So, what CAN'T he do?

So my three-and-a half-year-old, Tom, has started telling me all the stuff he can do that the new baby will be quite unable to achieve. I think he's trying to remind us both that Beeson Boy 3.0 has clearly got skillz-slash-hit his stride. Not only that, he asserts the (yet unnamed) 4.0 version, coming out the end of March, is clearly an inferior product, obviously no upgrade, and so I should totally think twice about replacing the old one. (Not a direct quote.)

Tom will be playing outside, and climb straight up a block wall. Mom, look!, he waves, from about 10 feet off the ground, The new baby can't do this! Or as he does laps of the cul-de-sac on his two-wheeler at approximately 50 mph, he'll slow down just long enough to yell: you know, that new baby is gonna need training wheels!

He reminds me that the new baby can't use the potty, snap his own pants, run fast like a superhero, brush his own teeth, or go to primary. (I didn't think it was the right time to comment on his poor oral hygiene or the fact that instead of attending his class, he prefers to spend the third hour of church with both his arms wrapped tightly around my left thigh, deep under my dress. (For those of you who joined us in the middle here, we are talking about Tom, not Jake.) And since I don't own any dress flats, and I am already just barely staying vertical with my giant belly, tall boots, and big primary-lady bag, there is a real question as to whether we are going to end up sprawled across the foyer carpet (not hygienic), me with my one attractive black taffeta maternity dress up around my waist, my ample, panty-hosed bottom in the air.)

(Please say the word panty-hosed with 4 syllables. It is more enjoyable and Shakespearean that-a way).

But yesterday, while we were driving all over town, trying to buy all the bits and pieces of hardware and fabric that go into making my bedroom drapes, returning all the bits and pieces I bought the day before that totally didn't work at all (what was I thinking?), Tom asked me: You know what the baby can't do?

And then he proceeded to hum the theme song to Beverly Hills Cop.

(aka Axel F, aka something the kids call Crazy Frog.)

Tommy, I said, true 'nuf. This baby will be hard pressed to do that.

(I put it on my player over there, in case you haven't heard it since 1984.)

Weather, Elaine hair, previa, a quick nap, then more weather, peeping toms, curtains, cake for breakfast, ennui, and a Pulitzer.

We've got rain. Lots of it. Am very thrilled, because desert people like me grow weary of sunny, 70 degree winter days, and feel like rain on the ground is an obscene but delicious display of luxury and waste, as if we could afford to let water fall onto the dry, bare earth, pool on our lawns, or run in the streets, when we normally have so little and it is so precious a commodity. My hair is very fuzzy, though. Is not quite wet enough to make it look super great like when we were on the Maid of the Mist. I am quite puffed with pride about this fact, because who's hair looks good at Niagara Falls? That's right. MINE.

(Sister Jen, Ross, and me, in the back)

And that was before the boat ride. It just got bigger and beautifuller from there. No, that isn't sarcasm. I genuinely think it looked good. In an Elaine from Seinfeld, but not quite Felicity sort of way.

But anyway. Like you care about my hair. But really, I got nothin else for you.

Just sitting here, itching (no, I didn't forget the 'B'). I'm pretty tired cause I had book club here at the house last night (and into this morning.) We talked (among other, secret, lady, things) about Dan Brown's The Lost Symbol, cause everybody was reading it anyway. I found it less offensive than the Da Vinci Code (I'm not Catholic, but I felt they were unfairly vilified, plus it took me like 10 hours of research to figure out what was true and what was not), but also more boring. C'mon, Robert Langdon, get your rear in gear. Two hundred pages into Da Vinci, you'd cruised halfway across Western Europe, but in Lost Symbol, you are still poking about the bowels of the U.S. Capitol building. His themes were interesting (Noetics, Freemasonry, Washington architecture), but his characters' motivations are completely unbelievable. Completely.

Still, if you are bored...you could read it. The bad guy is creepy and violent, though. You are warned.

Went to the baby Doc yesterdee and found out my placenta is clear of my cervix, so no previa, no (scheduled) C-section! I'm cleared for take-off. In you know, eight weeks. Or really nine, cause I've gone a week over with everybody but Sam, who was 5 weeks early, for no reason that anybody could figure out.

