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.)

"The trouble with armadillo races..."

...my Dad began, last night at Sunday dinner. We all started laughing, and so he asked, What? You've never been to an armadillo race? How old are you? 

Anyhow,  he continued, the trouble with armadillo races is that sure, somebody wins, and somebody loses, but EVERYBODY ends up with stinky hands.

(Apparently armadillos are very smelly, and even strong soap won't take off the stink. Also, I looked it up, and in Texas, you can hire armadillo racers to come to your party, like a clown or a magician!)

I've often thought that I should tell you about my sister's extensive and phenomenal collection of hair accessories...

But I didn't. I never did.

And then, Christina totally beat me to it. 

Warning: what you are about to see is REAL. And graphic. And, you might accidentally break the tenth commandment* a little bit.

And then, you'll be the only one on her way to Hell, cause Jen totally shares her hair bows with everybody, and has thus far been miraculously spared from scourge of lice in a miraculous, saint-style manner.

Except, not everybody** can really pull off some of these dazzlers like she can. For instance, I learned the hard way that they don't look super marvy with yoga pants*** . But she's got a copper metallic number that wouldn't look shabby next to some of Austria's crown jewels (I've been watching a lot of Rick Steves when I'm not busy puking), that I wore to a Broadway show (last year, when I was still medium-foxy, and not brought low and nigh unto death by this bun in my proverbial oven) with my Nanette Lepore flapper dress. I was smokin' hot****, but my neck was sore from holding that thing up all night!

Okay, ready? Buckle up, then click here!

* Thou shalt not covet

** i.e. me

**btw, even my yoga pants are too tight, and the Zofran quit helping at all. So I am feeling very sad and am thinking that I need to go to Wal-Mart and buy me some scrubs. They seem very loose and non-spandexy. But I don't want to puke in the aisle at Wal-Mart, for obvious reasons, plus my sister was horrified when I told her my plan, because she is more fashionable than anyone I know, and considered it a cry for help, and I think she might have called the mean people at What Not to Wear to schedule me some sort of intervention. Which I totally don't need this week. At least I know they can't have much footage of me looking like a bag lady in the grocery store, cause I don't ever leave my house. 

Feel the mode, Stacey and Clinton! (And Jen).

****I'm a six in New York, but a seven here in Scranton (er, Mesa)

Oh yeah. Come back and tell me which is your favorite!

Your blog makes me barf

I know. You clicked on the title because you think that here in the post body, I will take it all back. That I'll tell you, no way, I'm totally kidding! Your blog doesn't make me barf.

But the sad truth is, it does. When I read your blog, I want to vomit.

If it makes you feel any better, my blog makes me barf, too.

So does checking my email.

And reading. (Like computers,  all the words make me feel seasick.)

And smelling any sort of Asian food, sitting up, drinking water, watching Rick Steves eat pickled herring in Belgium, brushing my hair, or taking a nap. 

To be fair, I should also list things that do not (usually) make me chuck: lying in my bed without moving anything but my eyeballs and the index finger that changes channels on the TV remote, lemon sorbet, and vanilla mint chapstick.

In other news, thanks to our friends at Dr. Beck's office, who prescribed the zofran, I only fantasize about going into a Michael Jackson style induced coma like twice a day. And I almost never wish I were temporarily dead. Anymore.

And finally, remember when my pants fell off in Albertson's? And I pretended to be horrified by it? And then I went and got pants 4 sizes smaller? 

Let's just say that if I decided to go to Albertson's today and purchase raw chicken (seems super-duper unlikely, since I am dry heaving a bit, just thinking about it), that those pants aren't going anywhere. They are uncomfortably snug. (And I'm talking about the big pants. Those little ones only fit for like two weeks).

At least there's that. (We won't talk about how I can be simultaneously barfing and gaining weight. I'm sure there is some kind of scientific explanation that won't make me feel any better.)

Happy 8.5 weeks to me.

If you ask me in October, I will tell you I am super excited, and that it was all worth it.

