Bohemian Soiree is like smelly crock pot dinner and makes me cranky like a Disney baby.

Okay, so LAST CHANCE to enter for the purse. I'll draw a name this evening!

In the meantime, I'll tell you about a Bohemian Bliss Soiree & Vagabond Flea Market that I attended last Friday evening with mi hermanita, Jen. (Who will not blog.)

Domestic Bliss (downtown Mesa store) billed it as a party, including food (bohemian light fare) and libations, plus a tour of 2 renovated 1920s bungalows.

Admission was $30, or $15 if you dressed 'Bohemian.' 15 bones is a lot of money, so we gave some serious thought to our attire. We were pretty sure Bohemia was somewhere near Germany, but we didn't have any dirndls. (Okay, I do have that one dirndl, from when my Mom worked in that art shop in Rothenburg ob der Tauber, in like, 1969. But I didn't feel like ironing it.) But also, 'soiree' is obviously frenchy, so it seemed like going German seemed sorta off-track. And anyway, Jen said I should fer shur wear my Nanette Lepore sequined flapper dress. I can't remember why, but she was dead certain. She isn't normally wrong about fashion.

So we got decked out, (Jen wore a taffeta wrap dress, a headband that looked like a hat, complete with netting and plumage, and a necklace she purchased on Etsy, made of coral fabric  rosettes, and showed up at the soiree around 7:30. I was sweating mightily, and we had to walk three blocks, so my feet hurt. (Jen also told me I couldn't wear gladiator sandals with a sequined flapper dress, even if they are copper like the sequins.)

So the soiree was quite an event. And not just marketing genius, which it obviously was, since there I stood, dressed up like it was Halloween, and paying money to shop in somebody's hot backyard. There were little booths filling two yards, front and back, packed with stuff. Most of it was decor, for booth ambiance, and not for sale. It was, at first, exhilarating. There was perhaps 30 minutes of oooohing and eye-feasting that went on.

During this time, we realized we were fairly over-dressed. 'Bohemian' had meant more funky, less 'Roaring 20s Prom'. Oh well. Jen's  headgear and Etsy necklace were going over big. We were having some trouble getting around because people wanted to stop and chat her up about them.

After the 30 minute honeymoon period, our eyes started to cross. We were like babies after a whole day at Disney: overstimulated and hungry. I was a little cranky, too, cause I'd forgotten to eat anything (but an entire can of loaded baked potato Pringles) all day. We saw some people with food, heard snatches of conversation that included "Pita Jungle," which, as you ought to know, if you live here, is good news. But we couldn't SEE any food. All we saw was a tent full of booziness.

So we struggled on, because there was so much to see. We listened to the girl playing guitar and singing like an angel. I purchased some burp cloths for a baby gift, one made of sock monkey fabric. I mean, who can turn down sock monkeys? We found a peach bellini that we hoped was virgin, and went through the bungalows. Still no food.

After 2 hours, we drug ourselves into the front yard and starting hiking back to the car. I'd spent $10. I was starving and mentally exhausted.

Why are craft boutiques dolled up to look like bohemian soirees so taxing? Why don't I buy anything? At first, it was a mystery. But after some careful thought and soul-searching, I came up with this: 

Boutiques are like crock pot cooking. When you first stick everything in and turn it on at 10 am, it smells so good. You salivate and dream about eating its contents. By 2 pm, you are still hungry, but the smell is getting strong, and your stomach starts to turn. By 6 pm, you serve it to your family, but you can't force yourself to eat a bite, after sniffing it for 8 hours. You scarf some cookie dough ice cream and call it good.

So if you really want to spend money at any sort craft show/boutique/soiree, you need to do it in the first 30 minutes. After that, you will be craft-satiated, paralyzed, and will be capable of nothing, save imbibing peach bellinis and searching in vain for the Pita Jungle. Be warned.

Anyhow, I'd totally go again. Disney might make babies cranky, but they always want to go back, right? Domestic Bliss said they will do another event, maybe in October. See you there?

Flattered.

So just now I was having some lunch at Liberty Market (downtown Gilbert), when a nice employee approached our table and asked me:

Do you go to 24 Hour Fitness?

And I said:

No. I totally don't.

But, THANK YOU. 

(And then I thought about kissing him, you know, not on the mouth, maybe just on the hand or something, while I curtsied to him, but then decided against it.)

Yes, yes, I know what he meant. 

But also, he mistook me for someone who goes to a gym. 24 hours a day, even.

Best compliment ever.

The end.

So, what about you? Ever been buttered up perfectly?

Free COLDPLAY for everyone!

Get it here!

Live stuff from the Vida la Vida tour. (My concert review.)

Nine lovely tracks, including the best part of the whole show: The Hardest Part/Postcards From Far Away/Viva la Vida. (Tracks 5 and 6). 

If you listen carefully, you can hear me OOOOOHing in the background, maybe. 

Jane told Jake, who made me a CD, so I've been listening to it all day, while I drive around this 109 degree town in my toaster oven (van) of the black leather interior. 

Hurry. Who knows how long it will be free? (It will likely be 109 until October). (Unless it is 115.)

You are welcome, Kari and Natalie.