We still can't figure him out. The other day Sam came in from playing outside. He was shirtless and breathless. He yelled: Mom! I'm skins! So I asked: Oh? Who are you playing with out there? And he replied: Nobody.

I just took a moment to stare off into space and nap with my eyes open. There might have been a small amount of drool involved.

This rain is fantastic. The swimming pool looks like it might overflow. I wonder what I could do about that? Plus, nobody walks along the canal/plays on the golf course behind the house because it is too wet and/or muddy. So I don't have any peeping toms (just, you know, actual Toms, who are my son) staring into my still uncurtained bedroom window (I know, is not the peeper's fault, I should go to the fabric store today. I am thinking just some thick upholstery-type fabric with blackout lining with rings on a pole, very practical, and will fulfill Jake's desire to have it "hotel room dark" for his Sunday afternoon naps. But then I also kind of want to make some 24 inch tall cornice boxes with an eyebrow arch and gold cording. The thing is, I'm not sure my back is up to handling this big a project just now).

I'll get to it, just after I eat some more of this leftover lemon cake. It is tasty.

Boy oh boy. I'm all sleepy and ennui-y and boring. Someday, when they give me the Pulitzer for writing the best blog in the world, I don't think they will point to Friday, January 23 (who knows if that is the real date, and I'm too lazy to go look it up), and say THIS! This here post represents the blogger phenom who is Beeswax, in all her literary glory.

I can live with that, I'm fairly certain.

99

Saturday was my Grandma Taylor's birthday (Verna Pauline Oswald Taylor, just in case there is somebody out there googling her). She was born January 9, 1911.

She is 99.
I'm not lying.
Here's the cake to prove it.
Nobody lies on Cathy's Rum cake.

We had a party on Friday. Had some chicken salad croissants, that broccoli/bacon salad, fruit and punch. There is a reason they are classic lady lunch foods. It is because they are delicious.


We used my snack trays. Did you know I collect 50s/60s/70s snack trays? They are all pressed glass, but in all shapes and patterns. Rectangles, ovals, round, fans, apples. Most have tiny matching punch cups, and some even have a little ashtray included. (I know, is awesome.) I have about 70 or so. If you are ever throwing a wedding or baby shower, you can borrow them. I'm totally serious. I have an entire buffet cabinet full of them, and they need to get some use. And we used Grandma's own wedding silver, Towle Candlelight. I like to visit sets of it on Ebay, cause someday I want some, too.

One of the tables. That's grandpa on the left. Hubba. See that little empty bowl? It used to have chocolate covered raisins in it. I ate them all.


We all tried to match each woman with her baby picture. That's my mom (#1), and me (#14)

Opening gifts


Daughters and granddaughters (who live here in Phoenix).

Grandma, Mom, Me, and Jane

Grandma's parents, Ludwig Friederich Oswald, and Mary Christine Klingler Oswald. (Both were born in Germany, but were married in Logan, Utah, 1897.) When I looked on familysearch.org just now to make sure I spelled their names correctly, I noticed one of the submitters was Gerald Lund. So maybe he's an Oswald cousin? Maybe I should finally read his books?

Last night, Grandma saw this (above) photo at my parents' house and said: That picture makes me homesick.

To read more about Grandma, go here.


In other news, Jake's birthday was last week, too. Jake isn't 99. As a matter of fact, from now until July 19, Jake must refrain from calling me his 'old lady,' since we are both 36.

Totally stole it from his sister Jane's blog. I also made it my computer wallpaper.

Whinging

I am 30 weeks pregnant. I am very, very large (have already gained more than recommended for entire pregnancy), and so I feel like humpty-dumpty (except nobody tried to squeeze humpty into too-tight sweat pants, which would have put him into very poor mood, believe you me.). My back is in bad shape, so I waddle and limp. I itch. Everywhere. Can't treat it with the corticosteriods I normally can. I got rashes that even my OBGYN declined to see (Although, he was very helpful in treating the second degree burns I gave myself while making strawberry jam for my neighbors a couple weeks ago, when everybody told me fudginity wasn't a good idea). My feet and ankles like to swell up to twice their size and stay that way until I lie down for two days. I haven't had a haircut or color since May. I have acid reflux. I can't sleep, so I am up reading novels every morning from about 2-5. Plus, my hormones are all wacky, so I'm whiny (as you can see), mean as snot, and mildly depressed.