I do love me some babies. 

Do you get sick? How sick? Please tell me about it. Cause it might be very wrong of me, but one thing that makes me feel better is hearing about other people who feel worse. But please don't tell me stuff like: Oh sure, once I was like, 6 months along, and I drove past this swamp that smelled like decomposing bodies, and it was totally touch and go there for like 30 seconds, but I ate some saltines, and I held it together! 

Which reminds me: no one is allowed to say anything about eating saltines. It will make me very angry.

The TeeVee is dumbing me up.

The weather people this worming were gushing about how it is going to be so much cooler today. Only 110! (Yesterday was 115.) But then, I think the news people are more frantic in general cause nobody watches them anymore, now that we watch TIVO. They are sort of desperate and scary. (Scary mostly cause of all the huge fake boobies aggressively wrestling their way out of tiny tops while they try to read the news. Is super professional.)

Sorry. But I have been watching all kinds of TV lately. TV during the day. Stuff not on TIVO. Even commercials. I'm not proud of it, but it can't be helped. It has prompted me to think: who watches The View? Is horrendous. Truly horrid. Like a circus side show. I wouldn't be surprised if one of those angry, ignorant ladies decided to eat fire or grow a beard. 

And what is up with this Wendy Williams Show? Is she kidding? Is she really a she? I can't tell.

And did you know Kathy Lee is back on TV? Yes, she totally is! Is unbelievable! She has some dog and pony show she does with another lady named Hoda, who looks like she got demoted from Good Morning America or similar, and is willing to be Kathy Lee's slave so she won't be sent back to wherever she came from in defeat, admitting her career has been flushed. Today they were dressed up in western gear and acting like clowns in San Antonio, drinking beers at like 7 am.

The commercials are horrifying. Have you seen the one for The Hartford insurance, that asks "What if you are in a car accident? Who is going to walk your dog?" Apparently, THEY will. They are taking MY insurance premiums  (if I had a policy with The Hartford, which I don't, and now never will have, on principle) to pay for dog walking. Not only that, they think enough people will find this idea so super fantastic, that they are paying lots of money to run ads about it. Seriously, people? We need dog-walking insurance now? I say nay!

Plus, last night I got super desperate, and decided to watch The Bachelorette finale, even though I hadn't seen the rest of the show. It was surprisingly easy to catch up. Lots of boys with lots of rings, probably looking for modeling careers more than love. What was up with the wedding dress? Why? And all the legs wrapped around all the boys? And all the making out with everybody? Yickety-yick. Yick.  I seriously cannot deal with all the extreme trampiness, stupidity, and completely scripted soap opera style pathos. Although, watching a girl get chased by good-looking men is infinitely preferable to seeing ladies slutting it up over some bleachy-toothed, lying loser (The Bachelor).

In the future, when someone writes a "Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire" equivalent for America, I think Whoopi Goldberg, Kathy Lee Gifford, The Bachelorette, and dog-walking insurance will have their own footnotes. (In the chapter entitled "If the Puritans could see us now!")

I haven't started watching any Soaps yet. Maybe after I have seen everything on HGTV twice. But probly not.

Anyhow, I feel bloated and gassy with pop culture. And, you might have noticed, medium-angry. I started to feel like my brain was rotting, so I played sudoku on my iphone while I watched this morning. It didn't help. 

Plus, I tried moving up from VERY EASY to EASY puzzles, and it gave me a headache.

I think the TV is making me dumber. 

My Mom told me it would happen.

What have you seen lately that has left you more stupid?

What I got: a brand new iphone and a big 'ol crush on Rick Steves.

Well. Sunday was me birthiversary. 

Yep. Got birthed and hitched on the same day. 

Well, not the same day, exactly.

Two July 19ths. 23 years apart.

Jake got me an iphone for my birthday. Which is fun. I use it to play sudoku and try to best my 10-year-old son Ross' time on The Moron Test, since no one really calls me on it. I don't have a fantastic track record for actually carrying a phone on my person. Or hearing it ring from inside my purse.

