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.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Monday, May 26, 2008
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.
(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.
Friday, May 23, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
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.)
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.)
Monday, May 19, 2008
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!
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!
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
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:
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.
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.)
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.
Monday, May 12, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
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.
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
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.
***********
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.
Sunday, May 04, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, April 28, 2008
I'm diggin' it...Part One
This is my 102nd post! I totally missed number 100, which I think I was supposed celebrate by bragging on myself in some way. I can still do that, though. I can.
When your Grandma turns 100, it is a big deal, right? Well, when she turns 102, even bigger deal, eh?
So don't leave in disgust because Beeswax is eating a Beyer's light ice cream bar for breakfast to celebrate her 102nd post. Because I love these ice cream bars. And that is the theme of this post. Things I like. One hundred and two of them.
1. Ummm, I told you about the ice cream bars, righty-o? They are mighty tasty and a much better choice, calorically, for my Sunday night ice cream bender than an entire pint of Ben and Jerry's Phish Food, which is also fairly delicious.
2. I just read People of the Book by Geraldine Brooks. I just started to write a synopsis, but then I remembered it is about a book conservator who finds clues to a medieval manuscript's provenance, with many fascinating historical flashbacks, but if I write that, then you'll know I'm a big nerd, and you won't read it. Which would be too bad. Also read The Opposite of Fate by Amy Tan. An interesting writing memoir, although it got a little whiny at the end. Uh, Amy? You are one of the most popular living writers in American literature. Who cares if someone labels you "Asian-American writer?" If someone wanted to publish my book (the one that isn't yet written), they could totally label me Asian-American if they wanted. The readers might be disappointed, though, by my lack of Asian content. I guess I could write about the big crush I had on Steve Chang in 7th grade. That Steve was one foxy 12-year-old.
Okay, where am I? #3? At this rate, this post could be my first book.
3. Bumble and Bumble curl creme for medium to thick hair. This stuff makes it possible to wear my hair curly and not look like a witch. And at about $100 for the giant quart size I buy, they ought to be adding some kind of black magic. But if your curls need cold rinsing, then creme-ing, then wrapping in a turban like some sort of sheik, then diffusing and shine spraying, this is for you. I'm actually sort of cheap, so I've tried all the drugstore curling products. (I am so cheap I sometimes can't help myself and buy generic Oil of Olay Complete moisturizer, even though I know it makes me break out and the real Oil of Olay should really be cheap enough.) I figure I'm saving money because I don't use my Bumble and Bumble on the kids; they get the below-par drugstore products I have rejected. So ladies and gentleman, if your hair has always been curly but not curly enough to do anything with, try this. (Buy the small bottle first).
4. Jeans that don't gap in the back and show my crack. In a later post I will amaze you all with my revolutionary sewing technique which has made plumber butt a thing of my past.
5. Going to Women's Conference. I leave tomorrow afternoon! I have never been before and so am really thrilled, but sad because I will miss going through the Temple with Liz, and because I will not be able to eat my way across Provo as previously planned because...
6. I'M GOING TO CABO! Jen might have invited us because I whined that my mental health is suffering from all the sickness at our house (started nearly three weeks ago, but now we are down to only secondary infections, so I think I can see a light at the end of the pus-filled, infected eardrum). But who cares about eardrums, and whether I'm acting a little bit crazy, when I am going to CABO?
7. Jake coming home Saturday night from Mountain biking in Utah and getting a babysitter immediately. That was very nice of him, especially since he was pretty much exhausted.
102 seem a long way off? Okay, sorry. I'll pick up the pace.
8. Converse low tops
9. British stuff
10. libraries
11. Orange toenail polish
12. a stack of unread novels by my bedside
13. babies
14. guacamole
15. family history
16. Masterpiece Theater
17. babysitters
18. Gary Jules
19. Food Network
20. Nutella
21. traveling
22. warm beaches with no fish because I am scared of fish
23. collecting/hoarding books
24. pretty jewels
25. hoarding stuff for sentiment's sake
26. hoarding stuff cause I can't help it
27. baking cookies
28. eating cookies
29. history books
30. blonde curly hair
31. my book club
32. Rick Steves
33. trouser-cut jeans
34. my family
I think I will stop before you lose interest.
What, too late?
TO BE CONTINUED...
When your Grandma turns 100, it is a big deal, right? Well, when she turns 102, even bigger deal, eh?
So don't leave in disgust because Beeswax is eating a Beyer's light ice cream bar for breakfast to celebrate her 102nd post. Because I love these ice cream bars. And that is the theme of this post. Things I like. One hundred and two of them.
1. Ummm, I told you about the ice cream bars, righty-o? They are mighty tasty and a much better choice, calorically, for my Sunday night ice cream bender than an entire pint of Ben and Jerry's Phish Food, which is also fairly delicious.
2. I just read People of the Book by Geraldine Brooks. I just started to write a synopsis, but then I remembered it is about a book conservator who finds clues to a medieval manuscript's provenance, with many fascinating historical flashbacks, but if I write that, then you'll know I'm a big nerd, and you won't read it. Which would be too bad. Also read The Opposite of Fate by Amy Tan. An interesting writing memoir, although it got a little whiny at the end. Uh, Amy? You are one of the most popular living writers in American literature. Who cares if someone labels you "Asian-American writer?" If someone wanted to publish my book (the one that isn't yet written), they could totally label me Asian-American if they wanted. The readers might be disappointed, though, by my lack of Asian content. I guess I could write about the big crush I had on Steve Chang in 7th grade. That Steve was one foxy 12-year-old.