Does anybody else get this way during pregnancy? Cause normally, I have this special gift (I call it a tender mercy) that allows me to look in the mirror and see something better than the actual reflection. Remember how I like to think I'm medium foxy? Well, no more. Now, I have no delusions. I am the anti-fox.

The funny part is, it all goes away when I have the baby. Within a week of the birth, I am strutting about like a supermodel. Just a couple days after Sam was born (he was still in the NICU, which should have been depressing in itself)), I remember donning a pair of big, stretchy pants and going to Sunday dinner at my parents' house, thinking: I look GOOD. Who's going to notice this giant jello belly, when I got this fabulous rack (really, was a very nice, if temporary, rack, but I did NOT look good)? (And somehow, I weighed more leaving the hospital after Sam was born, than when I went in. How this occurred is mystery of the universe.) (As is my weird talent for beer-goggling myself. Without the beer.)*

Anyhow, you know all that stuff I just whined about? Multiply it by three (even the double decade weight gain), then ask me if I'd trade it back for all the nausea and the puking.

The answer is NO. No way. Big, itchy, tired, and mean is WAY better than sick.

(Oh. And about the post title. I have a thing for colloquial speech. I love me some slang, or even better, a new idiom. I collect them like one might stamps, or shoes, or snow globes. Whinge is an especially lovely verb because, to me, it sounds even a bit more onomatopoeic than its cousin, the whine. And if you you called someone a whinger, well, it sounds a little naughty. Not sure why.)

* If you attended the University of Arizona (or any other party school) like I did, you'd think this was hilarious.

So, do you feel down during pregnancy? Or after?

Do you itch? What kid of lotion do you use?

When you look in the mirror, is the reflection you see better or worse than, or exactly true to, life?

While you start to work on your happy new year...

I'm still uploading Christmas.

See, now? Sometimes I take pictures. On special occasions, like Jesus' birthday. But these first few are from Aunt Jane, who takes lots of photos. Better ones than mine! Plus, when I opened the camera bag just now, I found a whole box of Whoppers. Talk about positive reinforcement. Now whenever I see the camera, I will salivate like one of Pavlov's dogs.

My Jane, at the Beesons on Christmas Eve.

And Sammy, with a fresh new haircut.

Ross and some cousins. There are 19 more kids not photographed here, who are likely busy braining each other with nerf swords. Which are not as soft as you'd hope.

Christmas morn. Anticipation.




Jake got some new Nikes.

Unwrapped, but not cleaned up.

RC helicopters. Mostly busted by sunset Christmas day. And check out our winter lawn. Overseeded that myself. We had a little bit of frost on it. We call that "White Christmas."

Tom is still wearing Ross' batting helmet.

On the Rhino with Gramps.

Cousin Will.

Aunt Jen

These go-carts say they are for kids 12 and up. So we told Grandma to go ahead and get one for Tommy. Who is three. That's what we like to call "good parenting."

Sam, trying out Charlie's hog.

Jake, who wants his own go cart. One that goes 100 mph. He's been checking them out on Ebay.

And me. Thanks again, Aunt Jane!

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

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

Well, I'll tell you.

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

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

This event happened today.

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

But the turtles are GONE.

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

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

Is anybody with me?

Happy new year.

Cousin Joe sings. And I ponder making offensive candy.

I'm back from New York.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quick, tell me what to eat in New York.

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

I really hope I don't get it.

I'm leaving for New York on Saturday.

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

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

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

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

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

you want that guy's job, huh?

And you think he's hot?

And I did.

And I did.

(Heaven forgive me.)

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

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

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

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

Thinking about pie.

What I'm thinking about:

Pie.

What I ought to be thinking about:

emptying out some of the boxes in the hallway so that when Kari and Craig come from Utah for Thanksgiving, they won't have to slither sideways to get to their room.

But pie is more interesting. I have been assigned the pumpkin pies for our holiday meal. This might sound important, but my Mom thinks pumpkin pie is yuck (but likes apple-mince, which actually IS yuck), and offered to buy them at Costco. I was horrified, and took the job myself. So I have spent some pleasant hours perusing internet recipes and reviews, and I am thinking maybe I will mix it up a little and make Paula Deen's pie, which includes some cream cheese? I trust Paula will not get too crazy, nor try to make it healthy or something lame like that. But will people stab me with their greasy turkey forks if I deviate from the pie on the back of the Libby's can? Is a serious question.