Normally, you won't be able to ring me on my mobile. And don't bother leaving a message, cause I don't know how to retrieve them. I like texts, if I remember to check for them. But now that I have such fancy technology, which allows me to take videos of people picking their noses on the freeway, then send it to my blog, youtube, and email simultaneously, plus look at each person in my Ward's home from space (google maps on istake), I resolve to do better.

For our anniversary Jake got me ALL 80 EPISODES of Rick Steves' Europe. Jake says that he understands my attraction to Rick is purely physical, so he isn't threatened. Very much.

I know. Hubba. Look at him in that Members Only style jacket, leaning sexily on that column.

I have like all of Rick's books, so I think that means I am, in some not-so-circuitous fashion, helping to legalize marijuana, a cause dear to sweet little Ricky's heart.

I think I just have a thing for the bad boys.

(And geeks.)

Can't help it.

That's me and Jake at Versailles, with Rick's Paris 2007 guidebook under his arm. I loved that thing. When we got to the Louvre and found that we had left Rick back at the hotel, Jake went to the museum store, where he asked the American clerks if they carried any Rick. "Oh, you mean the bible?" they asked. But no luck. So Jake cabbed it WAY back down the Champs-Elysees, picked up Rick, and brought the Bible back to the Temple of Man, just for me.

What a nice boy, that Jake. I think I'll keep him around another 13 years, at least.

Do you think Rick has podcasts I can carry around with me on my iphone?

I'm gonna go and check that out.

You got an iphone?

You actually use your cell phone?

You like Rick Steves?

You hate Rick Steves?

You were there at my wedding?

You were there at my birth?

uninspired. and yogurt pants. and how to trick the UPS fella.

So, Jake moved my computer from the kitchen to the office. 

So that the kids' computer can be in the kitchen, and the kids can be permanently banned from the office, where they like to pretend they are an 80's hair band in a three-star hotel room. 

(They ransack it, almost daily.  Just spelling it out for you, in case my hair band metaphor wasn't super clear.)

Anyhow, so far I find the office rather uninspiring. Which could be why I haven't posted anything new in two weeks. But it could also be cause I've been gallivanting about Arizona (Payson, then Flagstaff).  And I'm trying to talk the family into a trip to Mt. Graham next week. My kids have never hiked ladybug saddle, which seems a shame. Plus, Phoenix is supposed to be 113 degrees this weekend, so why stay here? 

The office is not only uninspiring, but uncomfortable. Jake gave me the cruddy wooden chair, and he got the leather one.  At least I got a window seat.

I think they say that if you can't think of anything interesting to say, you should type lots of other stuff. 

Til you have to pee,

or you develop carpal tunnel,

or your backside goes numb cause your chair is horrible, hard, and spindly,

or you remember those generic twinkies you hid in your purse. Which is in another room.

(Don't ask.)

This morning, I asked the kids: So, who wants to go to Target and get some yoga pants?

(Also, don't ask why my current yoga pants have grease stains the shape of In-n-Out fries on them. Let's just pretend the old yoga pants are worn clean out from rigorous and zealous  yoga use, and have been stretched beyond their cottony-spandex limits by my constant and crazy bendiness.)

Tom replied: No, momma.  I do not want yogurt pants. 

Do you have a certain place you feel creative? 

Do you fervently believe that yoga pants are a 21st century version of the 1950s housecoat? Because they are awesome, and you can keep a rolled up yoga mat by the front door in case the UPS guy comes, and you can throw it under one arm before you answer the door? So he'll think you are very fit, and not slovenly?

I don't actually do this. I don't have a yoga mat. 

What do you wear around your casa?

Muu muus?

Hair in rollers with a kerchief?

Manolo Blahniks?

I'm pretty ticked at you cause you didn't tell me about this.

But also, I'm pretty thrilled.

THE TIME TRAVELER'S WIFE IS A MOVIE! AND IT WILL BE OUT ON AUGUST 14TH!

Will it live up to the book? 