Okay, where am I? #3? At this rate, this post could be my first book.
3. Bumble and Bumble curl creme for medium to thick hair. This stuff makes it possible to wear my hair curly and not look like a witch. And at about $100 for the giant quart size I buy, they ought to be adding some kind of black magic. But if your curls need cold rinsing, then creme-ing, then wrapping in a turban like some sort of sheik, then diffusing and shine spraying, this is for you. I'm actually sort of cheap, so I've tried all the drugstore curling products. (I am so cheap I sometimes can't help myself and buy generic Oil of Olay Complete moisturizer, even though I know it makes me break out and the real Oil of Olay should really be cheap enough.) I figure I'm saving money because I don't use my Bumble and Bumble on the kids; they get the below-par drugstore products I have rejected. So ladies and gentleman, if your hair has always been curly but not curly enough to do anything with, try this. (Buy the small bottle first).
4. Jeans that don't gap in the back and show my crack. In a later post I will amaze you all with my revolutionary sewing technique which has made plumber butt a thing of my past.
5. Going to Women's Conference. I leave tomorrow afternoon! I have never been before and so am really thrilled, but sad because I will miss going through the Temple with Liz, and because I will not be able to eat my way across Provo as previously planned because...
6. I'M GOING TO CABO! Jen might have invited us because I whined that my mental health is suffering from all the sickness at our house (started nearly three weeks ago, but now we are down to only secondary infections, so I think I can see a light at the end of the pus-filled, infected eardrum). But who cares about eardrums, and whether I'm acting a little bit crazy, when I am going to CABO?
7. Jake coming home Saturday night from Mountain biking in Utah and getting a babysitter immediately. That was very nice of him, especially since he was pretty much exhausted.
102 seem a long way off? Okay, sorry. I'll pick up the pace.
8. Converse low tops
9. British stuff
10. libraries
11. Orange toenail polish
12. a stack of unread novels by my bedside
13. babies
14. guacamole
15. family history
16. Masterpiece Theater
17. babysitters
18. Gary Jules
19. Food Network
20. Nutella
21. traveling
22. warm beaches with no fish because I am scared of fish
23. collecting/hoarding books
24. pretty jewels
25. hoarding stuff for sentiment's sake
26. hoarding stuff cause I can't help it
27. baking cookies
28. eating cookies
29. history books
30. blonde curly hair
31. my book club
32. Rick Steves
33. trouser-cut jeans
34. my family
I think I will stop before you lose interest.
What, too late?
TO BE CONTINUED...
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Deep thoughts with Sam Beeswax
Mom, how did they make the world again? Did they make land or plants or animals first?
I go into long monologue about days of creation that bores him a lot. He stops blinking, and stares out the window; finally, he cuts me off.
Okay. But Mom? Why did they pour in the spiders? When was that?
I visualize Sam's idea of the creation of the world: a big stew, wherein the Lord adds a pinch of this or that, according to his whim. If Sam could only figure out when the spiders got added, he might be able to better understand their purpose; or maybe determine if their addition was ON purpose, or, more likely, a big misunderstanding.
Which makes complete sense to me. I think he asks a good question. Why, ever, did they put in the spiders?
Like me, Sam isn't a fan of the arachnids. No, no, hold on. I don't need your lecture about the supply chain or the food cycle or how this is earth week or blah blah blah.
Do YOU have hairy, 2-3 inch long wolf spiders at your house that you have to spray with hairspray before you kill? Because if you don't spray it and smack the mama anyway, thousands of tiny eight-legged babies will crawl off their squished mama's back and onto the shoe you squished her with, then up your pant leg and all over your house where they will incestuously multiply and bite you 126 times while you sleep in your bed? Do you have those?
(You might, if you live near me, in this great Sonoran desierto. Here is the family photo below: mom with all the babies. Heartwarming, isn't it?)
If you don't have them, don't try to tell me that spiders are my friends. My friends don't bite. Very often.
At least we don't have a house full of scorpions. (Like you, Jane and Todd, and Mom and Dad.)
I'm not sure I could answer all the deep doctrinal questions those horrid little fellas (also arachnids, btw) might provoke.
I go into long monologue about days of creation that bores him a lot. He stops blinking, and stares out the window; finally, he cuts me off.
Okay. But Mom? Why did they pour in the spiders? When was that?
I visualize Sam's idea of the creation of the world: a big stew, wherein the Lord adds a pinch of this or that, according to his whim. If Sam could only figure out when the spiders got added, he might be able to better understand their purpose; or maybe determine if their addition was ON purpose, or, more likely, a big misunderstanding.Which makes complete sense to me. I think he asks a good question. Why, ever, did they put in the spiders?
Like me, Sam isn't a fan of the arachnids. No, no, hold on. I don't need your lecture about the supply chain or the food cycle or how this is earth week or blah blah blah.
Do YOU have hairy, 2-3 inch long wolf spiders at your house that you have to spray with hairspray before you kill? Because if you don't spray it and smack the mama anyway, thousands of tiny eight-legged babies will crawl off their squished mama's back and onto the shoe you squished her with, then up your pant leg and all over your house where they will incestuously multiply and bite you 126 times while you sleep in your bed? Do you have those?
(You might, if you live near me, in this great Sonoran desierto. Here is the family photo below: mom with all the babies. Heartwarming, isn't it?)
