Just a Stray Junior Mint

Megan

2010-09-13T14:03:00.001-07:00

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Originally uploaded by derrick_smith

bball

194

2010-08-02T08:21:00.001-07:00

194
Originally uploaded by derrick_smith

The Mints Have Moved

2010-03-22T15:14:00.000-07:00

Hi everyone. Just wanted to let you know that my blog has moved to a new locale. Please come see me at strayjuniormint for good times and sticky purses.

Thanks for checking in!

Rumplestiltskin was NOT a leprechaun

2010-03-19T16:06:00.000-07:00

Was he? I say no, Derrick says yes. Who will you side with on this one, the English major or the engineer? (I'm counting on you, my three faithful readers...)

This little tiff aside, we had a happy St. Patty's Day here. We don't usually do much for this holiday (when you don't drink, your options are pretty limited), but the girls really got into it and asked if we could do a special dinner and family night for it. So we cooked up some:

Corned Beef and Cabbage

It tasted better than it looks--honest. It was actually delicious.

Irish Soda Bread

Okay, I forgot to take a pic of my loaf, so I snatched this off
Google Images. Same idea, though--we even did the X on top
(I know you're impressed.)

and for dessert,

Rachael's Rainbow Cookies

Those are clouds with gold dust on them, in case you couldn't tell.

I was proud of her efforts, as making these turned out to be quite a process:

Each layer had to be colored, rolled, then flattened and

rolled around the previous layer. Lots of work--we're not French, you know!

(Did you know? We do sometimes give off that aura with our sophistication and charm.

A lot of people ask.)

Applying the "clouds." We had so much fun making these,

and they were geeeoood! Pure butter and sugar--how could they not be?

Rache then took us on a wild and crazy treasure hunt (Ethan was in heaven, flying through the house) and we all settled down to hear her lesson on the history of St. Patrick's Day. Derrick and I were shocked to learn that it had anything to do with Christianity. I guess a lot of people know that. Where have we been? (Oh yeah, graduating from Kennewick High.)

There were prizes for Ethan and treats for everybody, except Dad

who then tried to steal Ethan's.

Ethan wasn't havin' any of it.

At the end of the evening, we were surprised with a visit from a mysterious leprechaun who asked not to appear on this blog. Suffice it to say she wore a long green coat with sparkly gold shoes, threw gifts from her big black shoulder bag, and had a LOT of blush on. We never knew leprechauns could be girls, but she told us, oh yes, they can. I will respect her wishes and not post her picture here in order to protect the anonymity she'll need to do more leprechauning in the future. Suffice it to say, she was blonde, little, and cute. And so funny. Unbelievably funny for an eight-year old.

We had a lot of fun tonight, without a lot of planning or shopping or stressing. My kind of holiday.

And so Happy St. Patrick's Day and a shimmy shimmy shamrock to you all!

(Five bonus points if you can recite the rest of that handslap. One clue: eenie weenie pepsadeenie...)

Follow the Yellow (or red) Brick Road

2010-03-14T23:50:00.000-07:00

So here I am, precisely thirty-two hours after my last post, the dreamy escape to Portland already safely tucked into the past. I was so excited for this little getaway that I actually got nervous as we drove out of town, because everyone knows that when a couple is that happy to leave town--and everything seems perfectly right with the world--they end up dying in a tragic car accident, leaving their children orphans to be raised by an indifferent distant relative. That, however, did not happen. And I'm glad, because one more day on this earth meant that I got to go to Voodoo Doughnuts.

I had not heard of Voodoo Doughnuts until 10 am this morning, when we finally rolled our already-chubby-but-soon-to-be-chubbier buns out of bed. My husband mentioned that he'd heard Voodoo served the "ultimate" doughnuts and was something of a Portland landmark, so we made our way across the cheery red-bricked downtown streets, enjoying the crisp March weather. We rounded the corner of 3rd Avenue and there it was:

From the outside, the shop looked small, "funky" (Portland's euphemism for old and dirty), and was swarming with long-haired middle-aged men who obviously didn't quite make it to San Francisco, and unadorned young women who were trying dutifully to look unattractive. (I don't know why these Portland girls insist on unattractiveness, I just know that they do. I guess at the very least, their poor/plain look is on purpose, which is more than I can say for my own.)

