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.

Yoo-hoo! Elton! Billy! Nice Indians behind you!

You know the signs, somewhere out on the highway on the Navajo Rez? (That's reservation, to 5th generation Arizonans, like me. Or, I would be a 5th generation Arizonan, except I was born in Michigan. And grew up in California.) They are near the Grand Canyon, but also on that that well-worn wagon trail between Phoenix and Salt Lake City? Well, they advertise an arts and crafts stand out in the middle of nearly-nowhere. First, they warn you with a big Nice Indians Ahead sign, but really you aren't much tempted to stop, and so you don't, generally. But that's where the marketing genius begins. Just past the the stand, there are more signs. They go something like:

STOP!

and then...

TURN AROUND!

and...

GO BACK!

And finally:

And for some reason, you flip around and go back to buy some sort of painted bead bracelet that you don't actually want.

I haven't made the drive in a few years. I don't make the pilgrimage to the Temple of the Cute Boys (i.e. back to school at the BYU) as often as I used to (as I have my own cute boy here locally, plus I graduated), but I sure hope the nice Indians are still around. Course, for all I know, they might have lost their lease to the Mean Indians who are Gonna Scalp You. Which would also make for a fab sign.

Anyhow, that has nothing to do with my actual reason for writing today. Except that while I was sitting in my nosebleed seat behind the stage at the Billy Joel/Elton John concert last Thursday night, I kept wishing I had my own Nice Indians Behind You sign. Although, as far as I know, I'm not an American Indian. But you never know, unless you get that mail order DNA testing kit online for like 500 bucks, where you send a cheek swab in and they tell you where all you ancestors are from. 

I totally want to do that. Totally. Don't you?

So our seats were sort of off-center, and a video screen cut off our view of Elton's head, but allowed us to see the rest of him.  (Not really a bonus.) Billy was almost 100% blocked by a cluster of electrical cables hanging from the lighting apparatus on the ceiling. And did I mention we were looking at them from behind? Luckily, someone had sport parked their pianos sort of sideways. 

These are the sorta seats you get when you forget that the tickets go on sale Friday, and you mosey on over to Ticketmaster on Monday afternoon. But I wanted to get them for my brother Ryan for Christmas, because I knew the two-fer was gonna blow his mind. It did.

Although, Ryan kept asking why Billy Joel didn't get dressed up. I was like, Ryan, he's wearing a sport coat and tie. What do you want from him? And then I realized, Ryan wanted Billy to dress up like Elton, who was actually rather tame in a black cut-away with tails and a sequined little Elton on the back, coordinated Doc Marten wing tips, and sunglasses.

Ryan also kept asking whether Billy and Elton rent the speakers or buy them, and whether they came in a big tour bus. He did not like to hear that they might have a private plane. He's all about the buses. And has been since he was three years old.

Anyhow, we were right in the middle of our row, with no fewer than 10 people on either side of us, which became a problem when the concert lasted for MORE THAN THREE AND A HALF HOURS. Because around hour 2.5, you start thinking you might die for a treat and a toilet, but you are trapped. You start wishing that instead of the Nice Indians Behind You sign, you had one that said Someone please bring me a churro and a bed pan. I'm not sure how all the older blokes with the prostate problems did it.

Billy and Elton opened together on their dueling pianos, then Billy went off to have a nap or similar, while Elton played about 30 minutes of songs I'd never heard before. During this time I was able to stare at him very hard through my official 1984 Los Angeles Olympics binoculars (same ones I used to peep at Mary Lou Retton when she got a perfect ten on the vault), and I came to a startling conclusion:

Gordon Ramsay is Elton John's love child.

I do understand there are all kinds of problems with this theory. But Gordon is like a young, cursing Elton without the boas and colorful sunglasses.

Anyhow, later on, Elton started to play stuff I knew and liked, like Daniel and Rocketman, which are undoubtedly very fine songs, but he sort of yelled the whole thing. I don't know if he's lost his voice quality (like Neil Diamond) or what, but he (and Billy, too, to be fair), never brought down the volume and calmed down to just play the piano and sing. Everything was at top volume and high energy. I'll bet some of the other Rockin' Elderly in there with me would agree with me that the whole thing was just a bit too LOUD.