(Warning: book has serious potty mouth. I don't recommend it to people, normally, but I still LOVED it.)

Uh.

DUH.

Course not. 

I'm okay with that.

So, are you guys all going together? Without me? Is that why you haven't said anything?

Well, now you are stuck. I'm coming along. And you are going to buy me some Whoppers. 

Oh. 

And I forgive you.

If you also get me popcorn with lots of oily butter, and some of that fake cheese powder that grosses out everybody but me.

I prefer the white cheddar flavor, in case I am saving your seat while you are seasoning my popcorn.

And buying my cherry Icee.

Don't let this happen again.

Love, 

Beeswax

Jesus hit me.

Another tale from the Odyssey.

Not Homer's.

Mine.

(It has black leather seats and lots of cup holders and I used to judge women like me, but now I know that whoever invented the minivan should get a Nobel Prize for being smarty and awesome.)

Tom: Momma, my toe is ouch! Look at my BLOOOOOOD!

Me: I can't see it. I'm driving.

Lengthy pause while he examines his toe more closely.

Tom: Momma, do you think Jesus hit me?

Me: I doubt it.

WARNING: photos of my kids and good-lookin' husband, and a note to SCOTT WRIGLEY. It isn't my fault if you click here and get super bored.

You know I don't normally post lotsa photos and go on about how my kids are cuter than everyone else's (probly even yours), but that's not because I'm super humble and don't want to make you feel bad. It is just cause I'm pretty lazy about getting photos off my camera.

Sunday afternoon at Aviara. At the meadows, next to the golf course. (Carlsbad, California.)

Ross, Jane, Sam. Checking out a frog. They named it Freddy and visited him nearly daily.

Tom and Jake. Finally, Dad's found a kindred spirit. (I was going to say something about how they both really love their balls, but it didn't sound nice).

Kids with sticks.

Kid with ball.

Thinking about poking Freddy with a stick.

The hair is remarkable, no? And it smells good, too. Like sunshine, unicorns and rainbows. I like to kiss his forehead and rub my face in that yummy hair.

Outta focus, but still outta sight. Legs of a thoroughbred.

Returning from our foiled attempt to hike down to the Bataquitos Lagoon. The hotel is up on the hill.

P.S. Note to SCOTT WRIGLEY:

SCOTT WRIGLEY! I will totally give you credit for all the great spots you told us about in North County, but Jake said your blog is private, so I don't know to what I can hyperlink your name: SCOTT WRIGLEY.

will totally give you, SCOTT WRIGLEY, of MESA, ARIZONA, credit for sending us to Moonlight Beach and to Pipes (very delish, thanks SCOTT WRIGLEY, the famous accountant), but Emily in Japan told me to go to VG Donuts. If you told Jake about it, he did not pass on the info. It was a grave oversight on someone's part, btw.

And, dear SCOTT WRIGLEY, you can have credit for sending Jake to Macrumors, but if that is true, I might hold a grudge against you for a year or two.

As you can see, I'm still not quite myself...

Not yet well, but now I'm caught up on SYTYCD. 

I'm thinking about changing out of the dirty yoga pants.

Maybe.

Do you think I ought? Please cast your vote over in the sidebar.

Sordid doughnut transactions, and Easy Virtue. (Plus, I'm home and sick.)

I'm home. 

And I'm sick.

I would blame my sour stomach and aching heed (meant to spell it that-a-way) on doughnut withdrawal, (which seems very likely, considering the volume of those pasteles del diablo I've consumed in the last two weeks, but don't have any more of, cause I'm back in Arizona, where people don't sell delicious doughnuts of that sort), but I think my ailment has more to do with the time like 4 days ago when son Sam tossed HIS doughnuts on the flight deck of the USS Midway (Aircraft carrier parked in San Diego Harbor). Have caught some bad germ, I'm sure.

Doughnuts are good, though. 

I think I will write about them.

First of all: A special thanks to Acte Gratuit for her recommendation of VG Donuts in Cardiff.  