If you don't have them, don't try to tell me that spiders are my friends. My friends don't bite. Very often.At least we don't have a house full of scorpions. (Like you, Jane and Todd, and Mom and Dad.)
I'm not sure I could answer all the deep doctrinal questions those horrid little fellas (also arachnids, btw) might provoke.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Flat Yael
Heard of Flat Stanley? In this children's book by Jeff Brown, Stanley gets flattened by a bulletin board, which sounds painful, but apparently makes it possible for him to be mailed to his friends around the world. Which is cheap travel. My friend Shawna's daughter, Yael, sent her flat self to us from her 1st grade class in Castaic, California.
Flat Yael's time at the Beeswax home has been full of exciting adventures. At first, I wasn't exactly sure what Yael's teacher wanted from us, but in my mind it looked something like this:
Well, sometimes they go to Little Caesars. Right, Yael?
Flat Yael's time at the Beeswax home has been full of exciting adventures. At first, I wasn't exactly sure what Yael's teacher wanted from us, but in my mind it looked something like this:
but that's just staged (I know you couldn't tell). Ross, Jane, Sam, Tommy and Yael didn't get to go to the Grand Canyon during her visit. Yael was wearing those super high heels, which didn't seem very practical.
Instead, as soon as she arrived, we put her to work. Yael was a good babysitter. Here she is reading stories to Tommy:
This allowed Kelly more time for her own stories:
Flat Yael took Ross to the eye Doc at Wal-Mart because she suspected Ross was blind as a bat. She was right! Too bad she wasn't around to stop Sam from busting the new titanium frames. That was expensive, Yael! 
Jane and Yael sponsored an art show. Read the rules if you can. When I asked Jake what he would enter, he told me he couldn't tell me, because then I might be tempted to break rule #2.
Like the rest of us, Yael spent a lot of time watching Ross' Little League games. Ross is pretty good, but Yael was more interested in the concessions. She heartily enjoyed the icees that taste eerily like grape Hubba Bubba. Here she is, watching with Tom:
Things have been a little crazy around here. Yael thinks this is what all hungry and harried Arizonans eat for dinner:
Well, sometimes they go to Little Caesars. Right, Yael?Anyway, I think she had a great time. It has been a suburban cultural feast!
Thanks for coming, Yael!
Friday, April 18, 2008
My Boyfriend's Back
That's right, folks! (Be sure to say the 'l' in folks like they do in the South, home of the Kremes, where these 'nuts grow wild on the roadside and knee-high by the fourth of July). Jake just spotted this sign outside the Krispy Kreme on Superstition Springs.
Is this real? Is this a mean and tardy April Fool's Day prank? Does anybody know anything about this? Why haven't you told me?
Anyway. MAY 13! Whatever shall I wear? I am tingling with anticipation.
But wait. Now that I've had a little time to think about it, I'm not so sure it's a good thing. Krispy Kreme is like a bad-boy, bad-for-me ex-boyfriend, to whom I keep returning. At inopportune times. After I've already gotten over him. Learned to live without him.
I won't lie. Things were bad for awhile when he first left, but now I've found healthier replacements for that co-dependant relationship. I mean, we totally ended things as friends. I've seen him around a little, and it has been okay. Not weird at all. We're like Bruce and Demi. Really, it would be impossible to avoid him in my travels. He's so cosmopolitan. The last time we met up was nearly a year ago, in London:
Honestly, it has been months since I've driven by his old place to see if the lights were on and he was back in town.
But now he IS back, I can't say no, and I'll let him woo me, lure me in, even though I know it'll never work between us. But he looks good, he smells good, and I already know we have a great time together, even if afterwards I feel sick, guilty, and swear I'm never going back for more. But then I do. Things were much easier when he was out of the state. I am a weak woman. A weak woman with glaze on her chin.
Maybe this time, the Krispy Kreme and I can just be friends. I don't need to jump right back into something I can already see will have a miserable, unhappy ending (my rear ending), right? I can set up some boundaries, like:
1. Can't use the drive thru. It is dangerous for us to be alone in the car together. I might end up doing something I'll regret later.
2. Can't get doughnuts after dark. A single doughnut during the day, well, that's just sociable; A box at home in the evening? That sounds like a date. Plus, would would my new scale think?
3. Can't ever buy one of those discount cards that gives me two dozen for the price of one. It is an evil trap. Those doughnuts seem so cheap, but who ends up feeling cheap in the long run? Uh-huh. You know.
Anyway. Welcome back, Krispy Kreme. I did miss you. Wal-Mart doughnuts are disgusting, and though the churros at Costco are tasty, things just haven't the same while you were away. Save me a raised, glazed, creme-filled.
I'll see you soon.
Monday, April 14, 2008
The next Disney Princess
Mom, what is this song we are listening to?
Another Suitcase in Another Hall. From Evita.
Oh. Is Evita a Disney Princess?
Well, Sam. No. But that's such an interesting question. I think I'll stew about it all day while I nurse my sick babies. (Sam pukes, Tom pukes and poops, Jane coughs and sneezes but does not puke. Yet.)
I'm not sure even Disney can add enough sugar to that story to make it a palatable fairy tale. I will give it to you that Andrew Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice vilified her somewhat unfairly, if very beautifully, in song. Eva Peron wasn't a fascist or a Communist. (Why does cybersitter keep taking out fascist but leaves communist?) She really did try to help the poor. She also went on that Rainbow Tour of Europe, where she wore fancy clothes and got ridiculed cuz she was friends with Francisco Franco, who was not the coolest kid on the continent at the time. She has a classic rags (to actress of questionable morals to political activist) to riches story. There really might be something for Disney to work with there.