Have you ever stood in line for forty-five minutes to get a doughnut? Neither had I, until this morning. The real problem was that by the time we realized we were going nowhere, we'd invested ten minutes of precious wait time, and no way were we starting over somewhere else. After fifteen minutes, the formerly friendly weather became my enemy as that cold spring wind blew straight through my hoodie into my now growling stomach. We waited. And waited. About every five minutes, a couple of lucky souls would emerge from the front door with their confectioned bounties heaped in a pretty pink box that was ridiculously mismatched with the grunge vibe of the joint. I'm thinking the color was probably an unfortunate by-product of adamant insistence on 100% recyclable, organic, sustainable materials in which to house their precious doughnuts. Whatever the reason, those Pretty Pink Boxes did not belong at Voodoo Doughnuts. Period.

We kept waiting, huddled together against the cold like a pair of desperate refugees. Rather than facing death on one side and starvation on the other, however, we were instead sandwiched between some sort of alternative high school outing in front of us and a group of young local thespians behind. We continued our slow march toward the front door as one of the "actresses" behind us began waxing poetic about religion and coffee. All I can say about her dissertation is that never will I recover the ten minutes of my life that I spent listening to it.

The slow stream of satisfied customers continued to trickle out the front door, their faces lit up with the smug, secretive confidence of those who have been admitted to the Inner Room. I found myself wondering if this was the expression Katie Holmes wore after Tom Cruise inducted her into the executive boardroom of the Scientology cruise ship. I thought about Tom and Katie for a long time. Wondered how they were doing. But then I was done thinking about them and I went back to being hungry and cold.

And so it was, after a piece time that moved more slowly than the Willamette River, we were upon the front door. Like Jean Val Jean before he committed his fateful crime, only a pane of glass separated Me-From-Bread. I could smell the frying fat; I could taste the crystal sugar. And suddenly, without fan or fare, the door was opened. A curtain was pulled back and we were ushered into Oz. And Oz it was, my friends. Oz it was.

Think twenty bodies crammed into two hundred dimly lit square feet. Think a long counter manned by two teens--a boy and girl--who were, by all appearences, apprenticing for their future roles as The Man Who Didn't Make it to San Fran and The Deliberately Unattractive Woman (see pp. 3, lines 2-3). Think of the thick stench of cigarette smoke and body odor that surely violated codes of, if not health, at least basic personal hygiene. But most of all, think of the doughnuts.

The menu was infinite: bacon topped maple, coconut and caramel swirled, chocolate and banana glazed, vanilla and grape, mango and marshmallow, Butterfinger and Oreo--all filled, frosted, sprinkled, and stuffed to your liking. After our longsuffering stint on the street, Derrick and I decided that an even half-dozen would suit the two of us nicely. We ordered a blueberry old-fashioned, Mexican Hot Chocolate, cinnamon cruller, raspberry-filled powdered sugar, Captain Crunch Frosted and, just to round things out, a peanut butter and chocolate concoction entitled "Dirty Old Bast*rd." (I'm sorry to offend you with that, but so it was called, and I can only speak truths here.)

Final wait time: 47 minutes
Final bill: $7.50
Final calorie count:

Final calorie count:

You know, I don't really see how that bit of information is relevant to the conversation at hand. Let's move on.

We sailed out of the shop conquering heroes, pleased to see that the line was now twice as long as it had been when we were in it (we're not above relishing in others' misfortunes.) Derrick held the Pretty Pink Box high above the heads of the trodden masses who looked up at us with hungry eyes. I graced them with a benevolent smile that said: "Be patient, little ones. Your time will come. Yes, your time will come." And with that, we were off to Saturday Market. In the two minutes it took to walk there, we managed to inhale all six gargantuan doughnuts. They were geeoood.

Final favorites

Jen: Blueberry old-fashioned

Derrick: Dirty Old Bast*rd. (Figures)

The real triumph of this psychodelic wanderlust was not realized in the doughnuts, however. The real victory for me was that just by hanging around a place like that I was instantly younger, hipper, and somehow more environmentally aware. I really can't explain it. I just know that absorbing the verbal meanderings of said Acting Troupe took at least ten years off of each of us. This newfound feeling of urbane coolness lifted my spirits high throughout the morning as we wandered through booths filled with ugly clothes and junky jewelry that now seemed artsy and beautiful through my newly initiated eyes. I wanted to shout from the lampposts across the Willamette: In the name of all things recyclable, I am now a member of the Voodoo crowd! Never again would I be caught in a Wal-Mart. Never again would I coupon at Walgreens. Cloaked with this new identity, I smugly made my way downtown where I was sure my funky and fancyfree essence was palpable to each person I passed.

That is, until I stepped into Anthropologie. My funky and fancyfree essence disintegrated the moment I stepped into Anthropologie.

But that's another post.