(See, ladies! Chris totally loves us! He gives us presents!)

Album I totally forgot to listen to for 15 years but is really super great, plus look how many lizards are in my cousin's backyard! Friday

Okay, so it has been awhile since this post, eh?

And so what if it was supposed to be 10 years, crickets, and Wednesday? I refused to be tied to such conventions.

Oh, and I've already lied to you. I've listened to this quite a bit in the last 15 years (Ring was realeased in 1993). But sometimes my ipod bucks it off (my ipod is like an unbroken stallion, plus has very strong, but poor, personal tastes, apparently), and sometimes I forget to listen to it for a year or more. But then I rediscover it (like I did yesterday, because Jake fixed up my ipod as a little Mother's Day gift). And I think, WOWIE. I love this album.

Now, I honestly don't know if ya'all will know the Connells. I know they were popular mostly in the Southeast.  But I think they became one of those Mormon Kid favorites, you know what I'm sayin'? I have noticed this a little with Death Cab for Cutie, maybe, too? Am I wrong? You know how this happens? Like when  Utah was all into ska, and the Mighty Mighty Bosstones end up playing The Palace (on 9th East, next to Stan's)? I mean, The Palace is where I had my awesome 90's step class EVERY DAY (is my blog, don't interrupt me), and most of the time the stage held the likes of Klaus, the sexy Austrian aerobics instructor in the tiny purple shorts, who followed me from Tuscon to Provo. Or did I follow him? Hmmm. 

What was I talking about?

Ah, yes. When I heard 74-75 on the radio for the first time, I almost wrecked my car. I didn't go home. I went straight to the nearest Wherehouse and peppered the clerk with questions until we figured out the song's identity (Note to under-15 set reading my blog (i.e. my own children): going places and asking people questions in person is like ancient, almost paleolithic version of googling). And I came home with this album. And I've loved it ever since.

Soon after, a boy named Joe from Tallahassee moved into our apartment building in Provo, and he came over and played us songs on the guitar. (Note to single men reading my blog (all zero of you): chicks dig this.) And one of those songs was Fun n' Games, from the album before Ring. And then he asked out my roommate/cousin Melanie. And I encouraged the relationship, because of his fabulous taste in music. (At the time, choice of music and footwear seemed the best rulers with which to measure potential for lasting relationships. For instance: don't even give a socks-and-Birkenstocks man your phone number. On the other hand, a boy in the right sort of Doc Martens could very possibly father your children.) And thus, Joe and Melly got married, and had 4 kids. (You can see how the Connells and I made all this happen, right?)

And Joe taught me the song on my guitar, and I wrote my own song that incorporated Fun n' Games and a historically innacurate story of the signing of the Magna Carta, entitled Runnymeade. (I have that on tape somewhere. If someone can tell me how to get that on my blog, you are in for a geeky treat!)

Anyhow, since I could only find two songs from Ring to share with you on the music player over yonder, I added Fun n' Games, from the album of the same name, and Maybe, from Weird Food and Devastation. 

Oh yeah. An there was only one lizard in cuz Melly's yard. But he was a real doozy. A little lizard/toad half-breed. Cool, eh?

Leave a comment to win the "Prada" purse next Wednesday!

Tell me about:

The Connells.

Other 90's music that is super good, to which we might be forgetting to listen.

Mormon Music Microcosm (have just coined this phrase)

Step aerobics.

Klaus. (Or other attractive foreign crushes from your past.)

Creepy natural worldly things in your yard and/or home.

(I am especially interested in poisonous things and reptiles.)

P.S. If you own any Connells music, can name that lizard, or know Klaus, please leave two comments. You totally deserve an extra shot at the purse.

Boss-Tweed-style campaign promises: fulfilled! Free PRADA for you!

So, on Somebody's first couple of trips to Chinatown in NYC,  she might have bought too many purses. 

If she did, it wasn't her fault. 

When some shifty-eyed asian man muttering "Coach, Prada, Gucci" in a breathy, anxious voice beckons, she follows, pied-piper-style, even though she feels like she's in the first scene of a Law & Order episode. Which always ends with a dead body. Anyhow, as she climbed those steep and rickety (and sometimes disturbingly narrow) turn-of-the-century stairs, trying not to touch the filthy, old gum decorated walls, and followed the fellow into a windowless room that reeked of plastic (NOT fine I-talian leather, mind you), she got hyped up on fear and adrenaline, and bought as many cute and cheapy purses as would fit in her luggage. Once, she bought cheapy luggage in which to carry them home.

Anyhow, Somebody has a few purses that she hasn't ever used. And she told me I could give one away! This coppery-colored Prada number! To you! If you win!

So, leave me a comment. You can leave one comment per post until next Wednesday, when I will pick a winner! That's it!

P.S. I thought Adam Lambert's "One" last night was scary and yicky. And Simon's smug grinning over it was unattractive. Adam has some star quality, but I don't like the girly-man vibe, nor the screaming and tongue-wiggling. Maybe I'm too old to appreciate it all? Do you like him? Please 'splain. Anyhow, at the beginning of the season, I was like, oh, Danny-boy, but now I'm all about Kris. I even voted last night. Just to show you I'm serious about my American Idol (even though is first season since Kelly Clarkson that I've watched). 