Another Suitcase in Another Hall. From Evita.
Oh. Is Evita a Disney Princess?
Well, Sam. No. But that's such an interesting question. I think I'll stew about it all day while I nurse my sick babies. (Sam pukes, Tom pukes and poops, Jane coughs and sneezes but does not puke. Yet.)
I'm not sure even Disney can add enough sugar to that story to make it a palatable fairy tale. I will give it to you that Andrew Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice vilified her somewhat unfairly, if very beautifully, in song. Eva Peron wasn't a fascist or a Communist. (Why does cybersitter keep taking out fascist but leaves communist?) She really did try to help the poor. She also went on that Rainbow Tour of Europe, where she wore fancy clothes and got ridiculed cuz she was friends with Francisco Franco, who was not the coolest kid on the continent at the time. She has a classic rags (to actress of questionable morals to political activist) to riches story. There really might be something for Disney to work with there.
If an opportunistic wife of a South American president/dictator will ever break into that exclusive princess cohort, it will be Evita. But it will be a tough go. Not only will she have to fit the glass slipper, but she's got to get through the palace's glass ceiling. Once she's in, she will still need to sell a heck of a lot of merchandise to really secure her spot, with Cinderella breathing down her neck all the while. Pocahontas couldn't do it (even with her own feature-length animated picture and Vanessa Williams insisting this Indian maiden could paint with all the colors of the wind); she just didn't have the right dress. Animal skins just don't cut it in this clique. One should not underestimate the importance of the dress. The Little Mermaid got a dress exception, but she had to show more cleavage to make up for it.
In a 1996 interview, Tomás Eloy Martínez referred to Eva Perón as "the Cinderella of the tango and the Sleeping Beauty of Latin America".
Aha! So there's at least one guy out there who thinks she's got a shot at the big time.
(To be fair, Martinez also said many other, non-princess-related things in the same interview, including this:
"Latin American myths are more resistant than they seem to be. Not even the mass exodus of the Cuban raft people or the rapid decomposition and isolation of Fidel Castro's regime have eroded the triumphal myth of Ché Guevara, which remains alive in the dreams of thousands of young people in Latin America, Africa and Europe. Ché as well as Evita symbolize certain naive, but effective, beliefs: the hope for a better world; a life sacrificed on the altar of the disinherited, the humiliated, the poor of the earth. They are myths which somehow reproduce the image of Christ."
I don't think he was starting a grass roots campaign to see her as a cartoon. In fact, if he thinks Christ's ideals are naive, what do you think he'd say to "when you wish upon a star"?)
If Peron gets her Princess role, I think her countryman Che Guevara should at least get his own ride in Fantasyland. It couldn't be any weirder or scarier than Snow White. That's one creepy ride.
Who else might make a good Disney heroine? Maybe Joan of Arc? She and Mulan have a lot in common.
In a 1996 interview, Tomás Eloy Martínez referred to Eva Perón as "the Cinderella of the tango and the Sleeping Beauty of Latin America".
Aha! So there's at least one guy out there who thinks she's got a shot at the big time.
(To be fair, Martinez also said many other, non-princess-related things in the same interview, including this:
"Latin American myths are more resistant than they seem to be. Not even the mass exodus of the Cuban raft people or the rapid decomposition and isolation of Fidel Castro's regime have eroded the triumphal myth of Ché Guevara, which remains alive in the dreams of thousands of young people in Latin America, Africa and Europe. Ché as well as Evita symbolize certain naive, but effective, beliefs: the hope for a better world; a life sacrificed on the altar of the disinherited, the humiliated, the poor of the earth. They are myths which somehow reproduce the image of Christ."
I don't think he was starting a grass roots campaign to see her as a cartoon. In fact, if he thinks Christ's ideals are naive, what do you think he'd say to "when you wish upon a star"?)
If Peron gets her Princess role, I think her countryman Che Guevara should at least get his own ride in Fantasyland. It couldn't be any weirder or scarier than Snow White. That's one creepy ride.
Who else might make a good Disney heroine? Maybe Joan of Arc? She and Mulan have a lot in common.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
I got an F on your lame-o book meme
Okay, this book meme is so 2007, but I just got it so I thought I'd try it. I like it because the books are so random. I've read 51 out of 99. That's an F, people. What did you get? Leave me a link to your post if you try it.
Bold the ones you’ve read- Italicize the ones you want to read- Leave unaltered the ones that you aren’t interested in or haven’t heard of.
