It ranks high on my list of undesirable moments

if, of course, you can consider an entire year a "moment."

I had been voted "Princess" by the 8th grade class (decided by ballot in 1st period) and I remember with clarity taking the arm of my escort and walking awkwardly through the middle of a quieted dance floor to the strains of a sappy 80's ballad. As I reached the stairs I forgot to lift the billows of pink that flowed about me and I walked right up the inside of my gown. By the time I reached the top step where I was to be crowned, my satin heels were up to my waist hunching me over like a 90 year old woman with advanced osteoporosis. It was a painful day in a long year full of painful days. I had no close friends to speak of and it's a mighty difficult thing being left alone with yourself and your half-baked thoughts as a teenager. I'd rather pluck my eyeballs out with a rusty spoon than repeat 8th grade.

I've just registered and paid for my oldest child to have his own 8th grade experience. My palms are sweaty. My stomach is knotted. But he is his own wonderful self, much more sure of life than I was at his age. He's surrounded himself with rock solid friends and he's going into it with a confidence I never owned.

Please be nice to him 8th grade.

You owe it to me,

What was your hardest year in school?

half cooked hotdog = heaven

I planned out a wonderful meal for family night - whole wheat penne pasta, apple gouda sausage, fresh french bread . . . and then our neighbor called.  He was on his way over, chainsaw in hand, to take down two trees I'd been complaining about.  We donned our work clothes and headed out to work alongside him.  As we carved the trunks into perfect logs my soul longed for a summer cookout.  I left my men to the work and ran to the nearest grocer.  Hot dogs, buns, chips, marshmallows, drinks, self checkout, record time.

The smoke swirled up from the fire pit as we set up our camp chairs.  Plates, napkins and utensils were banned from our festivities.  One hand in the chip bag while the other roasted hotdogs over the crackling wood.  

"Mom, my hot dog is on fire."

"Mom, my stick isn't long enough." 

"Mom, my leg hairs are being singed."

"Mom, please pass the chips."

"Mom, I need ketchup and mustard."

"Mama, where is my hotdog?"

When everyone had enough food to keep them busy I speared a hotdog for myself.  Black and bubbly on one side, slightly warmed on the other, too hungry to care.  It tasted divine. 

And then the marshmallows.  Perfectly golden, soft and gooey, melt in your mouth.  Each last one cooked to perfection.

As we scrubbed the campfire from our children's hair that night I was giddy with the promise of summer.  

"Everything is right with the world," I said to no one in particular.  "Everything is right with the world."

weekend

missing tooth

dinosaur pancakes   sweats

yard work   fresh soil

pink cheeks   gardening gloves

giggling girls   sore muscles

date night   good friends

homemade granola   tart frozen yogurt

new pants   dress shoes

clean haircut   scriptures

articles of faith   pulpit   ordination

priesthood   grandparents

sunday walk   neighbors

roast & potatoes

euphoria

I like your take on things

I quit reading and watching the news years ago.  Before we put a stop to our subscription I would sit down every morning to my bowl of Cheerios and the Obituaries.  When I was done pouring over those I would move on to the Police Log and then the to the National News.  I would start off each morning with the most shocking, disturbing, sad and depressing news the media could compile that day.  I was drawn to it.  Morbid, I know.  

It reminds me of when I was a teenager.  I would have a hankering to watch a scary movie and the second the movie ended I would be filled with regret.  I would have to spend the next month trying to get it out of my head. Or Haunted Houses at Halloween.  I loved Haunted Houses . . . until I was about two steps past the entrance. The news is like that to me.  I think I want to know all about this big, crazy world, but I don't.  It's too disturbing.  I spend way more time trying to get the information out of my mind than it takes to feed it in. 

So we save a nice little chunk of change each month by not subscribing to the newspaper and we enjoy more time together each evening as we avoid the nightly news.  My spirit is happier and my outlook on life more positive.  The downside?  I am completely ignorant to current events.  Like just the other day I heard some surprising news.  Did you know a black man was elected President?!

Here's how I try to keep a pulse on what's going on in the world.  I read YOU.  I find that you are a much more interesting read than the Tribune or CNN.  It's much more fun soaking in the news YOU've compiled for my day.  

Sports:  Kim

Business:  Bo, Jenny

Entertainment:  Joy, Kara

Politics:  Dad

Travel:  Tessems

Arts:  Telfords, Emilie

Home & Family:  Jessica, Hilary

Health & Fitness:  Deidra, Tim

Features:  Melanie

*the categories are based solely upon your most recent posts

37 going on 90

Bo:  "Do you want to keep this?"  

         holding up a newly emptied butter container

Me:  "For what?" 

Bo:  "I don't know.  To put leftovers in or something."  

Me:  "I don't think we meet the age requirement for saving those yet."

Please understand that I'm not against being frugal, especially in today's market.  Used food containers just invoke strong memories for me, most of which are tied to my grandmother's fridge.  A 12 year old girl looking for Cool Whip and Surprise! it's casserole from the week before.  Sour Cream?  Nope.  Broccoli and raisin salad.

