm not especially bendy in my arms. And I guess moving the Cheetos from the bag to my mouth hasn't made them especially strong, neithuh.

I'm not giving up, though. I'm totally going to keep on keepin' on with the tough, contortionist-type poses. I'm just going temporarily private with any new, sweet yoga moves I want to try.

You know, like some of you people do. People that say you are my friends, but have private blogs that I cannot view. Curse you, private bloggers.

Okay, no curse you. Is sort of mean to curse you. Is not good for my chi.

Wait, that's not yoga...Anyhow...

what, you ask, sort of sweet move will I tackle next?

Yup.

I'm not really that far off, you know.

I'll let you know when it's ready for the public.

To reiterate: Only my crazy yoga moves are going private; as in, I'm no longer doing them in Body Flow class because I'm injuring myself. Blog is still 100% public, and will be, forevermore. I love your comments!

P.S. If you are visiting my blog because you are looking for new and bendy characters to cast in Oceans 14 (because you really need new characters. Everyone is so tired of looking at Matt, Brad and George all the time), call me. I'm interested.

Second Best Birthiversary EVER

I've got loads to say, but I didn't want to displace Tori Spelling from the top-o-the-blog until she'd had a good, long run. Those Digital Image Pro creations- er, I mean, real live paparazzi-like pictures- took me a long, long time. Like 10 minutes, maybe. If you haven't had the pleasure, please scroll down at your leisure and peruse them.

Anyway, our first full day in California was my birthiversary.

And it was a good one.

I can't, of course, say it was the best ever, because, obviously, the best ever would be the first one: July 19, 1996. My 23rd birthday, and the day I got married.

So go ahead and do the math. I'll wait. You can leave the 'no spring chicken/mind is going and memory fading/you are old enough to be a grandma if you and your daughter were both teen moms' jokes in the comments.

The day started with my official birthday cake: a delicious maple bar from Donuts #2 in Encinitas. And an apple fritter, if you are going to insist on full caloric disclosure.

I must say, every birthday should start with Donuts #2.

(I like to take every opportunity to say Donuts #2. Is like worst possible name for a donut shop. Donuts #1 nearly as bad, but Donuts #3 is not even funny, so possibly worse?)

Then, after I'd squeezed my sugar-bloated donut belly into my new skinny-lady jeans (that I bought at Hub in Scottsdale because I am getting skinny, or was getting skinny until I went on vacation and gained $%&@#! pounds), my Mom, Jen and I headed to Anthropologie, where we found some lovely tops (we knew we would. We always do). Jen said my birthday party had the best party favors ever (the tops), and she wants to be invited again next year. Yeah, me too. Thanks, Mom! Then we got some tasty green corn tamales at the Yellow Coyote. Pants were already stretched nearly to limit, but there was still more to come.

Meanwhile, Jake had taken all four children to the Swap Meet all the way down by Sea World. They came home with a trash bag full of Legos, some fancy in-line skates for Jake, some parasols, black market Pokemon cards, and flowers for me. They returned pretty exhausted by all dickering. (I never pass up any opportunity to use the word 'dickering'.) Then, they all went swimming while I arranged flowers and put on one of my new tops.

Mom came over to watch the kids, and Jake and I, (with Jen and Andrew) drove down the coast a few miles to Jake's Del Mar for an anniversary dinner. Jake had wrangled us a table overlooking the water, and as the sun set, we could see dozens of dolphins diving in and out of the waves, alongside the surfers. (At first, I thought they were sharks, became very agitated, and nearly called 911, but then I didn't.)

Here's the crew at Jake's. No, those are not bits of Stonehenge peeking out from behind Andrew's head (yes, they are). This is 100% kosher photo (is our actual table, is actually us, is actual dolphin, is digital creation). Maybe I should learn to take pictures at the scene of the crime? Is an interesting idea. Will mull it over.

I ordered artichoke fritters and calamari, apple and walnut salad, and some pecan-crusted halibut. Jen accused me of having a crush on the curly-headed waiter, and even when I pretended to a small one, Jake did not have the good manners to act the jealous cuckold. I forgot his rudeness when dessert arrived: a giant slice of hula pie. I keep coming back to Jake's Del Mar for this perfect confection of macadamia nut ice cream, chocolate cookie crust, fudge sauce and more macadamia nuts. Is a party on a plate.