I did enjoy the second half of Elton's set, but when Billy's turn began, I realized: Billy's my boy. He's always been my boy. When I was a small child, our next door neighbor the Property Master (did props for movies, you should have seen the fantastic stuff in his garage) gave us An Innocent Man on vinyl (was a prop, as well as Adam Ant's Strip, but let's not talk about that), and I listened to that album for years on end, cause it was all I had of my own, except for some Men at Work songs I'd taped off the radio.

Billy sounded quite good, but still sort of yelly. The back of his baldy head peeking out from behind the cable bundle looked okay, too. He made a couple of dirty old man jokes that I found sort of creepy.

I saw Billy once before, in 89 or 90, where someone lit a cig behind me and lit my hair on fire. It was just a small fire, but the smell of burning hair was quite potent.

Anyhow, everybody got together at the end to sing a few tunes together, including even a few Beatles tunes (You say its your birthday and Back in the USSR), and ended the night with Piano Man. About halfway through, everybody quit playing (even the guitar guy who looked like if Dana Carvey dressed up as Rick Springfield for Halloween), and the audience was exposed! We were all (23,000 of us, the place was packed to the ceiling) singing the chorus at top volume, only you couldn't hear us over the very loud sound system (leased or purchased outright? Is still a mystery). It was a fabulous, hymn-like noise, a We Are the World-type moment of love and brotherhood, and I am not ashamed to say I shed a tear or two. (Completely separate from the crying over my empty belly and bulging bladder.)

So, do you like Elton or Billy? 

Do you think Gordon looks like Elton? 

Have you done any online DNA tests? 

Have you ever lit your hair on fire?

Was it very stinky?

Have you been to Nice Indians Behind You?

Did you have a good weekend?

More rough camping and bralessness with the Beeswaxes

Hmm. I do believe it has been so long, my blog muscle has atrophied. I am, for once, short of words. Is scary a little bit.

Went 'camping' in Payson again last weekend. When I enter the cabin I pretty much stop moving. I like to blame my slug-like behavior on altitude sickness. (At 4,921 feet, it is pretty much like base camp with the Sherpas. If the Sherpas were small curly-haired white children, and 4,921 feet was 17,000 feet) Whatever the reason, there is something about the place that makes me immediately remove my trousers, don yoga pants (inventor of yoga pants should win Nobel Prize), pop the top of some tangerine Diet Rite, heat up an entire case of Costco mini quiches, take a 2 hour tub with bubbles and jets (and quiches), slip under a down comforter, and stay up reading mystery novels until 3 am. 

There are of course some variations, which include BBC America marathons (How Clean is Your House? Cash in the Attic, and Jake's maybe new favorite show of all time, TopGear), or trips to the Payson Wal-Mart in previously mentioned yoga pants to check out what's in the Redbox (Secret Life of Bees, No Reservations), buy new ice cream drumsticks (ones in freezer had unacceptably stale cones), and check to see if there was any sort of vampire/panty party going on in the intimates section. I stopped there to check out some bras, since I forgotten to wear one. Alas, I was too early for the party.

I did venture out a little on Jane's birthday. We went and got some manipedis and some mexi-lunch over to the El Rancho (at the intersection of the Beeline Highway and Highway 260, across from McDonald's). Then we came back and decided to walk off our chimichangas with a brisk hike in the wild and dangerous forest (i.e. along the golf course). Management had put up some weird wire fencing around the green and other random and unattractive spots to keep elk from eating/digging up/pooing on the course. While we were looking for lost balls, Jane bumped up against the fence and screamed, well, like an 8-year-old girl will: super-duper loud and squeal-y. She couldn't speak, but kept pointing at the fence. I told her to pipe down and grabbed the fence myself to show her that she was being dopey. I was fine. Her hip tapped it again, and this time I heard a snap and a hiss (before the screaming began again in earnest). It was ELECTRIC fencing. Seriously. What is the point of rambles in nature if we only end up electrocuted? (Only, not me, as I am inexplicably immune to electric fencing.) Is not relaxing. 

I say, take the fences down. I prefer elk to golf, anyhow. But nobody asked me.

So then, after her harrowing adventure, Jane needed a relaxing soak and some quiches before cake and presents. Only, her quiches were pizza rolls. To quiche her own, eh?

In other news, I found another scorpion in  my entryway yesterdee mornin'. Have finally decided to call professional bug murderer fellows. I can deal with crickets and ants and even roaches and huge hairy wolf spiders, but I cannot deal with scorpions. I CANNOT DEAL, I TELL YOU! Am now willing to risk cancerous poisons so that I can sleep unmolested in my bed. 