Last Friday night, my sister and I stopped by VGs on our way home from seeing Easy Virtue, to which we were lured with the promise of Colin Firth. 

I didn't want to drive all the way to La Jolla, but she taunted me: What kind of Bridget Jones fan do you call yourself, if you will not get off you rear to see Mr. Darcy on the big screen? But although Colin's acting was quite decent, I believe he took the job because they told him he would not have to brush his hair, teeth, could chain smoke and snarl at people the whole day long, then be off with Jessica Biel at the end. I hope I am not ruining it for anyone, but herlo!,  Noel Coward wrote the play in 1928.

 Oh! And Jessica Biel should never ever be allowed in a period film ever ever again. She was horrid. I cannot overstate her horridity. I even made up a new word to describe it, for the terrible occasion of her acting. I think Bridget would agree with me.

Anyhow, it was still okay, just cause we did see Colin in a period film,  which is something, and it ended just in time for us to pick up some donuts before the place closed at 10 pm. Only the surfer kid running the place was closing early, and didn't want us to come in on his freshly mopped floors, so he just brought us a bag out to the van, and said "pay me whatever." I had to wear my sunglasses throughout the transaction, because it was already our second trip there in 3 days, and I didn't want surfer boy recognizing/judging me. Anyhow, the whole transaction (late hour, deserted parking lot, glasses, under the table cash), made the whole thing feel a bit... sordid. Dangerous. Which, of course, just made the doughnuts taste that much better. 

So anyhow, thanks Emily. It is because of you that I will need to go on a month-long diet of raw veggies. 

When I am able to eat again. 

I think I will go lie down.

Trekkie vs. techie. Still reporting remotely from San Diego's North County, where there have been no celeb sightings

Jake is a techie. I am not. I'm not even sure if that's how you spell techie.

I like Star Trek. So I'm a Trekkie. Is different.

He loves his nearly 2-year-old iphone. He loves aps. He loves synching his iphone with things, and saying 'synch' and 'aps'.

Lately, he's been hanging about websites called things like macrumors, reading about the new iphone that would be coming out very soon.

I asked him to get off the internet, and take me to the new Star Trek movie, cause I heard they got a hot Spock.

He said no.

Yesterday morning, he went to the Apple store here in Carlsbad. I'm not sure what he did there. I was in Target, buying deodorant. You know you've been on vacation too long when you run out of deodorant. And shampoo, conditioner, hair spray, curly stuff for kids hair, and contact lense solution.

Yesterday afternoon, his iphone was drowned, under mysterious circumstances, in Dr. Pepper, while on the golf course here at Aviara.

He quickly pronounced it dead. Before it even stopped beeping.

He set the alarm on my cell phone for 6:30 a.m. (We haven't risen before 9 in two weeks).

He got to the Apple Store by 7 this morning, and waited in line for two hours with lots of other, California-style, techies.

He bought the new iphone, which just happened to come out TODAY. THIS MORNING. At 7 a.m.

He swears he didn't kill his old phone on purpose. Even sub-consciously.

He pleads not guilty.

But I think there is enough evidence to convict.

Do you agree?

(He's gonna be ticked when he reads this. I better quick eat the oreo banana milkshake he's getting me from Mr. Frostie in Pacific Beach before he reads this. Or he might take it back.)


p.s. Remember last year when I was here, and saw Tori Spelling? No such luck this time. Sister Jen says celeb watching season here in San Diego is July (best weather, no June gloom). Is like whale watching. You need to know their migratory patterns. Hunting out of season is utterly futile.

The post about the photo of me in my swimsuit. Only, without the photo.

Ok.

So I was going to post a photo of me lying on the beach here in Carlsbad (although it was really Moonlight Beach in Encinitas, cause why go anywhere else, when they can sell you Dove ice cream bars 30 feet from your beach chair?) whilst reading my book, and say something witty and trite about being much too busy to blog.