Every day should end with a giant slice of hula pie.

Finally, as I unzipped my jeans and rode back to Carlsbad with the seat reclined, listening to Coldplay, I realized I had barely set eyes on my kids all the day whole day long. Not since the Donuts #2.

I've got to say, it was the second best birthiversary ever.

That's just how I roll (with my homey, Tori Spelling)

Yeah, yeah, yeah. More about vacation later. I know the real reason you all visit my blog:

KELLY'S CELEBRITY SITINGS!
(What? No, really, I did it once before. You don't remember? Click here to review.)

Anyway, there we (Mom and I) were on Thursday afternoon, celebrating Pioneer Day (24th of July) the only way we know how: hanging out with Tommy and Claire in the hallway outside the Moonbeams Boutique in the Four Seasons Aviara (in Carlsbad, CA) hotel, and minding our own beeswax.
We were supposed to be inside the boutique with Jen, perusing the $80 little girls' plastic flip flops, and frosting up the glass over those pretty jewels made by an Encinitas artist that we all love; but Tommy was not thrilled with the shopping, wasn't even mildly distracted by that ring pop I gave him as a sort of hyper-sticky 2-year-old pacifier.

While we stood there, becalming the toddlers, Tori and her entourage sidle past. First came The Husband and Small Boy (I googled them and found out their names are Dean and Liam), and maybe the dog, but I don't think so. Behind them was Tori, pushing a fancy hot pink pram, a bugaboo-like contraption containing new baby Stella, born last month) and next to Tori, a potentially nanny-like individual.

Tori was sporting a sheer green and yellow shirt with no pants. I will give her benefit of doubt and call this a bathing suit cover up. I need to say that Tori is quite gutsy to be seen pantsless in five star hotel lobby just weeks after giving birth. I would never attempt such a feat, but I think she pulled it off. When she noticed me staring at her, I tried to look away and whistle, but I don't think it did any good. I'd totally been caught mid-90210 flashback.

I immediately texted Jake, who was out on golf course, and Shawna, my BFF since 4th grade, who was also staying there at the hotel.

As it turned out, though, nobody much seemed to care that Donna Martin was in the hallway with me.

But wait. That's not all. Yes, there is EVEN MORE Tori for your creepy stalking enjoyment!

Later that evening, my sister Jen was over to the spa. She hears a man's voice yelling "Tori, in here. There's got to be a bathroom in here! Do you have Stella?" And Jen's like, holy cow, get the man outta the women's locker room. There're nekked ladies in here!

Anyway, Jen hears Tori's voice urgently reply "Yeah, I've got her. But where's the bathroom?" Just then, the disembodied-man-voice comes around the corner in an enormous black lady's body. Is just an extremely manly-ish woman, not an actual man. Perhaps a bodyguard? Jen is mighty relieved.

But Tori is not relieved. She has some urgent needs. Tori REALLY needs to pee, or something. And she cannot find any toilets. And she is becoming frantic, pushing around her fancy stroller with Stella inside, in the relatively small space of the locker room, in chicken-with-its-head-cut-off-fashion.

(The scene looked exactly like the above photo, except the stroller was pink, they were indoors, Tori isn't pregnant anymore, she had crazy eyes, and she wasn't wearing any pants.)

So Jen, seeing the panic in Tori's eyes, tells her "the bathrooms are right over there," and Tori says "thanks," and makes a beeline in the direction of Jen's finger.

Then, Jen got her cameraphone, put it under the stall, and snapped a few candid shots.

No. Not really. But wasn't it a good thing Jen was there to help her? I mean, without Jen, Tori might have soiled herself! (Though, of course, she couldn't have wet her pants, cause she still wasn't wearing any.)

No, I didn't name my kids Nancy and Ned Beeswax...but maybe I shoulda

When I finally talked Jake into getting my huge box of Nancy Drew books down from the attic this week, and Ross and Jane got a gander at all 60 or so of them, and their eyes lit up, and they got all excited and started reading the titles to each other, I thought: this is a great moment. My kids love my Nancy Drews. They are fighting over The Password to Larkspur Lane. They want to know, what could be The Clue in the Old Diary? They have already read through about 10 of them so far, including the Mystery of the 99 steps, the Clue in the Crumbling Wall.

Maybe I should have stuck with my original plan (cooked up nearly thirty years ago), and named my first and second born children Ned and Nancy. Turns out, they would have liked it.