What have you got in your TIVO? I'm watching The Office, Charles Dickens on Masterpiece (couldn't wait for my Sunday night Little Dorrit fix, but now she's over), Rick Steves' Europe (I love that pot-smokin' nerd), 30 Rock, House Hunters International, Idol, and The Unusuals. (You should check it out before it gets cancelled.) 

Am I missing anything important? (Is too late to figure out what is going on with LOST. Don't try to talk me into it.)

So you wanna see my husband in a backwards Victoria Beckham wig? I thought so.

Okay, but first you have to look at photos from Women's Conference. 

I totally lured you in here, huh? 

And now you are stuck, like a fly in my web!

Blondes have more fun? BAH! Mareen (Mom), Beeswax, sister Jen, friends Sarah and Kristie. At the back row of the Smith Fieldhouse, waiting for Mary Ellen Edmunds to tell us how to sell our summer homes in Babylon. We thought we needed some help, cause this ain't a seller's market. Don't get me wrong, lotsa people want in, they just can't qualify for the loans. So I think most of us will need to short sale our Babylonian properties, rent them out in the high season, or just walk away, and lose them in foreclosure. But who knows? Mary Ellen did not end up treating the subject as a real estate seminar. Go figure.

Cuzzins Beeswax, Hailey, Melly, and Jen, after Hailey pretty much stole the show as Celia in As You Like it (at the Hale in Orem). Sometimes, life isn't fair. Some girls get to have four kids, and still get to look 16 and wear a wedding dress 3 nights a week. Does that van look like it is in reverse? Apparently am lucky am not dead!

Beeswax, Sarah, Jen, and Kristie, post-play.

 Marla, Aunt Sherry, Mom. Before the WC, my my found her friend from Junior High, Marla, who had been lost since she got in a car accident on the way to Mom's wedding in 1972. Turns out, she's been living right here in Orem for over 30 years! (No, she wasn't totally lost. She didn't have amnesia or anything. This isn't Days of Our Lives. Was only my Mom who couldn't find her.) I can't get this to stop underlining.

Happy Mother's Day to me. After Church, Ross (big one) stripped down to his undies, then came out of his room with only two nerf guns and a belt with a holster. Boys are awesome. Which reminds me...

Jake found the Vicky B. wig at his Mom's house. He liked it backwards so it looked more like a mullet. Those are my sunglasses. Sorry about the poor photography, but I was too lazy to get up off the couch. It WAS Mother's Day, you know.

Who's on first? Starring Tom and Jimmy Buffet, and Wimpy Kid. And me.

90 degrees at 8 a.m. No surprise, of course, in May. Is desert here, obviously. So the air conditioning in the van goes on, even on the way to school. I totally love my van, even though it isn't cool, and Single Kelly would shun me if she saw her little white Integra stacked with piles of crapola in the garage, while I drive around town in a fetchin' VAN. (In fact, she's in here with me right now, shunning me, in manner of Sybil starring Sally Field. She told me to tell you so.)

I like to say I've evolved way past Single Kelly, and become very humble, not caring at all what people think of me, but really, I've just grown lazy in my maturity. After the van, the next step is those stretchy-waisted jeans, that begin just under my bra. (I know, they sound fantastically comfortable, don't they?) Next, I'll stop wearing my Spanx under dresses, so my backside will look like two puppies wrestling in a sack (Grandpa Taylor used to say that, although, not about me, I hope. Good memories.) And finally, I'll go shopping for one of those 18-hour-Cross-My-Heart bras, without any underwires! But that is the final step, before I finally give up entirely. So if you see me on the street with super pointy boobies, you will know it is a cry for help, and you can go ahead and schedule the intervention.

Anyhow, I like my Honda van. As with many Hondas, the air conditioning isn't super quick or cold, but it is terribly loud. When it is on, Tommy continues to talk as he always does (i.e. constantly, and without breathing), only way louder. In the back seat, the big kids are fighting about who gets to read Diary of a Wimpy Kid: The Last Straw, on the bus on the way home, and so I attempt to distract them with some Jimmy Buffet (because there isn't any Alphaville on my Ipod).

So, let's review:

1. AC that sounds like airplane take-off.

2. Bickering and cooties in back seat.

3. Cheeseburger in Paradise.

4. Tom screaming over the top of it.

Above Fins come high-pitched squeals from the back seat, some whacking noises, and a hissed "cheese touch."* Then, "NOOOOOOO!!!!"

Tom: cheese? I want cheese!

Me: Kids, will you pipe down and listen to Senor Buffett?

Tom: MUFFINS? I want muffins! Mom, gimme muffins! I hungreee!

Me: Buffett.

Tom: WHAT?

Me: BUFFETT!

Tom: MUFFINS! I want to eat lotter (water), too. Lotsa lotter! BIG lotter! AND MUFFINS! And cheese! And lunch. Mom, I wanna go to Pei Wei and get orange pop. NOW! NOW!

Sam: What kind of muffins you got up there, Mom?

Me: No muffins. Buffett.

Sam: WHAT?? I can't hear you.

Tom: Mom, muffins too loud!

I silence Jimmy. 

Everybody takes a deep, cleansing breath.