1. The DaVinci Code (Dan Brown)
2. Pride and Prejudice (Jane Austen)
3. To Kill A Mockingbird (Harper Lee)
4. Gone With The Wind (Margaret Mitchell)
5. The Lord of the Rings: Return of the King (JRR Tolkien)
6. The Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring (JRR Tolkien)
7. The Lord of the Rings: Two Towers (JRR Tolkien)
8. Anne of Green Gables (L.M. Montgomery)
9. Outlander (Diana Gabaldon)
10. A Fine Balance (Rohinton Mistry)
11. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (JK Rowling)
12. Angels and Demons (Dan Brown)
13. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (JK Rowling)
14. A Prayer for Owen Meany (John Irving)
15. Memoirs of a Geisha (Arthur Golden)
16. Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone (JK Rowling)
17. Fall on Your Knees (Ann-Marie MacDonald)
18. The Stand (Stephen King)
19. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (JK Rowling)
20. Jane Eyre (Charlotte Bronte)
21. The Hobbit (JRR Tolkien)
22. The Catcher in the Rye (J.D. Salinger)
23. Little Women (Louisa May Alcott)
24. The Lovely Bones (Alice Sebold)
25. Life of Pi (Yann Martel)
26. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (Douglas Adams)
27. Wuthering Heights (Emily Bronte)
28. The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe (C. S. Lewis)
29. East of Eden (John Steinbeck)
30. Tuesdays with Morrie (Mitch Albom)
31. Dune (Frank Herbert)
32. The Notebook (Nicholas Sparks)
33. Atlas Shrugged (Ayn Rand)
34. 1984 (George Orwell)
35. The Mists of Avalon (Marion Zimmer Bradley)
36. The Pillars of the Earth (Ken Follett)
37. The Power of One (Bryce Courtenay)
38. I Know This Much is True (Wally Lamb)
39. The Red Tent (Anita Diamant)
40. The Alchemist (Paulo Coelho)
41. The Clan of the Cave Bear (Jean M. Auel)
42. The Kite Runner (Khaled Hosseini)
43. Confessions of a Shopaholic (Sophie Kinsella)
44. The Five People You Meet In Heaven (Mitch Albom)
45. The Bible (Can't say I've read it cover to cover yet.)
46. Anna Karenina (Leo Tolstoy)
47. The Count of Monte Cristo (Alexandre Dumas)
48. Angela’s Ashes (Frank McCourt)
49. The Grapes of Wrath (John Steinbeck)
50. She’s Come Undone (Wally Lamb)
51. The Poisonwood Bible (Barbara Kingsolver)
52. A Tale of Two Cities (Charles Dickens)
53. Ender’s Game (Orson Scott Card)
54. Great Expectations (Charles Dickens)
55. The Great Gatsby (F Scott Fitzgerald)
56. The Stone Angel (Margaret Laurence)
57. Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (JK Rowling)
58. The Thorn Birds (Colleen McCullough)
59. The Handmaid’s Tale (Margaret Atwood)
60. The Time Traveller’s Wife (Audrew Niffenegger)
61. Crime and Punishment (Fyodor Dostoyevsky)
62. The Fountainhead (Ayn Rand)
63. War and Peace (Leo Tolstoy)
64. Interview With The Vampire (Anne Rice)
65. Fifth Business (Robertson Davis)
66. One Hundred Years Of Solitude (Gabriel Garcia Marquez)
67. Catch-22 (Joseph Heller)
68. Les Miserables (Victor Hugo)
69. The Little Prince (Antoine de Saint-Exupery)
70. Bridget Jones’ Diary (Fielding)
71. Love in the Time of Cholera (Gabriel Garcia Marquez)
72. Shogun (James Clavell)
73. The English Patient (Michael Ondaatje)
74. The Secret Garden (Frances Hodgson Burnett)
75. The Summer Tree (Guy Gavriel Kay)
76. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn (Betty Smith)
77. The World According to Garp (John Irving)
78. The Diviners (Margaret Laurence)
79. Charlotte’s Web (E.B. White)
80. Not Wanted On The Voyage (Timothy Findley)
81. Of Mice And Men (John Steinbeck)
82. Rebecca (Daphne DuMaurier)
83. Wizard’s First Rule (Terry Goodkind)
84. Emma (Jane Austen)
85. Watership Down (Richard Adams)
86. Brave New World (Aldous Huxley)
87. The Stone Diaries (Carol Shields)
88. Blindness (Jose Saramago)
89. Kane and Abel (Jeffrey Archer)
90. In The Skin Of A Lion (Ondaatje)
91. Lord of the Flies (Golding)
92. The Good Earth (Pearl S. Buck)
93. The Secret Life of Bees (Sue Monk Kidd)
94. The Bourne Identity (Robert Ludlum)
95. The Outsiders (S.E. Hinton)
96. White Oleander (Janet Fitch)
97. A Woman of Substance (Barbara Taylor Bradford)
98. The Celestine Prophecy (James Redfield)
99. Ulysses (James Joyce)
Bold the ones you’ve read- Italicize the ones you want to read- Leave unaltered the ones that you aren’t interested in or haven’t heard of.
1. The DaVinci Code (Dan Brown)
2. Pride and Prejudice (Jane Austen)
3. To Kill A Mockingbird (Harper Lee)
4. Gone With The Wind (Margaret Mitchell)
5. The Lord of the Rings: Return of the King (JRR Tolkien)
6. The Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring (JRR Tolkien)
7. The Lord of the Rings: Two Towers (JRR Tolkien)
8. Anne of Green Gables (L.M. Montgomery)
9. Outlander (Diana Gabaldon)
10. A Fine Balance (Rohinton Mistry)
11. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (JK Rowling)
12. Angels and Demons (Dan Brown)
13. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (JK Rowling)
14. A Prayer for Owen Meany (John Irving)
15. Memoirs of a Geisha (Arthur Golden)
16. Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone (JK Rowling)
17. Fall on Your Knees (Ann-Marie MacDonald)
18. The Stand (Stephen King)
19. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (JK Rowling)
20. Jane Eyre (Charlotte Bronte)
21. The Hobbit (JRR Tolkien)
22. The Catcher in the Rye (J.D. Salinger)
23. Little Women (Louisa May Alcott)
24. The Lovely Bones (Alice Sebold)
25. Life of Pi (Yann Martel)
26. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (Douglas Adams)
27. Wuthering Heights (Emily Bronte)
28. The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe (C. S. Lewis)
29. East of Eden (John Steinbeck)
30. Tuesdays with Morrie (Mitch Albom)
31. Dune (Frank Herbert)
32. The Notebook (Nicholas Sparks)
33. Atlas Shrugged (Ayn Rand)
34. 1984 (George Orwell)