We have tupperware that has promised to exceed it's allotted, oversized cupboard and a drawer full of lids that will be lucky if they ever see their mates again.  I don't think we need to add a whipped butter container to the mix.

Flash forward to this morning:

I sit down to my morning ritual of 1/2 a bowl of non-sugar cereal, 1/4 cup of non-sweetened grapefruit juice, a calcium pill, two fish oil capsules, a multivitamin for women and a B-12 supplement.  I've been having the same thing for breakfast since 2002.  How old am I?  Ninety?!

In my defense, it's a good thing that I'm eating breakfast at all.  I didn't partake of  breakfast consistently for the first 32 years of my life.  Sure, my mom tried to impart this most important of habits, but breakfast just isn't my thing. I hate sweets in the morning which includes all things covered in syrup.  I'm not a big fan of fruit either.  (Gasp)  Now if I could sit down to some celery and cucumbers I'd be all over it . . . but raw veggies haven't caught on to the breakfast buffet for some reason.  Now an omelette is a socially acceptable way to get red peppers, artichoke hearts, feta and mushrooms onto the table at the break of dawn.  Unfortunately I can't make an omelette to save my life.

So I've finally found something I could stomach.  Cheerios and grapefruit juice.  I keep serving it up for myself each morning after I've fed my clan a warm breakfast.  

I'm bugging myself. 

There ought to be an age requirement for getting into an eating rut.  Maybe there is.  Maybe I've met it.  

I'd better tell Bo to hold on to that yogurt container when he's finished.

Oh. It's you again.

Around the breakfast table

Matt:  "Mom, have you ever tried mixing all four flavors of mini wheats together?"

Me:  "Um, no sweetheart.  I haven't."

wiggle Nick's loose tooth

it begins to bleed

Allie starts screaming that she doesn't want her teeth to fall out

this sends Nick into his high pitched autistic scream

Allie running around the table

yelling "Do you want a piece of me?"

Matt leaves to practice piano furiously

seeing as how his piano lesson is only hours away

Brayden:  "Should I talk to the guys today and see what snacks they want for the party?"

Me:  "We're not taking food orders for your birthday party Brayden."

Nick:  "Do leprechauns have skin?"

Me:  "Do Lego Guns have skin?  What?"

Matt:  (translating)  "No mom.  Leprechauns."

Ask the big boys to wash their hands and clean out the dishwasher.  Watch boys scrub with antibacterial soap. One sticks his wet finger up his nose and then proceeds towards the dishwasher.

Dog walks past with two of Allie's favorite stuffed animals lodged tightly between his jaws.

Breakfast cereal dust being poured from bottom of bag all over table.  

Cereal must be eaten from a toy spoon that holds only one honey nut cheerio at a time.

Nick: (exiting bathroom)  "Mom, is the guy that's coming to look at our microwave going to fix our toilet too?"

oh boy

jackets, backpacks, kisses atop newly combed hair 

as they're shuffled out the door.

return to cereal dust and toilets

still wondering about lego guns, leprechauns and skin.

Today has been

an awful, 

horrible, 

no good, 

very bad 

day.

And then my mail came.

And she had made me this.

And now it's not such a bad day 

after all.

*"She" is Kara Jayne and you can visit her by clicking HERE.

I dream in technicolor

and I have for as along as I can remember.  When I was no older than three or four I had an  amazingly vivid "flying" dream.  I awoke the next morning and practiced jumping off of the end of my bed time after time, positive that there would be lift off any minute.

Sometimes I'll have a continuation of a dream.  If I've had an especially vivid or disturbing dream it will be there waiting for me the next night, like a novel that won't be laid down.  It's there to welcome me the second I close my eyes.  

There is one specific dream that has followed me for over a decade.  It visits me in my sleep a couple times a year, repeating itself in detail while adding a little more to my peripheral view each time.  

Last night I dreamed that I was at a non-profit organization.  I had just made a sizable donation and I was expressing interest in being a part of their cause.  The head lady, who also happens to be a mother at my children's school, refused me.  She sited my poor organizational skills with my children as the reason I couldn't possibly be an asset to their organization.  I let off a stream of "sentence enhancers," grabbed my donation and ran to my car with this lady hot on my heals.  I started digging for my keys in the black abyss that is my purse . . .

I woke with a start, still shaking with an intense need for my keys.  My heart was pounding wildly . . . and then a smile spread across my face.

I hadn't really cursed at the PTA president 

or stolen money from a non-profit organization.

Hallelujah!  

Hard Rock or Hard Rock?

Those were the two choices in music where I grew up.

It was AC/DC, Rat and Guns N Roses. We lived just blocks away from ISU and the Hult Arena.   I would lay in the top bunk with the window wide open listening to the concerts that were going on just a short bike ride away. I would close my eyes and try to picture the band performing on stage and the crowd pressed liked sardines in the "general admission" section, arms waving as they swayed to the music.  One of the greatest days in my childhood life?  Seeing Rick Springfield climb out of his tour bus and say "How do you get into this joint?"  I was just a stone's throw away on my flowered banana seat, close enough to smell the Polo.  