Lovin' it

2010-03-12T14:40:00.001-08:00

I've been so lame about posting. Here's a quick one:

Derrick and I are now leaving for a full 32 hours without children, responsibilities, or a schedule. The kids are being dropped off at Saint Cara and Saint Julies' homes (loveliest friend and sister ever), and the hubby and I are taking off to Portland until late Saturday night (a curse upon his new calling!)

In 32 hours we will squeeze in: a session at the Portland temple (where we were married--it's sentimental, okay?); a late night dinner, possibly at "Montage" (sp?) which is this unbelievably cool restaurant under a bridge in some funky part of town that is way too hip and young for us, but a couple can dream; a leisurely morning stroll through downtown's Saturday Market, which we haven't done in ages; a heavy consumption of all foods ethnic, deep fried, or with suspicious odors and ingredients; a little "someday" window shopping; and, of course, a big fat trip to Powell's bookstore, which we don't dare do first because we know if we do, the rest of the day is shot. I love my husband. I love that he loves Powell's. I love a weekend--finally--that is empty enough to waste a little time together. I'm especially loving my kids' babysitters, too. Lovin' it! (But not in a McDonald's sort of way.)

I love you, Cliff R.

2010-02-18T10:09:00.000-08:00

That was the name of the tall, dark, devastatingly handsome young cashier who baptized me into the waters of couponing at Albertsons a mere four hours ago. Any of my three faithful readers who may have known me when I was younger, thinner, and much cooler may be surprised to learn that, three kids and ten pounds later, it has indeed come to this: I now not only clip and use coupons, I proudly use that word in the singular as a straight up verb.

A few weeks ago I attended a free "coupon class" in my neighborhood, wherein many of my good friends and I sat on couches and floors, mesmerized buy the silky promises of a shiny young mother who spends roughly four dollars a week on groceries. In spite of the thick index charts and multiple logarithms necessary to understand the process of saving money, we were all smitten by her presentation and gleefully subscribed to multitudes of Sunday papers, within whose deep, heavy folds the coveted coupon books hide.

And so began my neighborhood's--and my personal--obsession with couponing. It's kindofbutnotreally easy, kindofbutnotreallyfun, and you get to feel smart and virtuous as you smugly scan your coupons while the poor shmuck behind you pays full price. I'd say if I added up the hours I spent finding, organizing and shuffling coupons, then divided those hours by the money I saved, I'd come up with a personal salary of at least $2.50 an hour. Can't you see why I do it? That's the highest income I've grossed in over eleven years.

Think of the 'ole frog-in-the-boiling-water adage: the frog doesn't know it's boiling to death because the water's heating up gradually. So it's been with my steady decline into Dorkiness. It started with a young marriage to an engineer (social suicide, obviously), followed by a well-intentioned but sorely misguided haircut, which then led directly to three kids, a minivan, and moving back to my small (sworn off forever) hometown. Add to that the heavy influence of local stay-at-home-mom friends/church friends/PTA friends/kids' friends' moms' friends and all of my mother's old friends, and you have the Perfect Storm of Geekiness brewing with no George Clooney to save me from myself.

The upside?
a) Saving a lot of money. (I guess.)
b) Meeting men like Cliff R., whom I've decided is my (other) soulmate. (I think we're allowed at least two.)
c) I now get to use words like freebies and doublers and coupon fraud. My husband laughed out loud the first time he heard me talk about Coupon Fraud. I personally don't see what's so funny about Coupon Fraud. It's real. It's out there. I'm telling you.

The downside?
a) Logarithms.
b) Feeling flustered and hurried in front of the other customers at the checkout line--people I used to feel quite attractive around by comparison. (I shop at Wal-Mart. Draw your own conclusions.)
c) So far, I've mostly just amassed outrageous quantities of cold cereal, all of which are the kind I never used to buy for my kids (think 13 grams of sugar per serving.) But I'm getting each box for a dollar, so the fact that we now have cereal for dinner four nights a week somehow makes sense.
d) Our paper carrier, whoever he/she is, is incapable of delivering the Sunday papers to my home. So far I have gotten one Sunday paper on a Monday, and one Tuesday paper on a Tuesday. That's it. Whoever the carrier is, he/she simply cannot get it right. I've called. I've been polite. I've made two trips to the downtown office to pick up the papers myself. And still, this Sunday: no papers. He. She. Cannot. Do. It.

Enough grumbling. Let's get back to Cliff R.