I will also be in charge of Ardy's rolls again (recipe here. But, as usual, I get pretty blabby, so you will have to scroll down so much you'll develop carpal tunnel), which everyone agrees actually are important. So important, in fact, that cousin Melanie and I will both be making double batches, so everyone can take bags of rolls home for leftovers. Cause how can you make those little turkey sandwiches with stuffing and gravy and cranberries in a roll, if all the rolls are gone? You see my point.

Lastly, I will be making the cranberry jell-O. This is an act of love, because as you might remember, I love jell-O. First I make the cranberry sauce in the food processor. (1 apple: 1 orange with rind: 1 bag of fresh cranberries: 1 cup (or more) of sugar. I usually make twice that much.) Then I make lots of cran-raspberry jell-O with half the liquid, and add some of the cranberry sauce/relish to the jell-O (about two cups for a 9x13. Add finely chopped pecans and even some extra finely chopped celery. Eat it with lots of whipped cream. (Don't be stingy. I whip my cream by the quart.) So good, I usually consume one pan myself, over the course of the weekend. Although, last year Kari might have helped me? Kari? Is this true?

Anyhow, now that I think about it, both Kari and Craig are both quite lean and svelte people (they are runners, and it shows. No, I don't really know if they run. I also don't know how many of you get my Office quotes, or how many just think I'm odd. Do you run, Kari?) and will have no problem getting down the hallway with all the boxes. (You know, if my pie daydreams continue to get in the way of the unpacking.)

So, what are YOU making for Thanksgiving dinner? Is it delicious? Should I make it sometime? You can leave me the recipe if you like, and I will probly try it. I'm not lying to you.

(P.S. New Moon tonight is at 7, with bleu cheese burgers at The Keg first. I'm not up for this midnight stuff. Like any middle-aged pregnant woman, I like to see my teen vampire romance movie sequels at a reasonable hour.)

I write the songs.

Just like Barry Manilow, only with greater emphasis on bodily functions.

I think you write the songs, too. Otherwise, I probably wouldn't be copping to it.

I'm talking about nursery rhymes.

You know, like Mary had a little lamb? Or Jack and Jill? Only you make them up yourself? And they often don't rhyme? So they are more like nursery free verse? And they are normally quite bad? So bad, in fact, that you are glad your child doesn't fully comprendo the English yet? And these verses are almost always immediately forgotten, but very occasionally they stick, and become part of the family collective conscious?

Like, who can ever forget It's Happy Nappy Time!, sung to the tune of tra-la-la-boom-de-ay? Is now in its second generation, and still going strong. My Mom holds the copyright to that one, but I bet she won't care if you use it.

And I've come up with a few good ones myself. But time is not good to this fragile and ethereal poetry. Even ten minutes later, you can't recall anything more than that the song was a plea for your son to stop bugging you about going to store and getting more avocados, cause he is constantly hassling you about avocados. He eats like 3 avocados a a day.  You can't remember anything, save you sang it to Paula Abdul's Straight Up, and that it was so good, if you could remember it, it might win a Grammy. 

Here's one I do remember, from not so long ago. It is entitled Poo in the loo, and I think the tune name is obvious, but I'll tell you anyway (Skip to my Lou):

Poo's in the kitchen,

Who Tom who?

Poo's in the kitchen,

Poo Tom poo.

Poo's in the kitchen,

Tom, its you.

Poo in the loo my Tommy.

Now, sometimes these sorts of songs can be wonderful teaching tools, but Tommy is not an anglophile like his mum, and he doesn't yet know his loo from his lorry. So I guess the songs are as much for me as the children, and help me to keep my spirits high while I disinfect the kitchen floor. Again.

Have you read that book about the five love languages? Well, I'm mostly a quality time sort of girl, with a minor emphasis in receiving gifts or acts of service. Whichever of those would include people bringing me treats in my bed. So one night when I was feeling my love tank (and belly) was empty, I sang this to my ungrateful children, in all the serious Barbara Streisand intensity I could muster:

You don't bring me cheez-its

you don't bring me grape pop

you don't bring me tiny banana splits from Sonic (ask your dad to take you there and get me one!)

anymore.