Jane: Mom, today is Breakfast with Mom at school. Why didn't we sign up?

Because who wants to  pay to fight with 2000 other mothers for 100 parking spaces, so we can all go the cafeteria and scarf doughnuts at 7 am. I get belly aches from early-morning doughnuts. Also, would require hair-brushing and stuff. Is mean fundraising trick to play on Mothers for Mother's Day. But I don't say that, to the backseat-dwellers.

Okay, maybe I did say that. Is possible.

Me: How about I take you all to Krispy Kreme after school? Is linner/dunch with Mom. It will be so fun. And we can go to the library and return that book that is 3 weeks overdue! Yeah!

Tom: Doughnuts? I want doughnuts! And muffins! And lotter! And cheese! And pop! I wanna go to the ROBBERY (library).

Oh well. We can turn off the air conditioning again in November. Usually.

* Don't know the cheese touch? You should read the Wimpy kid books. Are hilarious.

I WON, peoples! And book club = free therapy + treats!

I WON! 

(I will NEVER let the fame and fortune change me! 

Unless it wants to make me just a few pounds lighter, or give me a hair makeover, or feet that aren't so skinny and long they look like skis! I would love to wear regular people shoes!)

Jake texted me at book club last night to tell me the news! 

Yes, I was still at book club at midnight!

Course I was!

The chimichangas weren't yet gone!

(But the brownies were!)

And we were still talking about The Alchemist! (Which we all liked!)

Among other things!

No, I'm not gonna tell you what!

I might get kicked out of book club!

A club we've had every month for like 7 years!

Somebody correct me if I am wrong about when we started book club!

Anyhow, book club is super fun!

Every girl (or relatively foxy middle-aged lady) should have a book club!

Even if they don't like books!

But I totally do!

So is perfect club for me!

Thanks for all the votes! 

(And to my Campaign Manager, Jake, and the brains behind the operation, Jane and Ally! Okay, fine, there wasn't any sort of operation. It just feels like in a speech like this, I should name someone. You know. By NAME. So, Mom and Dad, thanks for trying to check that tiny box on your iphones! Was very tricky!)

So anyhow, I haven't won anything in like 2 decades!

Is very thrilling!

Oh, yeah! Please write comments in the form of an exclamation!

Potty candy, hummus, Sam the Wiggle, The Alchemist, Big in Japan, and fingernails. And VOTE for Beeswax!

Reading The Alchemist today for book club tonight. Have any of you read it? Liked it?

Someone found and ate all of Tom's potty candy. Now he is holding his water, hoping that I will purchase more candy later. Cannot be good for the kidneys.

Have made myself very sick on pita chips and hummus. Who does that?

I just noticed there is a new Yellow Wiggle called Sam. Greg is gone. I miss him. Did you know the Wiggles are filthy, stinking rich?

I keep listening to Big in Japan over and over. Is a good song. But is maybe weird behavior?

My normally short and ugly nails have grown inexplicably strong and attractive. Does this ever happen to you?

Today is the last day to VOTE for Beeswax! (Am still loser. Is sad.)

You know you want to see a photo of me with horrible 80's hair!

Have you  voted  for me yet? 

Do you know that it is your civic duty, as a good citizen of the interweb? 

Yesterday I told you about 12-year-old Beeswax's horrible haircut, which she got in the name of fashion. Only, it was only ever ugly, and never fashionable. Well, here is my yearbook photo from 7th grade. Unfortunately, it is in black and white, so you cannot see all the Wet 'n Wild make-up I applied, without a mirror, just before the photographer snapped this doozy. I have asked Hallie for a photo of her contemporary hair, but that might take some time. Or, perhaps she doesn't want it out there on the internets. Which, now that I think about it, seems wise.

So it isn't surprising that I have always hated that photo. But you know what IS surprising? That I thought this one was fab:

At least I don't look like this poor girl:

Do you want to know how she got her hair so tall? After PE and at lunch, these girls would pull their giant-sized Aquanet cans out of their Esprit shoulder bags (don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about), 

and one would position herself on the bleachers above and behind the subject, with another friend/stylist in front (although, can you really call anyone who would help you do this to yourself a FRIEND?), so they could aim the aerosol with 360 degree precision at the actual bangs of the victim-er-student. It was ALL about the bangs.

When Hallie came to visit last month, she exclaimed: You haven't changed a bit! You look exactly the same as you did at 12!

And I said: No, Hallie. I look significantly better than I did at 12. Now, I'm medium-foxy! (Or, I will be when I can zip my jeans again.)

What about you? Do you look better now, or at 12?  Do you LIKE how you look better now, or at 12? 

I know, is like playing that would-you-rather game. (Would you rather eat sink bread, or lick the floor at Albertsons? Would you rather have only one leg, or no arms?)

Oh, and hey! I would really like the MMB spotlight this month. 

I'm LOSING again, people! 

So please go vote for me! Ahora!

The competition is fierce (and talented). You should check them out, too. The Confessions of a Rookie and and Scream/Hug blogs are totally my style. But that doesn't make it okay to vote for one of them instead of me. Unless she's you sister, or she's blackmailing you with photos she's got of you from 7th grade. 

Then, is understandable.