In the photo I am wearing my huge black straw hat that I like to think screams 'Old Hollywood', but Jake insists only bellers 'irretrievably ridiculous.' (He didn't say irretrievably.) Is a mystery, but when I wear it, people think I am someone named Great Aunt Ina from Hoboken. Anyhow, with it's radius like that of a patio table umbrella, it is very sun-safe. I like accessorize it with my sunblock no. 70, and when I am 70 but have the lovely, luminous skin of a 65-year-old, who's gonna be laughin' at this hat?

Jake.

That's right.

He'll still be laughing.

And maybe you? If you could see the photo?

But I am much too busy lying here on my back, recovering from the lovely but filling brunch we had up at the Four Seasons, to figure out how to get photos from my camera to Jake's laptop. Plus, my hands are pretty sticky from eating this delightful apple fritter from Donuts #2 in Encinitas. You know how it is.

Also, it occurs to me that if you saw the photo, you might be able to see the title of the book I am reading, and I can't tell you that. It is a secret.

Okay, I'll give you some hints:
1. it is not Absolom, Absalom,
and
2. I have already read it.

Although, I didn't know I'd already read it, because this isn't the sort of book I'll cop to on Shelfari, so I forgot about it, and spent 20 cents on it at the Friends-of-the-Cardiff-by-the-Sea-Library Book Nook. Jake says I need a secret Shelfari for just this sort of embarrassing chick lit problem.

P.S. Look at these little Cole Haan/Nike Air beauties. I picked them up for 60% off this morning at the outlet mall. I really like the outlet mall.

Do you have any books you like but do not wish to claim? Please leave their titles in the comments section, anonymously, if you please.

Sedona: skip the psychic crystal massage, eat some cactus fries and fudge.

I'm back.

What?

You didn't know I had gone?

Is okay.

I  won't take offense.  (If you leave me comment.)

I went to Sedona. With Jen and Hillary.

To get a psychic crystal massage, have a vortex experience, see what's new at Ye Olde UFO Store, and hit the Angel Wing Sale (that's what the banner said. But seems a cruel treatment of God's messengers. I think PETA should intervene.).

Fine. I didn't do any of that stuff. I was too busy in the fudge shop.

Is a different sort of vortex experience, am pretty sure.

To be clear: Am not talking about the Rocky Mountain Fudge. Is okay in an emergency, but is not a destination. Go to Sedona Fudge Company. Try the chocolate cream cheese fudge, the penuche, and the English toffee. Is better than rubbing power-infused rocks on oneself, but will also grant, is more caloric.

Also ate at the the Cowboy Club, at which I ordered an edible but not delicious pulled pork sandwich. I mostly ignored the sandwich, and focused on the basket of cactus fries. (Napolitas cactus, breaded and fried, with prickly pear dipping sauce.) Really, really good. I'm not lying to you.

The Desert Flour Bakery in Oak Creek isn't kidding around. Everything made on site. Cherry almond bear claws, rugalach in 4 flavors, chocolate cake with layers of chocolate and vanilla mousse. Get whatever you like. It's all good. (Don't ask me how I know this. I won't tell you.)

El Rincon mexican in the Tlaquepaque shopping center (gorgy mediterranean villa style filled with touristy crapola, pricey art and rugs, and more candy (store run by Helga, nice Euro-lady with the hairy pits to prove it). Think Seaport Village in San Diego, only way better. Still, you won't actually buy anything. You can leave your wallet at home. Unless you want Mexican food. Got myself a chicken chimi with green sauce, and was pleasantly surprised at its tastiness, because I had already been turned off by the cardboard chips and pace picante sauce salsa, the old dirty carpet and the smell that reminded me of Chuck E. Cheese. (Jen said I was nutsy). But sometimes the best Mexican is to be had in such establishments.  The sweet corn tamale was also a hit with our crowd.