The kids weren't terribly impressed. But they never did like Neil Diamond as much as I do.

You might feel differently, but my rule for nursery songs is you can't try too hard. They have to come entirely naturally, and so they are generally one-offs.

For instance, this morning Tom came in with a roll of toilet paper and a crack full of feces. (Don't worry, this is just fun back story.) He bends over at the waist and commands: WIPE ME. And so I do. But I realize bathing might be necessary for proper clean-up (is messier than average, and now we are both involved), so I tell him to put his Move it, Move it undies (Madagascar Movie) in the laundry and meet me in the bathroom. 

But nothing is that simple these days. Everything must be explained. Why? Why? He asks. 

And then the song comes, from somewhere deep inside me:

All the naked boys need to get in the shower.

Naked, fecal boys need to get in the shower.

Naked, naked boys need need to get in the shower

with their mommies.

Oh, boy. Is a real stinker. And more than a little disturbing. I don't think it is going to unseat Miss Muffet from her tuffet. (Not to mention, you might think I shouldn't be showering with my toddler. And you would be right. Remember this?)

Is okay, though. Good is not really the point.

Still, I wonder if Coldplay ever came up with something similar? Just before they wrote Viva La Vida, maybe? 

So, tell me. Do you sing stupid, goofy, sometimes disturbing or inappropriate songs to your children? Do you have any favorites you would like to share?

But is he wearing pants?

I know I don't have time for this but I was just thinking about that time sister Jen and I took our kids to see that Planet Earth movie. Which I guess was cool to see on the big screen but really we'd seen all the footage on the Discovery Channel so it was kind of a waste of cash. Except for the rain forest birds. I could totally watch those things all day.

But the birds are beside the point. (Or are they? Perhaps not.) See, about halfway through the film, I notice the shoulders of the man sitting directly in front of me. They are large. Exceedingly hairy (gray hair). They are round, belonging as they do to a heavyset gentleman. But they are not wearing anything. 

The man is shirtless.

I immediately lost all interest in the movie.  (My interest was already waning, to be fair.) I became focused entirely on this furry topless fella sitting just inches from me. He had the bald pate/scraggly ponytail of an aging hippie. He was apparently feeling rather warm (although, it wasn't warm. We were in a movie theater in the middle of the Arizona summer, where people pay good money to be frozen solid for a couple of pleasant hours. I was wearing a sweatshirt. It was zipped up to my neck.) Yet, here was this guy, apparently comfortable in his own nudie skin. But of course, the real, burning question was: WAS HE WEARING ANY PANTS?

So I tried to surreptitiously lean forward and peer over into the next row. I didn't need to be super stealthy, because by this time, we've got 8 kids who are tired of looking at animals eat each other and/or starve to death because of global warming, and they are growing restless.

But I can't see any pants! I can see hairy knees, and above that, the beginnings of some hairy thighs, but I can't see any more. So I quick use some hand gestures (not obscene ones) and put my sister on the case. Her eyes grow large as she surveys the scene, but she can't see either. Now we are getting sort of nervous he's some style of pervy.  Is very frustrating. Jen is about to go refill our giant tub of popcorn (naked guy doesn't know all the Dots are gone and nobody is going to eat popcorn without the Dots, unless we put some of that fake cheese powder on it), as a ploy to ogle the naked guy from the front (I know, is perilous mission), when the movie ends, and the lights come up.

Jen and I are both holding our breath. We are transfixed. Some of our children may have already left via the side exit, but we don't notice.

Naked man doesn't immediately rise from his seat. First, he reaches into the next chair, where he's been storing his tie-dyed tank top (the sort with two foot, waist deep arm holes, perfect for showing off his copious gray armpit hair) and slips it over his head. I hold my breath. 

He stands. 

He is wearing shorts. 

They are short and flesh-colored, but they are shorts.

There is no question.

Naked guy isn't naked.

And that is my whole entire story.

I know, it leaves you with more questions than answers.*

But isn't that what good literature is all about?

*Like: Why take off the tank top? Is only a scrap of fabric. Is  not like you take it off and think, whew! much better.

*Or, like: Didn't you just move, Beeswax? why are you telling me this story instead of unpacking your office? And aren't you out of cereal? Shouldn't you go to the grocery store? 