The one about the time the Holy Ghost sent me to Taco Bell. Even though I wasn't hungry.

First of all, don't forget to go VOTE for Beeswax! Pretty please? 

So my old friend Hallie came through town a few weeks ago and requested a trip to El Charro. Hallie and I met in the 5th grade, at a Magnet school in LA. Hallie was from the Palisades, so when we were 12 and reached that awkward age when everybody looks pretty much awful and seeks to make it worse with horrid haircuts, Hallie got one of those asymmetrical numbers. I was from the not-nearly-so-cool Valley, and so I decided to part my hair down the center and have it feathered all the way down. Plus, I added some horrendous bangs. And sparkly blue eye shadow up to the brows. We both looked fairly bad, but Hallie looked cool-bad, and I just looked regular-bad. 

(Is no wonder, really, that I cannot embrace this retro 80's style thing that is going on. I see neon with geometrics and have post-traumatic stress flashbacks. Is like asking a veteran to relive the war. Only, not really like that at all. Is bad simile, and offensive to veterans. Sorry, veterans.)

Anyhow, fashion aside, while I was driving up to El Charro that day last month, I thought of another time I was in that neighborhood, back in August 1992. And since, I have had a niggling feeling that I should write it down.

I was 18. The guy I was dating was in some sort of band. They were practicing in an empty warehouse at about Country club and Broadway, which is (and was) not a nice neighborhood. I drove down from where we lived in north Mesa to watch them practice, and when they finished, after 1 a.m., I hopped in my little white Acura Integra and started home. About a mile on,  I realized I was being followed. 

Behind me was an at least ten-year-old American boat of a car, lowered considerably, and packed full of boisterous, probably inebriated men. At a stop light, they all climbed out the windows and hooted at me. I jammed down the accelerator, let out the clutch, and tried mightily to shake them. They stayed dangerously close behind. At the next red light, I slowed, checked for cross traffic, then went right through the light. They followed. I was going fast, 70 maybe, in a 45 zone. I hoped a cop would see my illegal maneuvers, but the roads, still wet and shiny from the monsoon rains earlier in the evening, were completely clear.

It occurred to me that I couldn't go home. Because then, they would know where I lived. And also, how would I safely get from car to house? 

I began to sweat. And mutter things. And I drove faster still. And they crept closer. I couldn't look in my rearview mirror because I could see their shiny eyes and tight grins.

I was out of ideas. And so I began to pray.

Immediately, a voice came to my mind. Like a command.

Go to Taco Bell.

And I actually laughed.  

I'm really not hungry, thanks, I said aloud. It honestly sounded like the worst idea ever.

You know, I might feel like some tacos later, when I am not about to be wrecked, raped, and possibly worse. How about some help in finding a police station?

But the voice in my head was calm and peaceful,  and I was not. And it seemed very insistent that I go to Taco Bell. 

And since it seemed like the best and only option I had, I started toward the nearest Taco Bell, at Brown Road and Mesa Drive.

It was open. 24 hours, I think.

I pulled into the drive-thru, in front of the speaker, and behind a 15 passenger van. The men in the low-rider, 6 of them, pulled in behind me, got out of their car, surrounded mine, and pounded on my windows and shook my car, whilst screaming and leering. I was trapped. I couldn't roll down my windows, so I honked my horn insistently, hoping the workers inside would come outside and call the police.

Instead, something else happened.

From inside the van ahead came a whole herd of very, very attractive boys, all wearing maroon baseball caps. 

The first fellow came around the back of the van, opened it, and started tossing baseball bats to the other pretty fellows that followed him.

Turns out, I had pulled in directly behind the Stanford University baseball team. 

The boys ran toward my car, waving their bats around and looking hot and fierce, like young warriors.

My pursuers jumped back in their ride, backed out of the drive-thru line, and left, tires squealing.

When I was sure they were gone, I rolled down my window. The handsome man-children checked to make sure I was okay, then told me to wait while they got their burritos, so they could escort me home. 

I still have no idea what the Stanford Baseball team was doing at a Mesa, Arizona Taco Bell in the middle of the fetching night. 

I was so flustered from my possible near-death experience, and thinking about how my prayer had totally, without any question in my whole brain, been answered, against my own logic and judgment, that   I neglected to get any of those baseball players' phone numbers.

I know. Was terrible waste of smart, cute boys.

Oh, and 

P.S. Hallie, I totally apologize if you liked your 12-year-old haircut. Yours was WAY better than mine.

And then you went to Mormon Mommy Blogs and voted for Beeswax! So that she'll win! And then, she won't feel so bad about her skin-tight yoga pants!

I'm back. And there are 35 comments on my last post. Which means that either you, like me, really love Utah food, or you are coming over from Mormon Mommy Blogs because you totally want to check me out and vote for me!

Is probly some of each.

I'll be honest. I'm no good at electioneering, gladhanding, politicking, backslapping, and baby-kissing (swine flu, you know); and heck, I'm no expert on vote-getting like Boss Tweed, even though my super handsome husband has a t-shirt with him on it.