35. The Mists of Avalon (Marion Zimmer Bradley)
36. The Pillars of the Earth (Ken Follett)
37. The Power of One (Bryce Courtenay)
38. I Know This Much is True (Wally Lamb)
39. The Red Tent (Anita Diamant)
40. The Alchemist (Paulo Coelho)
41. The Clan of the Cave Bear (Jean M. Auel)
42. The Kite Runner (Khaled Hosseini)
43. Confessions of a Shopaholic (Sophie Kinsella)
44. The Five People You Meet In Heaven (Mitch Albom)
45. The Bible (Can't say I've read it cover to cover yet.)
46. Anna Karenina (Leo Tolstoy)
47. The Count of Monte Cristo (Alexandre Dumas)
48. Angela’s Ashes (Frank McCourt)
49. The Grapes of Wrath (John Steinbeck)
50. She’s Come Undone (Wally Lamb)
51. The Poisonwood Bible (Barbara Kingsolver)
52. A Tale of Two Cities (Charles Dickens)
53. Ender’s Game (Orson Scott Card)
54. Great Expectations (Charles Dickens)
55. The Great Gatsby (F Scott Fitzgerald)
56. The Stone Angel (Margaret Laurence)
57. Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (JK Rowling)
58. The Thorn Birds (Colleen McCullough)
59. The Handmaid’s Tale (Margaret Atwood)
60. The Time Traveller’s Wife (Audrew Niffenegger)
61. Crime and Punishment (Fyodor Dostoyevsky)
62. The Fountainhead (Ayn Rand)
63. War and Peace (Leo Tolstoy)
64. Interview With The Vampire (Anne Rice)
65. Fifth Business (Robertson Davis)
66. One Hundred Years Of Solitude (Gabriel Garcia Marquez)
67. Catch-22 (Joseph Heller)
68. Les Miserables (Victor Hugo)
69. The Little Prince (Antoine de Saint-Exupery)
70. Bridget Jones’ Diary (Fielding)
71. Love in the Time of Cholera (Gabriel Garcia Marquez)
72. Shogun (James Clavell)
73. The English Patient (Michael Ondaatje)
74. The Secret Garden (Frances Hodgson Burnett)
75. The Summer Tree (Guy Gavriel Kay)
76. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn (Betty Smith)
77. The World According to Garp (John Irving)
78. The Diviners (Margaret Laurence)
79. Charlotte’s Web (E.B. White)
80. Not Wanted On The Voyage (Timothy Findley)
81. Of Mice And Men (John Steinbeck)
82. Rebecca (Daphne DuMaurier)
83. Wizard’s First Rule (Terry Goodkind)
84. Emma (Jane Austen)
85. Watership Down (Richard Adams)
86. Brave New World (Aldous Huxley)
87. The Stone Diaries (Carol Shields)
88. Blindness (Jose Saramago)
89. Kane and Abel (Jeffrey Archer)
90. In The Skin Of A Lion (Ondaatje)
91. Lord of the Flies (Golding)
92. The Good Earth (Pearl S. Buck)
93. The Secret Life of Bees (Sue Monk Kidd)
94. The Bourne Identity (Robert Ludlum)
95. The Outsiders (S.E. Hinton)
96. White Oleander (Janet Fitch)
97. A Woman of Substance (Barbara Taylor Bradford)
98. The Celestine Prophecy (James Redfield)
99. Ulysses (James Joyce)
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Why I'm not at yoga right now
I should be in the 9:35 Body Flow class right now, but since I'm not, I think I'll blog about it.
A few days ago, Tommy grabbed a big knife off the counter while I was cooking dinner and cut his pinkie finger, and he did not cry at all. Jane and Sam both yelled and cried and made him quite nervous while I washed and put an Elmo band-aid on it, but my baby still shed no tears.
That is because Tommy likes to reserve his "I'm being stabbed with a big knife" screams for the Kidzone at the gym.
My children don't have any stranger danger. They like new people, not one has even turned around to say goodbye on his or her first day of nursery at Church. (They usually start whining when they start Primary. I hypothesize it is all about the treats/no treats.) Anyway, now Tommy is hanging on my legs, whining, and doesn't want to be left anywhere, with anyone. I think he should cry it out, but the tenderhearted (or tender eardrummed) ladies of the Kidszone don't want to let him bawl.
Yesterday, I had an appointment with my trainer (actual friend named Jodi, who is very nice and not at all like my old trainer of which I will speak in the next paragraph), who wanted to talk to me about my fitness goals, but all the talk was just to get me loosened up for the real reason we were there: measuring the circumference of my thighs in front of the whole gym, then pinching me with calipers and telling me my fat content (which I totally already knew because of the new scale). I had to try to hold my thighs still while wrestling Tommy, who had already been kicked out of child area.
Just a quick story about last time I did this Trainer Talk (yeah, I keep coming back for more). Whilst lecturing me about my sometimes habit of breakfast-skipping, my old trainer sneezed into his own hands, and upon finding himself with two hands full of boogers and without a tissue, excused himself. Excused himself not to get up and find a snot rag, but to lean under the table to remove a green lunger from his upper lip, then wipe it and all the rest under the desk. Unfortunately, his hands were still wet, so he rubbed them on his nylon exercise pants.