Pandora's Worms, and...do you think I should have worn falsies?

I'm back on the grid. 

Except for Tivo. And on this girl's grid, Tivo is more important than telephone or internet, water or sewer. But not electric. Cause obviously you need that for the Tivo to work. DUH.

I really need someone to hook up my Tivo. 

Since you and I last met, I have had a change of venue. I have packed, driven west about 5 miles, unpacked, wiped things out, mowed things, and spent a great deal of time looking for stuff that is probably still in boxes in the garage. Yesterday, I sent Jake a text asking him to get poo, and lots of it. He's pretty chintzy with the poo. (We are trying to overseed the lawn, and keep running out of seed and manure. Aqui en el desierto we have bermuda grass in summer but plant rye in the winter.) It isn't going very well. I think we need to call Tony the landscaper. I'll bet he's full of poo (or his truck is, at least).

So, the unpacking. At first, it went on swimmingly. Oh, look! My toothbrush! And only missing two days! My yoga pants! I know just where to put you! Furniture: Here. And here. Or maybe here. 

Wait. Stop unpacking and get in your costumes, children! We've got to go to the Ward party! Boys, do you have your weapons? 

Tommy, wired, even before the sugar high.

Army man #1

Army man #2

And #3

Vampira here spent the whole time in the petting zoo.

Oh, but what about me? I forgot to wear a costume! How about this here Dolly Partonish wig? And maybe some sunglasses? Yes! Is perfect. 

(Nobody took my picture. So, here is sloppy November 6th reenactment:)

Only, wig was very bad move on my part. Cause I don't know most of these people at the party. Cause we just moved in on Wednesday. And they didn't know me. Especially in the wig. (Except one nice girl, who was like, I dig your blog, Beeswax! Hi, Dana!)  At Church the next day I overhear one lady whisper to another: Kelly Beeswax? Who? To which the second lady responds: You know, the blonde one. And the first lady nods, as if to say, of course.

Why am I such a geek? Cause I really, really, really am. Now I am thinking I should have gone whole hog, with gargantuan falsies and what nots. Then, I would fer shur not get any callings for awhile. They probly wouldn't even want me out visiting teaching. What do you think?

So now we continue to unpack. But things are slowing down. Now, when I open a box, it is filled with stuff I don't want to see. Is like big, cardboard cans of worms. Pandora's moving box. Okay, Let's see. What's in here? Ack. Is canning jar from kitchen desk area. It is filled with pennies, deutchmarks and pfennigs circa 1990, antique keys, beheaded lego guys, old contact lens cases, hair clips, Carmex (I should apply some of that. Am feeling quite chapped), colored pencils, cap for inflatable slide from 5 years ago, and the battery case cover for a blue game boy. Is WORMS! WORMS! WORMS! Quick, Pandora, close the box! 

So, you see what I am up against. And the kids rooms? More of the same. Tiny pieces of caca that will drive me to madness.

P.S. I feel WAY better now. No more vomiting. Am almost five months along, and nearly well. Am very, very happy about this. Happy November to me. And you.

All my bags are packed, I'm ready to go...

No, I'm lying to ya. Movers are coming Wednesday for furniture, but in the meantime I'm supposed to be packing all our doo-dads and what-nots into boxes. Meantime= this very moment. But obviously, I'm not doing it. I did, however, (with the help of Jake's Mom and sister), pack up and move my whole kitchen over on Saturday. So that means I can't cook anything even if I really super-duper desired it. (Sigh of relief.)

In other news, had my ultrasound this morning, and our fetus has himself a willy! And since my boys are wild and loud enough for 2 normal boys each, that means I'll have the equivalent of 8 regular boys (seriously, those of you who have met Ross, Sam and Tom can bear testimony of the crazy in the comments section) that will all live at my house. Plus Jane, who isn't going to be at all pleased with the news, when she gets home from school and I am forced to tell her. There is sure to be a weep, wail, and gnash of some duration, before it works its way into a sour-faced mope. (She's enough drama for 3 average girls.)

Anyhow, little Willy (temporary endearment) looks fine and healthy, if a bit alien, gray, and grainy, which is fab news. Now if only I could stop eating 4 breakfasts, 3 lunches and 2 dinners (plus snack before bed) (oh, and all the ice cream treats), perhaps I could keep this whole thing under 200 pounds? 