In our food reconnaissance, we spied the Secret Garden Cafe, a girly breakfast/lunch place of the sort we like, and stopped there on the way out of town. We were not disappointed. A lovely patio table in the dappled 75 degree sun, a chicken salad sandwich, and a "Reubini": Pastrami, kraut, swiss, and Thousand Island on marbled rye, squished flat in the panini style. Man, do I love a good sandwich. I need to get my own panini maker. Maybe for my birthday next month. But I also want a ghd flat iron like Jen's. Is perfect, cause Jake likes to buy me technology gifts, and appliances are like technology. Sometimes Jake will sing to me:

Yes I love technology,

But not as much as you, you see 
But I still love technology 
Always and forever 

I know. Is so romantic. Don't be jealous. 

When we weren't busy chewing things in Sedona, we were getting cat calls from some man trying to drum up business for his little shop on Main Street. First he yelled "Hey, is there a beauty pageant in town?" To which I responded, "Yes, but we left our sashes back at the resort." And then later he threw out: "I seen some pretty girls in pictures, but none up close like this." This seemed pervy, so we didn't respond. But after that we wanted to saunter past, just to see what he would say next. We also got a "Where are you goddesses going?" from a hobo outside the convenience store. 

As if the food and sexual harassment weren't enough for a wonderful holiday, we went to Slide Rock, where Hillary pulled in next to some scary looking boys who were making peanut butter sandwiches with huge murder-weapon-style knives and listening to the Gin Blossoms (nice, but just Hey Jealousy, so is hard to know if they were serious fans). I was too busy to notice the potential danger cause I was busy in the back seat, trying to fix the bottom of my swimsuit, which I had somehow applied backwards. Is not comfortable, people. Here, we all slid 80 feet through Oak Creek on our bellies, whilst trying to keep our Bud Lites above water. Wait, no, that wasn't us. We stuck our toes in the frigid water while posing alluringly on the red boulders, siren-style (only without the singing), giggling evilly as Odysseus/Jason types (our fellow swimmers) crashed on the rocks before us. 

Then, we were off to Jerome, a mountain-perching mining town (1870's), now falling into a lovely, antiquated ruin of the type that makes for delightful bed and breakfasts (the picturesque style is generally considered very romantic), gift shops full of $40 t-shirts tie-dyed in red soil, and pricey art and crafts that I don't, you know, get. We would have stopped for a little bite on the patio at the Haunted Hamburger, but we were still in our damp swimsuits and it had begun to rain. Plus the Hell's Angels-looking bikers everywhere made us jumpy.

Anyhow, now I'm home in Mesa, and back at it.

You know.

Bribing kids to clean out their closets. 

Heading to Wal-Mart to get Ross new glasses (keeps losing them.)

Sharing the last piece of hoarded English Toffee with Jake for breakfast.

Happy Summer.

Roach face.

I woke up this morning at 3:48. As I turned my head to look at the clock, I saw a cockroach scurry out of my hair.

I KNOW. Is horrible.

Backlit by the hall light, he looked something like this, as he stared into my sleep-filled eyes:

I was pretty out of it, so instead of screaming, like a normal girl, I flicked the critter out into the darkness.

Then I realized: I just had a cockroach in my hair, and I flicked him, and now he's on the loose somewhere in my room! AHHHH!

Jake noticed all my flailing about, and asked what was up.

I explained. He thought I was having a nightmare about roaches. (Although, he didn't actually say that, and he might deny it now.)

I flipped on the lights to look for the nasty scavenger, who was probably rolling around in the neighbor's dog's fesces just before he climbed into my clean white sheets.

I couldn't find him.

I got back in bed. After I shook out all the bedclothes.

My nerves were taut. 

I heard a small noise.

Jake! I squealed. Did you hear that?

What? He sounded like he was trying to be patient with a crazy person.

I can HEAR the ROACH! I hissed, like I was afraid the roach would hear me talking about him.

I flipped the lights back on, and started checking under the furniture.

Why don't you sleep somewhere else? Jake cooed. Somewhere the bugs aren't, you know, so NOISY?

I ignored his patronizing tone. There! There he is! I exalted.

And he was. Right there. Just behind my headboard. And Jake squished the little fella's shiny red exoskeleton with the kitchen broom. His juicy insides squirted onto the wall.