But you should vote for me anyhow. Because I am very desperate and presenting my husband to you as eye-candy to get votes. Is very sad and pathetic behavior. (And thanks to Wendy at Blue Lily Photography for photoshopping/airbrushing my hair into looking good. It never looks good, especially since my last cut, when I got "The Rachel/Carol Brady".)

Also, you should vote for me cause I went to Women's Conference and now my pants are very tight. Even the elastic band on my yoga pants is digging into my middle, and I am grounded from my William Rast jeans for 10 pounds. Minimum.

Unless I go somewhere that doesn't require sitting down. Then they might be okay, in like, 5 pounds. Maybe.

 

Is so sad. Remember those halcyon days when I wore them, and was medium-foxy?

Apparently, I can't have Justin Timberlake's jeans and my Pastrami burgers and fry sauce, too.

Before I left for Utah, I totally printed out all your food comments. I read them to my trip-mates on the plane. We made some plans. 

Our plane had barely touched down in Zion when we scurried over to Red Iguana in SLC, but sister, mother, and friends got real high-pitched-giggly, pinch-lipped, and shifty-eyed at the authentic looks of it, and wouldn't stop for mole. So Market Street Grill it was. Best key lime pie of my whole life, though, so I can't complain.

We tried Pizzeria 712 in Orem, and Hailey was 100% right about the white pizza. You should go and get one, even though it isn't on the menu. Seriously. It has a big pile of arugula on top.

We also went to Sam Hawk, which was tasty although lacking in ambiance (i.e. is in strip mall next to dollar store, and is decorated with snapshots of (I am assuming) satisfied customers. The pork bulgogi was delicioso.

Also had lots of ice cream, with which I shan't bore you. Even though it wasn't boring, to me.

Hailey's play was really, really good. You should all go, cause it runs a couple more weeks.

And very quickly, so new people coming to visit from Mormon Mommy Blogs don't get bored and vote for someone else instead of me, even though I REALLY think I should win, (even though it IS an honor just to be nominated, claro que si), some of my favorite speakers at the WC were Camille Fronk Olsen, Julie Beck, Noel Reynolds and his wife (I used to work for FARMS when he was the boss man there), and L. Tom, o'course.

So, go vote for me, will ya? If, with your help, I win the May spotlight, I will celebrate my victory, and the trouncing of my opponents, (who are probly super-duper nice ladies, etc., etc.), by giving away another Canal Street Special (5% chance of being 100% authentic Prada purse from Chinatown) next week! (Turns out, I'm a regular Tammany Hall, after all! Is like buying drinks for voters on election day, for which I think even Boss Tweed got in trouble.)

P.S. Right now I am way behind in the polls. 

(Is very uncomfortable to sit here in my ill-fitting yoga pants, being a loser.)

Also, if you are visiting for the first time, and you think you might want to come back someday when I'm not talking about pants, you can join my list of followers up at the top-o- the-blog. You are always welcome.

And for my next trick, I will eat my way across Utah County! (And parts of Salt Lake).

So I am off to Utah tomorrow for Women's Conference. And by 'Women's Conference,' I mean:

Pastrami burger at Burgers Supreme,

shakes at Stan's,

fry sauce,

somewhere good in SLC (Market Street Grill? Do any of you have recommendation of delicious food in downtown area?),

Shakes at the Creamery,

blueberry bagel from the Twilight Zone (not cause is good, just cause I ate them every day for years. Because it was the 90s so a girl could eat like 6 bagels without guilt, as long as she avoided cream cheese),

more fry sauce, maybe the kind from Training Table that has BBQ sauce in it,

one of those brownies with the mint frosting from the Cougareat,

a Gandolfo sandwich, from Gandolfo's,

and...

and...

I think that's it.

Am I missing anything?

Is there any place in Provo that might have popped up the past 12 years that I shouldn't miss?

Please don't tell me about any more shakes that I need to try.

Okay, fine, go ahead and tell me.

Also, we'll be going to see my cuzzin (wish she was my blood relation) Hailey in Willy Shakespeare's As You Like It at the Hale. 

You all should come, too, if you are in town.

Shakes afterward (Oreo banana, of course) at Sconecutter?

The moral of the story is: marmalade is very cheap. In the future, buy it at the store.

So I went to the Superstition Ranch Market in Apache Junction and bought strawberries to make jam. Only, I got a little excited by the cheapness of the berries (3 pounds for buck!) and bought 25 pounds. Then I called Melanie, who told me I only need 2 pounds for a batch. Errrr....

Yeah, exactly. I started to sweat. So I stopped at the nearby Wal-Mart to get more jars and pectin, where I saw lots more people without teeth than I normally see in the general population. Then I came home and started to work.

Guess what! Canning fruit is way more fun than canning meat! There is no fleshy, bloody mess, and the cooking fruit smells hot-sugary-good like IHOP. (I know you always come here for my practical advice and insights. So there you go. Now you know.) 

And my jam was good! And so easy! And I made strawberry syrup, too. And it was good, and even easier!

So after that, I got terribly cocky. And smug. It was really unattractive. I began to think I had Martha-like-super-hero-jam-skillz. So it was in this self-righteous state of mind that I thought, I should make marmalade. 

Because I have this whole tree full of lemons. And because I found this website in England where people talk about making their marmalade, and putting it in their bread and butter puds (short for pudding, I think), and on their blueberry scones with their clotted cream, and I started to get hungry. 