Reach for the stars, Beeswax.

The really super long one, in which I ride a bus across the northeast, part 1

Well, now. I'm back. I've been on a bus for a week. With Jake and Ross and my family, and lots of old people. Really super nice ones with awesome sweet spirits. From Utah. At first, I was all judgy. Like: Wow, these fogies are going to slow me down. It turns out, though, they were surprisingly spry, whereas I, in my current, 4 months pregnant condition, was...not. I mean, I kept up. Sorta. But the May 2007 Kelly, who ran about the streets of Paris all night, all super (okay, medium) skinny and bendy and hot, is gone. October 2009 Kelly was just working hard not to throw up on the bus. She also liked to complain that her sweats were too tight. Which, if you think about it too long, is way sad. So don't think about it. That's what I try to do. But it is hard not to think about when your elastic waistband is digging into your belly.

My Mom seemed more stressed than anybody that we were on the geriatric tour. See, when she was 20 she worked in an art shop in Rothenburg, Germany, and every day the buses would pull up into the center of that darling medieval, walled town, and aged Americans would waddle off, yelling stuff to each other like "Herbert, what country is this again?," then come into the art shop, where my Mom would offer them some free schnapps, and the southerners would tell each other "well, she talks good English, but she shore has a funny accent!" 

Mom's from Sacramento.

I won't tell you about the time she offered booze to a general authority. She was like, "want some schnapps?," even though that guy was putting off some serious Utah vibes and she didn't want to ask, but her boss yelled at her or something. And when she did, the GA (I think it was Hartman Rector or Hugh B. Brown) put his arm around her and said "No, thank you, Sister Taylor. But I'd like to invite you to a special Sacrament meeting." If I told you all that, I'd be getting off the subject. Which I never do.

I didn't have such bad feelings about bus tours. We rode all over England in one while I was on study abroad, and plus, spending the last three months with my cheek resting on the toilet seat has humbled me. I am low on pride right now.

(Little) Ross LOVED the bus. He spent most of his time in the very back seat, which had no window and was next to the toilet, reading his books and borrowing people's iphones, so he could download violent shooting games he's not allowed to play at home. Here he's got his eye on Grandpa's, but Grandpa is busy, probably listening to something good like Simon and Garfunkel. Simon and Garfunkel is very good for long bus rides around the northeast.

Anyhow, our tour began with the sites of Boston. A walk through the North End to the Old North Church, Bunker Hill Monument (climbed halfway up before I asked myself what I was trying to prove, although felt sort of sheepish as athletic elderly persons jogged by me to the top.) 

Ross was totally tour guide's pet, following Joseph around all day. I won't put his last name in here, in case I decide to tell you about all his inappropriate racial and political comments, which caused my sister Jen to whisper "that really just happened" like every 20 minutes all day. (I learned about not including last names when I wrote a post about going on a date with Rendell L. to El Charro in 1992, and then he googled himself, and emailed me about where to find better enchiladas. Which was kinda cool, but also kind of mortifying.) Anyhow, that's Grandpa Ross behind them, in the photo. Maybe he wishes he was tour guide's pet, too, but probly not. Joseph liked to get right up in your business.

That's me and Ross in the cemetery just up the hill form the Old North Church. Oh, boy. I totally look pregnant. And here I thought I was fooling everyone with my Juicy sweatshirt that wouldn't zip closed.

Had lunch at Quincy Market, which has got to be world's best food court. Had some clam chowder, fried shrimp, and mind-blowing gelato (nutella and pistachio). Rode around Boston, checking stuff out.

Ross rubbed the toe of John Harvard, which apparently means he'll never have to study again , or gets him into Harvard automatically, or some such thing.

Drove out to Lexington and Concord. I'd like to spend a weekend there, checking out all the Transcendentalist digs. Or maybe I'd like to move there. Am still unsure.

Minute man statue in Concord.

Dear Concord Tourism Council,

You can totally use images of my husband, Jake, free of charge, to lure ladies to your lovely town. 

What? No. He won't pose in a speedo in front of Louisa May Alcott's house.