I felt better after that, but still, I couldn't sleep, so I stayed up reading for two hours, until it was light enough to read without the flashlight. And during that time, I asked myself a hard question:

Why did I wake up when the roach climbed in my hair?

See, I am a heavy sleeper. A cockroach in my hair would not normally wake me.

So the roach? He must have been in my ear. Or on my face.

I totally had a roach on my face.

The end.

p.s. 

When I told my daughter, Jane, about the bug, she said: Mama! Go wash your face!

p.s. again

Jake, you are 100% fired as my exterminator.

The disciplines Episcopal and piscatorial. Plus, it it hot here in the desert.

Dear Desert-in-which-I live,

You are very hot today.

Love, 

Beeswax

I read 2.5 novels this weekend. Very Valentine by Adriana Trigiani (Was like, really? Is the best you can come up with for an ending?), Caravans (Michener, set in 1945 Afghanistan, published 1963, so interesting to read from a modern perspective), and .5 of Journey (1897 Klondike gold rush, and my favorite Michener). I read the Micheners so long ago they were honestly new again (I believe this makes me officially an old lady). 

Also watched Doubt, which I really enjoyed, and a delicious little treat Jake ordered for me (picked it out himself. Impressive, eh?) from the nice people at Netflix. In Lost in Austen, Amanda Price, a modern London girl with modern morals (read into this what you will) and Jane Austen fan, enters Lizzie Bennett's Longbourne through a door in her own bathroom, while Lizzie stays on in 2008 Hammersmith. Is silly, o'course, but the writing is pretty good. There are about 50 clips on Youtube, but here is a favorite:

(Amanda has engaged herself to Mr.Collins to save Jane from the same fate, and is drowning her sorrows in boozy punch. Wickham tells Caroline Bingley that Amanda's father is a fishmonger. Collins ain't thrilled.)

"The disciplines Episcopal...and piscatorial could never combine with propriety!" Hahahah!

But the best lines came after this clip. Darcy comes over and asks Amanda to leave the ball. She replies: "This is the ball at Netherfield! Elizabeth's not here! You're throwing me out, for kneeing Collins in the balls. This isn't quite how I imagined it."

She said balls. At the ball. Is hilarious.

Purse wInner! And only 7 hours late!

Okay, sorry for the wait. Last night got a little crazy. You know: Primary meeting, middle of the night teacher-gift-buying at the Wal-Mart, fell asleep with my contacts in sorta night. 

So between the random.org number generator, and me picking out illegal entries (including my own and husband Jake's), the winner of the lovely copper-colored Canal Street Prada is:

Heather Andrus! Who left many comments, but won with this one:

Oh! Does it count for two entries if we had Connell on a mix tape??? And a song called "You wear flowers" by Peter Breinholt which in my opinion was a "MMM". Definite Stake Dance songs were "Forever Young" by Alphaville, and "Joy and Pain" by Rob Base and DJ E-Z Rock (I feel silly even typing that).

11:40 AM

Indeed, it counts, Heather! We (er, me) at None of Your Beeswax are also fans of Peter Breinholt and Alphaville, but we don't know this DJ E-Z Rock. We will google this fella asap.

So Heather, your profile is private! Since I can't go to your blog and snoop personal information about you to share with the world (the world in microcosm that is my blog), please feel free to leave us a comment and tell us about yourself, and where you will be taking that purse. Remember, you CAN take it out in the rain, because it is NOT fine I-talian leather. Is plastic, maybe? Better!

Also, send me your address to KellyBeeswax@gmail.com. Or, if you are local, I could drop it off (or, you know, meet you in a public, well lit area, like, um, inside the Krispy Kreme, where I'll be the girl in the elastic waisted pants holding the maple bar, if you aren't totally sure you want me to know where you live!)

Thanks to all who entered! Next time, maybe I'l give away some Chinatown True Religions (size 32 or 34?) that were too big for Jake! What? Not interested?