Oh, ladies, he was dreamy. Think Jude Law in a grocer's apron. And so polite. He kept saying, "Oh, I just need your Albies card again really quick." Albies--could you die with how adorable that is? And I kept falling all over myself, apologizing for the fifteen "doublers" I was using, in addition to the twenty original coupons (I'm not kidding), and he just smiled suavely and said, "Oh, no problem--we just want to keep everyone happy." I'm pretty sure he winked at me when he said this. And then he apologized profusely when he accidently overcharged me 50 cents on two boxes of pasta, but I just smiled prettily and said, "Oh, don't worry about it...that will be my little tip to Albies for how patient you've been with me tonight." I batted my eyelashes and shrugged really cute-like when I said this, hoping he'd see how young these gestures made me look. The height of the drama came when, because of his obviously powerful position, he pulled his own little gold key out of his apron pocket to unlock the register, not needing to call any managers over for the usual "coupon overriding" nonsense. He just smiled confidently and worked that till like it was nobody's business. It was awesome

And here's the kicker, my three faithfuls: Albies was out of a few things because of the massive sale, so Cliff R. had to write down my name and number so he could call me directly when they got the products in. I will then return to the store and meet him at a predetermined destination for our second rendezvous. I'm considering it an official first date, and I think Derrick is really happy for me. (I mean, I think he would be if he knew about it.) And now the only thing I need is wardrobe advice from you all. Would you go funky-casual or over-the-top glam? And should I be embarrassed that the products I'll be collecting from my beloved Cliff R. are toilet paper and Fruit Loops?

I can't believe it, either.

2010-02-04T14:14:00.000-08:00

While walking through the screaming, steaming, teeming, germ-infested labryinth that is Chuck E. Cheeses, little Ethan squeezed my hand and whispered in astonishment, "I can't believe I'm five!" He said this with the same reverent awe that a young bride might say on the morning of her wedding--I can't believe I'm getting married!--his voice full of wonder and hope.

I can't believe it, either. How could five years have passed since I brought our pink-and-white baby home from the hospital? How can we already be done with bottles, diapers, potty-training, and tantrums? (Okay, three out of four's not bad.) How can my youngest, the baby, already be telling jokes, drawing masterpieces, taking showers, asking if he can drive, and be in full-time Jedi training? How can his funny, spunky personality already have seen five Christmases and Easters?

And who taught him, in those five years, to hold the door open for his mom every single time she walks through it? Not me. Who taught him that you say goodbye and goodnight with a crisp kiss on each cheek, ala the French? Still not me. (Our family usually hugs.) And who taught him that, even at his advanced age of five, mom and dad's bed is still the comfiest place to get a good night's sleep? Definitely not me. Mostly, I want to know who taught him that a lollipop is a good way to top off his breakfast, any and every day of the week? (It was me, okay? It was most definitely me.)

I want someone to explain to me where the time went. I've been so busy, I hadn't noticed my children were growing up. The only thing worse than having your oldest face middle school is having your baby officially out of toddlerhood and into the straight "little kid" category. I've long since graduated from Young Motherhood, but this birthday eliminates me from the Mother-of-Young-Children category as well. I'm toast. (Cue Sunrise, Sunset please.)

In spite of Ethan's treacherous act of getting older, we had a very happy birthday. Just once in their young lifespan, I allow each of my children a birthday party at Chuck E. Cheeses. (Megan rejected this offer.) (She is completely terrified of Chuck E.) (Smart girl.) So it happened that Year Five was when Ethan's robust boyhood dreams would come true.

We kicked off the big day with the traditional birthday breakfast in bed.

(He likes a glass of bubbly to get him going in the morning.)

As you may have guessed, we followed up this meal with a much-needed haircut.

(Why can't we pull off the long-retro-curls thing with E's gorgeous locks? It just doesn't work.)

Hours of anguished waiting later, it was finally time to meet Chuck E.

He did not disappoint.

Sorry about cutting off your head in this photo, Chuck E.

But at least I didn't do it for real.

Which is what I really wanted to do.

The kids were invited to dance with ~~the creepy oversized mouse~~ Chuck E.,

but Ethan had other plans.

Isn't this a sweet picture of the birthday boy and an adorable little girl

helping him blow out the candles?

At least, we assumed she was adorable.

We didn't know her.

At all.

She just wandered over and helped herself to our cupcakes. By the end of the night, three other anonymous girls had followed suit. We didn't mind.
Their parents are the ones who had to worry about stranger danger.
No skin off our frosting.

A young stud who knows he looks tough in the

world's coolest crown.

(Which apparently doubles as a flotation device.)
You cannot imagine the sweaty head that lurked beneath that latex.

A good-lookin' (okay, tired and greasy) crew.
Notice Chuck E.'s frazzled gaze in the background, still
reeling from Megan's rejection.