I do not like the scorpions. I do not even like eating their relatives the lobsters (unless they are pureed in bisque, where they taste quite lovely and sinful), because they look like scorps on steroids.

Finally, am loving Charles Dickens on Masterpiece. Did anybody see David Copperfield? Starring tiny 'Arry Potter?

Lastly, here is a little clip from TopGear, wherein they race communist-made cars. (That link was in case the embedded clip doesn't work. It isn't on my computer.)  Jake said later in the show, they race the cars against a dog, and the dog wins.

I was in Freiberg, East Germany, in August 1990, just a few months after the wall came down. We went to Church (next door to the temple), where a girl told us all about the many lovely changes in her life all thanks to German Reunification. The biggest and most exciting? The family's shiny new BMV (is BMW in German. Go figure), which they'd just picked up in West Germany the day before. She had lots of terrible things to say about the Commy cars. She might have spat on the ground to emphasize her point. Or maybe she didn't. I can't recall. I was only 16, and more concerned about my bangs than about correctly quoting ex-communists.

So, who will go to the Twilight party for me? You know, in the interests of science?

If my kids see that I am on the computer right now, they are gonna lose it. Totally freak out and scream at me. We are heading up to the cabin today. Sometime. When I get stuff packed up. Actually, I let them pack their own stuff, mostly. So I guess we won't be going out in public much. Cause they don't always dress themselves so well. Or remember things, like underpants.

But I really needed to let you know about the big party tomorrow night. 

To which you are all invited. 

It is a Twilight release party. And it is at 9 o'clock tomorrow, in the intimates department of the Wal-Mart on Signal Butte and the 60. 

Yes, seriously. Jake got a flyer for it. 

I'm so sad I'm going out of town. What are the chances that they will have a similar party at the Payson Wal-Mart? 

I think someone should go scope out the party and report back here. Just so we know if people really will spend their Friday evening hanging out with super cheap panties whilst swooning over lusty teen vampires. Is sort of scientific research. Social scientific, anyhow. Anybody?

The one where I decide which superhero I am most like while I do the dishes.

First of all, It isn't that I've got so little going on that I HAD to blog about this. Since I last blogged, Jake's sister Liz got married, we found out Ross isn't ADHD and he switched schools, Tommy drank a whole bottle of amoxicillin and I called poison control but they said you can't OD on antibiotics very easily, I read two books about Frenchies (1 bio of Marie Antoinette and 1 WW2 novel), and I broke my very favorite casserole dish that my friend Jon Haight gave us for our wedding. Just so you know.

Secondly, let's be clear. 

I did NOT decide which superhero I would like to be, based on their fab super power prowess which I covet.

Is a totally different thing.

What I  decided was: which superhero is already most like me, the way that I am? Is not semantics. Is different. This involved carefully weighing both personality and physical traits, coupled with my own talents and abilities.

It seems a difficult question, yes?

I know. Is just another way my liberal arts education left me ill-prepared for real-life problems. (I'm totally lying to you. I loved my liberal arts education, and studiously avoided any classes that might have prepared me for earning any money in the working world.)

My first lady-hero choice was fairly obvious:

(Apologies to Wonder Woman. I'm not trying to steal your blogdentity.)

I chose her mostly cause of the big hair. 

Not the boobs. Anymore, anyhow: these boobs I've got are working girls. Course, Linda Carter seems to working hers pretty hard, but in a different way. Is subtle but important difference, which would become perfectly clear if I were to take photos of myself in a red and gold bustier with starry blue granny panties and post them here on the internet for you, but I don't have time for that this morning, as kids have shortened day at school.

In interest of full disclosure, I will admit I used to spend a little time out in the backyard trying to rope that bale of hay with the fake calf head with my brother, a la Wonder Woman's lasso of truth; but the fact is, I was no good at it.

So really, our similarity is all about the hair. Because there were some times in the 90s where my hair was so super big and awesome, it defied gravity. It was very, very gorgeous. I think I had a little crush on it, even. (Too bad I dressed like that and spoiled everything.)