I know I learned in my children's literature class at BYU that "plot drives us, but we learn from character." I know that Nancy is perpetually 19 and cruising around in her hot convertible, and perhaps is sort of a tease because she's led Ned on for nearly 80 years, only calling him when she's in a tight scrape and needs help or brawn that Bess and George can't provide, and not because she's had an epiphany and realized she can't live without him, or his romantic pecks on the cheek. I also know Nancy doesn't teach us anything about the human experience, beyond the awesome human experience of solving mysteries with clues that seem to fall right into your lap.

I know that Carolyn Keene is just a pseudonym, not for just one prolific lady, but for many ghost writers who fleshed out stories outlined by the Stratemeyer Syndicate, who also came up with the Bobbsey Twins and the Hardy Boys, as well as dozens of other series. Nancy was first published in 1930, just weeks after big daddy Stratemeyer's demise. His daughter took over from there. And I also remember the way my professor scrunched up his face like he smelled something rotten, as he tried to tell us we should dissuade our future pupils (I was an elementary ed major for 2 years) from reading stacks of Nancy Drew books to the exclusion of better, finer, potentially life-changing literature. But I don't care. My parents liked them (my Dad was strictly Hardy Boys as the party line went, but when he'd read through his school library's holdings, he said he secretly snuck a little Nancy home in his backpack.) I liked them. Now, my kids like them.

I ask, what exactly is wrong with literature that doesn't change your life? We don't expect so much of our television programming. I've got me a Stephanie Plum mystery (first try for me) for the beach this week, or there's Mary Higgins Clark, or I'm sure lots of others, that are Nancy for grown ladies. I also like me a little Dirk Pitt, occasionally, even though he's definitely aimed at the Hardy Boys demographic. Dirk's been macho and chauvinistic since the 70s, and who wants him to become a women's-libbing modern man? Besides N.O.W., of course. And probably all the ladies on The View, if they took a vote. Who else, but virile Dirk, is still in the mood for a little hanky-panky, in one of the water-logged staterooms on the just-raised Titanic, even with a fresh bullet wound? Nobody. Well, perhaps James Bond.

I'm certain, even if my Professor Sourpuss was not, that there's room for all sorts of books in this world. You might never win a Pulitzer, Dirk and Nancy, but we still love you. We like to take you to the beach, or on airplanes. We like to take you to bed with 2 pounds of See's chocolate when we've had a long, long day. Anyway, not that it is likely you ever would, since you haven't, yet: but, don't ever change.

Do you have a favorite Nancy Drew mystery? Or a good series in the same vein for grown ladies or gentlemen? Please share!

P.S. Sue, from navel gazing at its finest, started a Mormon Mommy Blog list, and she put me on it! You can be part of it, too. Go see it!

So, Tom thinks he can dance.

But he can't.

I'll explain.

When I got up Wednesday morning about 7:30, I poured myself some Grape Nuts, and settled my rear deep into the leather cushions of the family room sofa. I was planning to be there awhile. I had two weeks of So You Think You Can Dance to watch. I don't know how I let myself get so far in arrears. It is the only show I Tivo this summer. I mean, besides the House Hunters International re-runs, of course. And I don't even re-watch those, unless the potential buyers are looking to renovate a ruin, and then I'm glued to the couch. I'm a total sucker for a ruin. Or France. I'm also a sucker for France. Have you seen the one where the American woman and her German lover are looking for a 3 bedroom flat in Paris' 6th Arrondissement? No, no, sorry, I've gotten sidetracked again.

When I watch SYTYCD, my kids get wild looks in their eyes and start moving. They can't help themselves, they can't keep still. They usually start out dancing, but it quickly degrades into yelling and wrestling and somersaults and such. About 1 week into the dance marathon (i.e. 9:20 am), Tommy starts body slamming Ross. Repeatedly, but in a friendly, inviting sort of way. Ross is playing legos and mostly ignores Tommy's overtures. So I pipe up: "Ross, why don't you put away the legos and cavort with Tommy?" Tommy can't wait, though. While Ross is on his way to put the legos up on the shelf above the TV, Tom lunges at him again. Sadly, he misses Ross, and ends up throwing himself headlong into the corner of the rocking chair.

And thus began our troubles.