Oh! And I can't forget to mention that these people are serious about their marmalade. They do not, under any circumstances, use pectin from their Sainsburys or Marks & Spencers. They wrap their pips (seeds, I think) and pith in cheesecloth and simmer it with their tiny pieces of hand cut rind for 2 hours, then squeeze the gooey mess out of the cheesecloth and into the pot to make sure there are no artificial flavors in their hoity-toity, life-changing marmalade. 

One of them even said she is the Queen's Official Marmalader. (No, I'm lying. I'm sure the Marmalader is a hereditary position, and that person would never share tips and recipes on the internets. Duh.)

Anyhow, I was totally buying the aristocratic, Euro-style jam they were selling. Course, they would never actually sell it. For money. Isn't classy. (Like the word classy isn't classy. Is fun irony, no?) 

So, everything went fairly well through the simmering, but then when I squeezed in my pithy sludge and added sugar, things went horribly wrong. They said to turn the heat up extra high for 15 minutes. But they didn't say that bits of flying lemon sugar would leap angrily from the pot like fiery projectiles of volcanic ash, burning my hands and arms, and parts of my forehead. I ran out to the garage to get safety goggles. 

And to check the recipe and comments again. Cause nobody mentioned that she got marmalade in her bangs (fringe, she might call it) when she cooked up her Seville oranges and Meyer lemons on her antique wood-burning stove in her little cottage on the sea in Cornwall, or that he got second degree burns on his knees from wearing a kilt while attempting to stir grapefruit conserves in his castle in the Scottish highlands.  

When I got back, it was burned. Lemon toffee. I canned it anyhow. 

So that when I look at it, I will remember when I tried to be a fancy Jammer, ran before I could walk, and crashed and burned (am literally burned. Is a hard lesson).

Please, people. If you can learn anything from my failure, learn this:

Just go to the Dog Track Wal-Mart* and buy some pectin. Don't get uppity. Smile wide and friendly at the people with no teeth. They know what you didn't: that pectin in boxes is a miracle of the modern world, like contact lenses and TIVO. 

I wonder if Amish people use Sure Gell?

* The Wal-Mart in Apache Junction shares its parking lot with the dog track. No, I'm not kidding.

Have you even made jam? Did it work?

What is your biggest kitchen failure?

Please share.

My sister called me just now, and she said...

Sister Jen: Hello. I just bought something. Can you guess what it is?

Kelly: No.

Sister Jen: It is called Kindle. Do you know what it does?

Kelly: Yes.

Sister Jen: What?

Kelly: It gets unruly earwax out of your ears.

Sister Jen: No. It doesn't. You read from it. It is like a little computer. You can buy books wirelessly and read them right away. It holds 1500 books. And it will even read aloud  to you.

Kelly: ( backtracking) Oh, yes. Now I see. I would like one of those.

Jen: I thought you would. Now, will you go on Ebay and help me choose a chic Kindle carrying case?

Kelly: Yes. I like the one with the birds. Or the orange with blue flowers.

Jen: Both excellent choices. What was all that about earwax?

Kelly: Candling, Kindling. Is very confusing.

Do any of you have Kindle or know someone who does? 

Do they enjoy reading from a screen? 

Is this the future of reading? (It sure would have been nice for college textbooks.)

Do I need to get rid of all my sagging Ikea shelves full of paperbacks and get one of these doo-dads? 

When I say doo-dads, does it make me seem like a very old lady? 

(Cause I'm not. I'm still 100% medium-foxy.)

Go to Kelfari for today's book review!

He's got hype-ups.

This morning:

Tom: Mom, will you please make my chin stop going up and down? 

Me: Huh? I don't understand. Your chin?  Oh, you have hiccoughs?

Tom: OHHHH! Yes, I have hype-ups. Please put me down for a nap so it will stop.

Seriously, I'm not sure he could be any more entertaining.

Just now he came in from outside, yelled ROBOT, did some jumping about, bouncing at the knee, and straight-armed dancing, (you must recall that he is entirely bottomless), then tried to microwave himself some edamame. Next, he begged me for a diaper, gave up on the diaper, and pooped in the frog potty while he scooted around on it from room to room on the tile floor. 

I mean, really. Who needs cable?

Hope your Easter was fab. Let's talk Jell-O.

I have always loved Jell-O. 

Always. 

Can't help it. 

Is 7 generations of Mormon Pioneer heritage reaching out from my tightly wound double helixes (helices?) to claim me as their own. 

I love it all, really, but I do not like it with any sort of vegetables (except celery. Finely chopped celery can be quite tasty.) 

I also avoid nuts, because it ruins the smooth and silky texture that to me is the simple beauty of Jell-O. (Except in that cran-raspberry jello filled with fresh cranberry relish. I can eat a whole pan of that over a long Thanksgiving weekend. Kari came to Thanksgiving and she was sold. Right, Kari?) 

But the best Jell-O I ever ate came to my door from an unknown source about a week after Sam was born (6 years ago). It was delicious. It came as manna from heaven. It was the food of the gods. (No, that wasn't foreshadowing. It isn't that Ambrosia Jell-O salad). Never has the idiom "hit the spot" been such a terrible understatement. I ate it all by myself. No sharing. Then I stuck my head deep into the Jell-O container and licked it clean.