One of my very first concerts was Guns N Roses. We travelled the 3 hours to Salt Lake City just to be nearer to Slash. Sweet Child of Mine?  Patience?  Welcome to the Jungle?  Brilliant.  Mr. Brownstone?  Instantly transports me back.  Flying down the freeway in our shorts and swimsuits on our way to Lava Hot Springs to get a burn on top of a burn.  Oh the reckless abandon of it all.

There was one friend in Idaho who wore Birkenstocks, wore long sweaters and listened to the Violent Femmes.  (And one more thing.  Her parents smoked pot.  Openly.  I'd go over to her house and there it would be, sitting right in the middle of their coffee table.  But I digress.)  She was a freak in her musical tastes.  Erasure?  Alphaville? Enigmas in our little town.  I remember her ripping into the parking lot, windows rolled down, sunroof open and "Let me go on like a blister in the sun," blaring from her car.  We all stood with mouths agape wondering where in the world this girl came from.  I'm not even sure where she got the music.  Maybe she mail ordered it. It was probably delivered in a nondescript brown package.  She didn't belong and we all knew it.  

Headbangers ball, big hair bands and power ballads.  That's where it was at.

Do I want my kids listening to Hard Rock?  Heck no.  That's why I'm not raising them in Idaho.

"The Emperor's New Clothes" . . . or hair

I've anticipated my 2009 birthday money since February 16th, 2008.  Birthday money is precious when you're a mom.  It's money that is not to be spent on grocerys, dry cleaning, dog food or PTA dues.  It's only divine purpose is to purchase something completely self indulgent, no strings attached.  

This year I decided to buy a new me with my birthday cash.  I decided to get a haircut and color. I scheduled my appointment two months ago with "Jen."  (No need to use real names here.)  I have followed Jen through price increases and location changes for years.  A year ago I decided she was too expensive and her location too inconvenient.  I've missed her, and so has my hair.

Today was the magic day.  With money in hand I sat in her chair and explained that I was looking to "add interest" to my hair.  I also mentioned that a few gray hairs have found their way into my tresses.  I think all she heard was "gray."  Two hours and all my birthday money later I looked, well, exactly the same.  She exclaimed over it as she blew it dry.  I smiled like an idiot and agreed that it looked great.

Lesson learned.  Vanity has gotten me nowhere, and now neither has my birthday money.  Oh well.  There's always 2010.

Side note:  Brandon called me while I was sitting under the dryer at the salon to tell me that the market was plummeting and that 5 employees had just been laid off, including his assistant.  See, he doesn't bring it home.  

That stray chin hair

has brought in reinforcements

and I'm not happy about it.  

  

I feel like I'm in a snow globe

watching it float to the ground just so.
Six and a half new inches 

since 

9:00 a.m. 

I 

picture 

myself 

sipping

MarieBelle hot chocolate

while wearing 

my favorite plaid pajamas 

and fuzzy slippers.

My reality consists of a snow blower, frozen jeans, 

dripping hair, smeared mascara.

No matter.

It makes me smile just the same 

just as long as it all melts in a few days  

and guaranteed it will  

this IS Utah after all

SiTTinG

The last time I gave my appearance any real thought was on the way to the hospital to give birth to my firstborn.  Now that I'm a mom, makeup and wardrobe have ranked somewhere beneath dental visits and annual exams (neither of which have happened annually by the way).    Now that my kids have grown a little older and more independent I've had time to take note of my appearance once again.

Where did those smile lines come from?  When did I start getting more grey hairs than I could pluck?  Why in the world can't I eat a whole bottle of squeeze cheese without gaining weight anymore?  And that wardrobe  . . . HELLO!  Has anyone owned more brown, black and grey?!

I got a call from Jeff Hein a few days ago.  Jeff is an extremely talented local artist.  He's also a client of Brandon's.  He was calling to ask me if I'd be willing to model for his

 latest project.  

Me?  Model?

Sure.  Do  you want me to wear brown, black or grey?

Although sitting for a portrait felt about as desirable as that trip to the dentist or annual exam, I decided I would do it. 

So I went today.  And I sat.  And I sat.  And I sat some more.  He scrutinized, sketched and scrutinized some more.  He said many nice things like how symmetrical my face is and how well I can sit motionless and how easy my hair is to sketch because it's so straight.  Compliments that anyone would love to hear.

It was four hours of reconnecting with myself and my 30 something appearance.  I've decided that my smile lines are a good thing and that my body is just fine at it's new weight. 

I still think my hair and closet are begging for  a little color . . .

Don't think me irreverent

because of the title I've chosen for this blog.  I don't mean to suggest that I have the patience of Job.  In fact, quite the opposite is true.  My mom likes to say when I was young, and I had my mind set on something, "I wanted it either right now or yesterday."  Over the past 30 something years, not much has changed.  Let me make it clear here that my wants are not monetary.  They generally involve my family . . . my children more specifically. Children, just by their inherent nature, demand patience.  It's an interesting dilemma that I find myself in.

I've been working on this virtue.  I've been working on it long and hard.  To be honest with you, it's not the work that's killing me, it's the WAITING.