Me, inside my head: Um, hello, Senor Trainer-man? You aren't actually under the table. I can totally see you, and I am fully grossed out. Note to self: I really must get some anti-bacterial weight lifting gloves.
Him, out loud: Okay, I'm back. Shall we have a look at those thighs, then? (Might not have been the exact words. It happened over a year ago. The snot story is 100% real, though. I can't seem to forget it. )
Sorry, I have a hard time staying on topic. (What's the topic? Quick, read post title for clues. Ah, yes.) Of course, this whole Tommy thing is all about me. He is trying to keep me down. He doesn't want his mama fit and hot (ter than already am), so he's pulling this stunt. He's so naughty.
I really do need to go to the gym during the day, though. Nights I am tired and weak. Let me illustrate: Tuesday night I planned to go meet Liz for a class where a bunch of non-dancing, mostly white ladies try hip hop moves, so it should be as entertaining as it is sweat-inducing. Instead, I found myself in a Lexus rental car, picking up 5 sundaes in the Sonic Drive-thru. (No, they weren't all for me, but you see my point, right?)
Since I saw a little of Idol Gives Back last night, I fully understand that lack of mosquito nets and malaria in Africa = real problem. Nearly-2-year-old son of stay-at-home middle class Mom in suburbia who won't go to childcare at gym? = not real problem. I get it. I really do. Just because I sometimes find myself writing my blog in the voice of Bridget Jones does not mean I am shallow and self-absorbed. It just means I read embarrassing novels sometimes.
(I do not in any way endorse the reading of Bridget Jones Diary or Bridget Jones the Edge of Reason to my blog readers. Bridget has terrible potty mouth.)
A few days ago, Tommy grabbed a big knife off the counter while I was cooking dinner and cut his pinkie finger, and he did not cry at all. Jane and Sam both yelled and cried and made him quite nervous while I washed and put an Elmo band-aid on it, but my baby still shed no tears.
That is because Tommy likes to reserve his "I'm being stabbed with a big knife" screams for the Kidzone at the gym.
My children don't have any stranger danger. They like new people, not one has even turned around to say goodbye on his or her first day of nursery at Church. (They usually start whining when they start Primary. I hypothesize it is all about the treats/no treats.) Anyway, now Tommy is hanging on my legs, whining, and doesn't want to be left anywhere, with anyone. I think he should cry it out, but the tenderhearted (or tender eardrummed) ladies of the Kidszone don't want to let him bawl.
Yesterday, I had an appointment with my trainer (actual friend named Jodi, who is very nice and not at all like my old trainer of which I will speak in the next paragraph), who wanted to talk to me about my fitness goals, but all the talk was just to get me loosened up for the real reason we were there: measuring the circumference of my thighs in front of the whole gym, then pinching me with calipers and telling me my fat content (which I totally already knew because of the new scale). I had to try to hold my thighs still while wrestling Tommy, who had already been kicked out of child area.
Just a quick story about last time I did this Trainer Talk (yeah, I keep coming back for more). Whilst lecturing me about my sometimes habit of breakfast-skipping, my old trainer sneezed into his own hands, and upon finding himself with two hands full of boogers and without a tissue, excused himself. Excused himself not to get up and find a snot rag, but to lean under the table to remove a green lunger from his upper lip, then wipe it and all the rest under the desk. Unfortunately, his hands were still wet, so he rubbed them on his nylon exercise pants.
Me, inside my head: Um, hello, Senor Trainer-man? You aren't actually under the table. I can totally see you, and I am fully grossed out. Note to self: I really must get some anti-bacterial weight lifting gloves.
Him, out loud: Okay, I'm back. Shall we have a look at those thighs, then? (Might not have been the exact words. It happened over a year ago. The snot story is 100% real, though. I can't seem to forget it. )
Sorry, I have a hard time staying on topic. (What's the topic? Quick, read post title for clues. Ah, yes.) Of course, this whole Tommy thing is all about me. He is trying to keep me down. He doesn't want his mama fit and hot (ter than already am), so he's pulling this stunt. He's so naughty.
I really do need to go to the gym during the day, though. Nights I am tired and weak. Let me illustrate: Tuesday night I planned to go meet Liz for a class where a bunch of non-dancing, mostly white ladies try hip hop moves, so it should be as entertaining as it is sweat-inducing. Instead, I found myself in a Lexus rental car, picking up 5 sundaes in the Sonic Drive-thru. (No, they weren't all for me, but you see my point, right?)
Since I saw a little of Idol Gives Back last night, I fully understand that lack of mosquito nets and malaria in Africa = real problem. Nearly-2-year-old son of stay-at-home middle class Mom in suburbia who won't go to childcare at gym? = not real problem. I get it. I really do. Just because I sometimes find myself writing my blog in the voice of Bridget Jones does not mean I am shallow and self-absorbed. It just means I read embarrassing novels sometimes.
(I do not in any way endorse the reading of Bridget Jones Diary or Bridget Jones the Edge of Reason to my blog readers. Bridget has terrible potty mouth.)
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Lunch in Globe: quel romantique!
10:00 am, last Monday. Sam, Tommy, Mom, Dad, Ryan and I loaded into the Beemer and head east. At the same time, Grandma Layton got in her pick-em-up (grandpa was alt fuel before alt fuel was cool) and drove west out of Central. 1.5 hours later, we arrive almost at the same moment at our mutual destination: the Taco Bell parking lot on the west end of Globe. But then we backtracked a bit, and went to the McD's so the kids could climb around while we ate Big Macs.