I had Jell-O in my eyebrows. 

I was without pride, without shame. 

The Jell-O came from some nameless nice lady in my ward who brought us an after-baby dinner (I was going to say 'after-birth dinner', but that sounds super gross). Unfortunately, Jake answered the door. Even worse, since it came in the giant-sized Cool Whip container, and not in somebody's tupperware, 'Sister So-and-So's' name was not in masking tape on the bottom. The Cool Whip container was mine to keep. I could never send Sister Doe a thank you note. 

In some ways, though, the anonymity was good. For years afterward, I would sit in Relief Society, thinking, "was it she? Or, "maybe her?" and I would have warm and tender feelings for every woman in the room. (But then I went to work in Primary, where I had precious little time to ponder the Jell-O-creator.)

It wasn't until about 6 months later that I decided to make some of the Jell-O for myself. By then, the trail was cold. All I knew was this:

1. The Jell-O was green

2. It came in a Cool Whip container

3. It was very de-lish

I really couldn't remember anything else. Just the feeling (warm and happy) I had when I ate the Jell-O. Was not much to go on.

So I started googling green Jell-O recipes. My first attempts were tasty but way off base. I made that pistachio pudding one with the fruit and marshmallows. No, No, No. Was all wrong. I made that molded salad with the cottage cheese and the chunks of pineapple, even though in my heart I knew there were no pineapple chunks involved. It was okay, but clearly not THE JELL-O.

So yesterday I made a lime Jell-O fluff, with cream cheese, crushed pineapple, and marshmallows and lots of Cool Whip. No nuts. Duh.

I do believe I have made a breakthrough! I am now 75% sure that the elusive pot-of-gold-at-the-end-of-the-rainbow-Holy-Grail-type-Jell-O was a lime fluff. 

If it wasn't, it will be okay, because lime fluff is really super good. 

So now, I am going to strike out on my own, like a Jell-O pioneer, and make a fluff that is extra lime-y, and leave out the pineapple. Just Jell-O and Cool Whip and cream cheese, in a golden ratio, in perfect harmony. Maybe I'll add some limeade, to lime it up a bit? We'll see.

Could the answer be so simple? Who knows? I might fail, but even if I do, people will say of me: AT LEAST SHE HAD THE COURAGE TO TRY. SHE IS A HERO.

What? 

No?

In other news, Small Child has not had one potty accident! Nary a one! As long as the diaper is off, he pees in the pot! (He's saving his solid deposits for nap time, when he gets his diaper. Is the next hurdle, of course.) Could it possibly be this easy?

(Family: photos of daughter's baptism coming soon. I think Jake has my camera in his truck.)

What's your favorite Jell-O? Please describe.

Blessing of the Sun and my friend Shawna

Here's my great friend (of 27 years!) Rabbi Shawna Brynjegard-Bialik on the news in LA yesterday. She's the blonde (without a beard)!

And a happy Passover to you!

Potty diary: Day 1

And so. 

9:40 am  

Mother gets idea that Small Child might be ready for toilet-training.

10:00 am

Bought small frog-shaped potty, to inspire Small Child's bladder and bowel evacuation. 

10: 15 am

Bought Robin Eggs as reward for filling frog.

11:00 am 

Removed Small Child's diaper. 

11:05 am  

Child is thrilled to be liberated from restrictive pants. 

11:10 am

Spends some time inspecting himself, now that he has access to his dangly bits.

11:20 am  

Child becomes nervous and begs for diaper.

11:25 am  

Small Child not at all thrilled about potty. In fact, seems sort of frightened. Maybe is because potty has eyes and feet. Is maybe not the best idea for potty. Is maybe the reason potty was on sale?

12:00 pm child finally coaxed onto potty with a single Robin Egg, and sits on it (torlet, not Robin Egg) while he eats his lunch. Yes, Mother understands is unhygienic.

12:10 pm  

Small child fills frog potty!!

(with mac and cheese)

12:50 pm  

Child is re-diapered and put down for a nap.

2:00 pm  

Mother eats half bag of Robin Eggs by herself during nap time.

2:10 pm  

Mother rationalizes that she deserves poo candy cause she totally used the toilet, no problem. All day long, in fact. Although she didn't use the frog potty.

2:30 pm 

Mother did three sudoku puzzles. She is loving sudoku. Why did no one ever tell her about sudoku before? Is way fun, and not as nerdy as you think! 

3:00 pm  

Small child's older siblings come home and wake him. Eldest sister sees potty and removes small child's diaper without telling Mother. She brings books and musical instruments outside with potty, and small child sits and reads for a very long time. 

4:00 pm  

Small Child produces 3 drops of urine! It falls in frog potty! Mother and siblings make big stink over it. 

4:01 pm

Child gets candy reward.

5:00 pm  

Naked small child dons giant roller skates. Gets back on potty. Mother takes photos.

5:05 pm  

Elder siblings clamor to get own photos taken, too.

6:00  

Father comes home. Small child immediately pleads with Father for a diaper. Father concedes.