But before I get into all that: Let's talk about the rocking chair. Is this the same rocking chair corner with which I collided as a ten-month-old baby, (who had no business walking, much less running, about the house and crashing into furniture), leaving a small pock-like scarred indentation in the center of my forehead, still visible today if I hold my head just so in noon-day sunlight? Yes. The very same chair.

But wait. I'll bet you don't know this chair's provenance. While I was still a babe in utero, my Father found the rocking chair on the curb one day in East Lansing, Michigan. It was painted green, and not in good shape. It had been left out for trash collection. Dad took it home, worked some magic on it (took off green paint, tightened up the joints, etc.), and gave it to my Mom for to rock me in. It was only one year later that the chair nearly brained me. Somebody, who knew these things, told my parents the rocking chair is well over 100 years old. So now we know, the ancient chair (given to me to rock my own offspring) is haunted and attacks babies. No wonder it was left on the curb. How many other young victims of its sharp corners have there been over the past 1.5 centuries?

So, Tommy is gushing blood. From his head. From his nose. The kids are fuh-reaking out. I get everyone presentable, drop the elder three at my parents', and head to the ER. They get us in fairly quickly, put four stitches in his head, send us on our way.

In the meantime, my sister Jen's foot went gimpy, and she was hobbling around her house with a pogo stick for a crutch. (Which isn't ideal, because unlike regular crutches, it has a spring in it, which moves up and down depending on pressure applied). So Mom picked up Jen's oldest two, and takes the whole lot of them to Chuck E. Cheese for like 3 hours. Jen's foot is much better, now. Don't feel any obligation to send her any "so sorry you're a gimp" cards. If you are really itching to send a card to someone, send me one that says "So sorry you aren't going to Cabo again tomorrow instead of your sister Jen, who's foot is miraculously healed."

Yesterday, Tommy's stitches came out. On their own, or Tom picked at them. Can't know which. There is a curly blue string hanging out of Tom's forehead which he won't leave alone (could you? I couldn't). I didn't want to go back to the ER, because I found out it cost me $500 bucks (ER is a deductible, not co-pay, dangit). So this morning I saw the PA at the pediatrician's office who said, "no, so sorry; it is too late to restitch. I'm not sure why the ER didn't make knots at every stitch. Or glue it. And Tommy has really dark skin, so the scar could be pretty gnarly (okay, he didn't say gnarly. I just wanted to say gnarly). If it were my kid, I'd take him down to see Dr. Goldstein, the pediatric plastic surgeon."

Went home by way of Taco Bell to collect my kids from my parents, again. A woman in line with them told Sam he had the best hair she'd ever seen (and this is with full bedhead, cause I hadn't brushed it today), and gave him a buck, just for growing it out of his head. Then she realized he had two siblings with him, and they got paid, too. For being related to that head of hair, I guess.

I'm feeling kind of stressed out by all the medical drama, and the fact that after all this his head wound is still gaping wide open. So I honked at an ambulance for cutting me off (it had no lights or sirens, though), and guess what? It didn't make me feel better, not one whit.

When I got home, I went in to use the W.C., and sat down in Sam's pee, because Sam won't lift the toilet lid. EVER. So while I sat there, in the pee, I thought about teaching him an object lesson where I get Ross to pee on the seat, then have Sam sit in it. But then I realized he'd probably remember it when he was grown, and need therapy. Plus, it just isn't nice, making people sit in pee. I should know.

Tommy also re-learned to climb out of his crib this yesterday. He's known how for ages, but he finally put it together that the ability to shimmy up and over crib sides equals potentially no naps, ever again. EVER. So then I had to go buy a baby jail (crib tent); but the one I bought and brought home from Babies r Us, for the low, low price of $75, had been used by someone to house a Siberian Tiger for approximately 3 years. Or a filthy baby with long, sharp fingernails. It had 6 inch holes in the netting, rips, tears, broken poles, and was covered in hair and dirt. So then I had to pack it and everybody up and go back for another one. Which finally worked. And Tommy is taking a nap in it. Right this second. And no, I'm not embarrassed that I lock up my baby. He's obviously a danger to himself: Look at his forehead for proof.

I love nap time. Maybe I'll go finish watching So You Think You Can Dance. Since it got preempted Wednesday, by all the blood. Then I'll call the plastic surgeon. Who maybe I should have called first thing. Live and learn, eh?

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.)