Sincerely, Beeswax

The whole group, on a bridge over a river. (What state are we in, Herbert?) Jake, Jen, Ryan, Mom (Mareen), Ross, me, and Dad (Ross). We were about to get on the bus to go eat horrible fish at a place called the No Name Fish Market. Blech.

The next day, we were on the road to New Hampshire.

You know Michael's? The craft store? Well, before our bus began to work its way across the great state of New Hampshire, my only real experience with fall foliage (except a little in Provo. I guess I didn't spend enough time making out with boys up in the canyon, where the real excitement, er color, is. That's what my Mom says, anyhow. You know, it is hard sometimes to be nerdier than your mom.) was in the silk flower section of Michael's.  And the colors always looked false, and a little garish, to this California-turned-Arizona girl. Sure, there is usually some wise guy in Leisure (Seizure) World who tucks some red silk maple leaves into the armpits of the Saguaro cactus in front of his double-wide (or, you know, spray paints his front yard gravel green, to look like grass, which it doesn't), but it is always in poor taste. But the real thing? Not at all tacky. 

Makes me wonder again what I am doing out here in the desert.

More next time on how we missed President Monson (in Kirtland), and Pam and Jim's wedding (on Maid of the Mist), by only one stinking day! Plus, as a bonus, sister Jen's fascination with octogenarian honeymooners!

TMI

I've had so much to write about. Questions to ask you. (But haven't. You might have noticed).

I wanted to ask you things like: How many days without a bowel movement does it take to raise your OBGYN's eyebrows? (Am still unsure, but I do know that six is NOT the answer.)

Or, how long can you survive in the 105 degree desert drinking only two cans of Sprite a day? (Approximately 6 weeks, if you don't go outside. If you go outside, you immediately become light-headed, your vision goes dark, and you feel as though you will lose consciousness.)

Or, did you ever vomit with such force that your eyes swelled shut, your face was covered in red spots for week, you puked blood, and the skin above your eyes actually tore open and bled? (Two weeks ago tonight).

But see, as I'd begin to write,  I'd remember how I'd linked my blog to my Facebook profile; and then I'd think, what if that I guy I never really knew, who sat behind me in 10th grade geometry, but has befriended me here on the internets, reads this stuff?

Really. It seems, as the young folks say: TMI.

And then I thought, does anybody want to hear it? Well, told myself, maybe, if I made it funny. So I set out to make it funny. But, it turns out, that while in the midst of it all, I couldn't find much humor.

I was in a dark place.

(My bedroom, with the blinds closed.)

I've been in the house for over two months. 

I've developed a tiny and impermanent case of agoraphobia.

In the meantime, my children have become unkempt and feral, eating cereal in the family room, fighting, dressing like they don't have mother, scarfing green jello at all hours (my jello), and playing the wii until their eyeballs dry up. (Sam's blonde 'fro has grown large, unwieldy, and strangely, even more beautiful than ever before during my seclusion. Is a wonder to behold.)

It is a wee bit like Lord of the Flies over here. 

Lately, though, there have been indicators that I am perhaps reaching an end to my woe. First, I ate fruit salad last Sunday for dinner. And I never saw it again! Then, I decided I could not look at another carbonated beverage, and drank THREE WHOLE BOTTLES OF WATER in one day (tap water still tastes like a rotten fish/dirt/penny cocktail), and kept nearly all of it down! 

In addition to my fear of TMI, I've other reasons for avoiding the internets. 

I've been doing stuff. 

We are heading out on a Church history trip (Boston, Sharon, VT, Palmyra, Kirtland) next week, and I forgot to clean my house, or shop for groceries since mid-July. And we are leaving kids at home with a sitter. This home. The one that is super messy and smells bad. Plus, I have exactly 1 pair of pants that fit me (and exactly zero brassieres). Oh, and we are moving! In a few weeks! (Just a few miles away, to Gilbert. Power and Baseline-ish, in case you care.) Which is thrilling, but since Jake and I are sort of pack rats, and we've lived here in this casa 8 whole years, we need to start cleaning. But instead I lie in the tub and read. (Approximately 3 linear feet of books in the last two months.)

Anyhow, I think I'll stop now. Is enough TMI for one day?

(It shall have to be. Is time to drive through the Taco Bell, so the kids will not ransack the kitchen while scavenging for scraps of meat. Plus, nothing says I love you like Nachos Bell Grande.)