So we had some lunch with Grandma Lavada Layton, and my Dad wowed her with the the technovoodoo that is his iphone.
I asked her if she had known Grandpa (Corthel Layton) when she was a girl, since they had lived in a pretty small place (Central, Graham County, Arizona). She told me, sure, he was always around, getting in trouble, getting in fights.
The first memory Grandma (Lavada Layton nee Allred) has of Corthel was a day when she was out in front of her house. She was in big trouble for running off (I picture her 3 or 4 years old, but I forgot to ask), and she had been tied with a rope by the wrist to a bed post. (You'll remember this was before Dr. Spock. Plus, there were no fences in the yards, and anybody who's got a 1000 square foot house and couple of kids they want to keep out of the highway might attempt something similar. To wit: Mom says Grandpa Taylor also remembers being tied to the front yard.)
Corthel came riding by on a horse. He came up to her and asked why she was tied up. She explained.
Corthel came riding by on a horse. He came up to her and asked why she was tied up. She explained.
"So did he untie you?" I asked, breathlessly. (He rode up on his steed and save the fair maiden (er, toddler!)
"No," she said. "He laughed. He laughed and laughed and kept laughing while he and the horse continued on down the road." (Out into the sunset, maiden-free.)
What's the point of this story? I learned that my Grandmother and I both met our future spouses while in our own front yards. This is apparently an excellent place to meet boys. Single girls, take note.
C'est l'amour!
(I also learned that I can google Frenchy phrases, to make my posts very chic and classy.)
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
Sugar, spice (water, fat, muscles, bones) and everything nice.
What am I made of?This morning I decided I really needed a body fat analyzing scale, and I needed it immediately. I wanted to know how much fat I'm toting about even more than I wanted clean underpants (today is laundry day). So I loaded up Sam and Tommy and went to Target, where I located a Taylor 5593 scale on clearance for only $15.00. "Bag it up, lady. I'm taking it home!" I announced to the check-out clerk. Only, the lady didn't hear me. I saw the sign that said she was hard of hearing after I'd already performed my short monologue. Then, there was an awkward silence. Well, awkward for me, anyway.
Maybe it was good she didn't hear me, because I wasn't being totally honest. Before I went home, I had to pick up the kids (it was a half day), and stop by In-n-out for some burgers, shakes and fries with Jake and Todd. I wanted to enjoy my greasy lunch in an Eden-like state of innocence, kind of like taking one last lap around the garden before before partaking of the fruit and stepping on the fat scale. After I got on, I'd KNOW. I'd be responsible for the knowledge. This analogy isn't working very well, is it? Maybe if the burger could be the fruit? Or maybe somehow I could incorporate the pink spread I put on my fries? No, no. It is getting worse...I'll stop.
So, back at home we unwrap our new toy and start her up. This scale is cheap entertainment, people. For 15 bucks my kids and I have spent a happy afternoon weighing, measuring, and trying to trick the scale by standing on one foot, alternately peeing and drinking (it also measures your percentage of water), and telling it we are 90 years old or extreme athletes. We also washed our feet and left them a little damp for potentially better results from the electrical impulse the Taylor 5593 shoots in one foot and out the other. It doesn't sound entirely safe, which is half the fun, of course. We are all thrill-seekers over here. Especially when it comes to our bathroom scales.
So, how did I do? How much of me is blubber? Well, I'll share a lot on my blog, but there are some things a lady needs to keep to herself, don't you think? To keep the bloggy mystery and romance alive? Yes, I think so. Let's just say I'm not at all horrified by the result. My first thought as I saw the result was "maybe I shoulda had the Double Double!," but then again, I've never been much of an overachiever. I'm 57 percent water, including those 2 diet cokes, which were totally necessary to wash down the fries. 57% sounds okay, I think. Or maybe I'm terribly dehydrated, and one of you will tell me. That would be humiliating.
Now, I think I'll make the kids all go clean their rooms so I can be alone with the new scale and try it out in the buff ! (All in the name of accuracy and scientific method. Directions say it works best when you're nudie).
I've said a bit too much? Yes, perhaps.
After that, though, I'll do some laundry. I promise I will.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
The nose knows...occasionally.
11:15 pm.
The lights are out.
I hear munching and smell...
"popcorn? Jake, are you eating popcorn over there?"
"Uh... yeah." he confesses.
"It smells like old popcorn. Like old movie popcorn. Do you have old movie popcorn over there?"
"You caught me. I've got a bag under the bed over here."
"I knew it! Can you believe my sense of smell? Your wife is pretty much a genius! Come on, tell me I'm a genius!"
"Okay, genius. Too bad I'm really eating Doritos."
"No popcorn?"
"no."
Dangit. "You have any dip over there?"
The lights are out.
I hear munching and smell...
"popcorn? Jake, are you eating popcorn over there?"
"Uh... yeah." he confesses.
"It smells like old popcorn. Like old movie popcorn. Do you have old movie popcorn over there?"
"You caught me. I've got a bag under the bed over here."
"I knew it! Can you believe my sense of smell? Your wife is pretty much a genius! Come on, tell me I'm a genius!"
"Okay, genius. Too bad I'm really eating Doritos."
"No popcorn?"
"no."
Dangit. "You have any dip over there?"
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