Dear Big Hair,

Golly, I missed you so bad. I'm so glad you are coming back. I've got my hot rollers out again. I'm sensing the universe telling me the time is right. All that flat and wispy yuck that started with Ally McBeal is over now, right? Also, I'm so happy about all the hair accessories that the ladies are wearing nowadays. My sister is even wearing something called a fascinator, which is so large it could almost be a hat. Sometimes they include peacock feathers and netting. They are terribly fascinating to me, but I am afraid to go on Etsy and buy meself one, because I'm 35 and maybe they lose their fascination on ladies over 32? Am not sure. 

Love, Beeswax.

Anyhow, I didn't want to make my superheroine decision based solely on hair. 

It seemed a little superficial.

Not like writing about superheros and big hair, which is totally not.

In the end, it all came down to the thighs.

I mean, was there ever really a question?

Let's look at the facts. Do we share: 

Extreme pear shape? Is like looking in a mirror, when I'm wearing red tights and thigh-high boots while looking in a mirror.

Lots of wild children? Yes. Only, I have MORE! (But no one has set himself on fire, yet.)

EXTREME bendiness? Heck yes, am I bendy. Not only with the yoga, but also I totally beat all the UofA cheerleaders on the sit-and-reach in my freshman PE class by like 6 inches. I'm pretty much a sit-and-reach prodigy. Only, I don't think 35 year olds can be prodigies.

Large, man-sized hands with skinny fingers? Totally!

While it is true that she is sporting a traditional bob haircut, while my hair was supposed to be a 'long bob', (but instead I got 'The Rachel'), I think that Mrs. Incredible is my pick. Is as good as I'm gonna get.

So, which superhero/heroine is YOUR doppelganger? Please name and explain your shared traits. Or not. Whatever. You can talk about big hair or roping dummies or Liz's wedding if you like, too.

What I got to say to Shellie, that seemed too long to politely post in the comments section of her blog:

Dear Shellie, 

As you well know, I'm no lurker, but I wanted to tell you that my husband and I were on a date last night at El Charro, a delicious restaraunt mexicano, after the temple, and I was trying to affair-proof my marriage, like Oprah and her cute Jewish doctor friend told me (and all the other ladies of America) to do last week, and not talk about kids or money or work on our date. 

Jake wasn't doing so well at not talking about work. He took me on a tour of properties he manages around the temple both before and after dinner. Oh look, Kelly! Griselda in number 5 just bought that old Buick from Manuel in number 2. It's a real beaute, isn't it? Or Hey! See that guy right there? He owes me two months rent. When I complained about the parade of homes, he mumbled something about writing off the gas. 

So I was kinda of out of ideas (we had already discussed whether or not Oprah was already brainwashing me, since I started Tivoing her two weeks ago. Our consensus was: yes, it does seems so), so then I started telling him about your NCMO/DTR post and we had to pull it up on his iphone, and we laughed and laughed and reminisced about Provo, which was very romantic, of course. So much more than Buicks. But then my chimichanga came, so I had to eat it. I was very hungry, you see. 

After 12 years of marriage, food trumps NCMO. Even talk of NCMO. Plus, you can't really NCMO with your husband. Is only CMO, which is surely better, anyhow. The 'N' can't be the most important part of the acronym, right?

DTRs are real yawners, as well. What do you do, re-read your marriage license?

Anyhow, I didn't really have any stories to share, because no one ever wanted to NCMO with me, except one very odd guy who I met in Sacrament meeting one Sunday, where he invited me to a fireside that night. Only, it turned out to be a Baptist fireside, and then afterward he asked if I wanted to climb into the back seat of my parents' Q45. I know. So tempting, but I turned him down. So I told Jake that story, even though he'd already heard it a few times before (he would probly say, 300 times. I have a tendancy to re-tell the same stories over and over, in manner of brain trauma recovery patient). Jake didn't seem to have anything to say about NCMOs, either. Was pretty tight-lipped on the subject (ha-ha!), actually.

Anyhow, thanks so much to you, Shellie, for your funny blog, which provided us with some delightful date night hijinks-slash-antics. 

(And also some thanks should go to Oprah, I guess.)

(And to her cute Jewish doctor friend, as well, who probly dreams that one day, he'll get his own show, like Dr. Phil. Only, if he does get his own show, he should watch out it doesn't degrade into a Montel-like freak show, like Phil's has.)  

P.S. Shellie, is not your fault you barked at that lady at Church. There is a line between the cyber and real worlds that needs to be crossed delicately, else the shock might cause someone to yell and behave in crazy snake/little bunny rabbit style way.

Your faithful reader,

Beeswax