All kidding aside, we actually had a great time at the "restaurant," and the pizza is really not that bad (concedes the hostess, three slices later.) The kids played, danced, ate, and spent tokens like high rollers in Vegas drunk off orange Crush. It was such a hoppin' party, in fact, that we all stayed an hour longer than we'd planned--and on a school night! (No one accuses me of not being a fun mom.) The highlight of the evening, however, awaited Mr. E. when we arrived home:

This gift from Mom and Dad went over like an inflatable red crown embedded

with gold tokens: beautifully! And he's a pretty impressive shooter, too.

Impressive--and adored--in so many ways.
Let the years keep on coming.
We're loving every minute of it.

Happy Birthday, Easy E!

wallowing in the psuedo-psycho-babbleonian Empire of Her Majesty

2010-01-26T13:38:00.000-08:00

I know it's a little late in January to be doing this, but I have decided to share with you, my three faithful readers, my most shameful and disgusting secret of 2009. Are you ready? Better buckle up for this one:

I bought an O--as in Oprah--magazine.

In my defense: see my Standard Line of Defense (i.e., It Really Wasn't My Fault.)

It was two weeks before Christmas. I was making fresh salsa to give as gifts to my friends and neighbors (if you didn't get any from me, it's because I knocked and knocked and nobody ever came to the door.) Mid-salsa-making, I ran out of peppers and had to run to the corner grocery store to replenish. Due to its sinful markups, I generally avoid this particular place unless I am in dire need of just a few essentials, as was the case this cold winter's day. I entered the warm little market and my tired, overshopped back and feeble, overspent mind instantly succumbed to the cozy market's dim lighting and rotisseried chicken aroma. (Do they make candles in this odor? They should. Let's shoot Scentsy an email.)

Compared to my standard back-breaking, bulk-buying expeditions to Wal-Mart (please don't judge, especially if you live in Portland or voted for Obama), setting foot in that store was like walking into a spa. It was clean, it was pretty, and everyone was superduper nice. The least I could do was buy something from these good and gracious people.

Caught in this dreamy holiday bubble of warmth and good cheer, the latest cover of O caught my eye, all silvery and smooth, with a glimmering Oprah sitting at her table, sipping what I could only presume was a fifty-dollar cup of organic green something-or-other that adds a decade to your life and eliminates the need for mammograms. Add to all this that she promised me with her eyes--Oprah promised me, I'm telling you--that if I only opened that magazine, this year I would finally get what I really wanted:

1. Rich. Thank you, Suze Orman.
2. Skinny. Thank you, Bob Greene.
3. Perfect relationships. Thank you, Dr. Phil.
4. The secret of life (by going on vacation for a year.) Thank you, Elizabeth Gilbert.
5. My own way (by putting-my-own-needs-first-for-a-change.) Thank you, Martha Beck.
6. My Best Life. Thank you, Ms. Winfrey.

As I picked it up, the shiny pages fluttered to the opening editorial-- How to Stop Spending--nested gracefully between the Gucci and Prada ads. Like a zombie on the holiday episode of "My Favorite Things," I shelled out $4.95 (that's a lot of peppers) and held the cool, slick volume close to my body, a little giddy over this uncharacteristic impulse buy. I tightened my hold on the glossy and glanced around quickly as I beelined for the car. No one was going to steal this moment from me.

Later that night, soaking my jalapenoed skin in a well-deserved jetted bath, I finally sank into the riches I had been saving all day long. I eagerly flipped through this iconic tome of American femaleness but, as you may have gathered from my subtle forshadowing, I did not learn how to get rich, skinny, validated, enlightened or fulfilled.

Bummer.

I did, however, learn two rather significant pieces of information from this vault of info-tainment:

#1: "Living My Best Life" apparently means living any other life than the one I'm living now. My current life, it would seem, remains a problem to be solved. By Oprah's staff.

#2: Elizabeth Gilbert is the single most annoying person on the planet, with Martha Beck in a close second. (Oprah, of course, remains in a cosmic league of her own.) And yet they all made a few bucks off of my back.

Are you as disappointed in me as I am in myself? I'm sorry to have burdened you with this confession, but doing so has made me feel a bit lighter, kind of like when Bilbo gave Frodo the ring. And now, my friends, you are at liberty to cast off your own cares of 2009. What was your lowest moment this holiday season?

Come on. Let's talk about it.

Oprah would.

Born in the year of the rabbit

2010-01-21T23:16:00.000-08:00

1999, to be exact. Eleven years ago.

According to Chinese tradition, this means that Rachael is articulate, talented, ambitious, virtuous, and has excellent taste. I must admit, the accuracy of this description lends credence to those oft-underestimated Chinese horoscopes with which our daughter has recently become fascinated.

Forgive the cliche, but raising Rachael really has been eleven years of joy. She is kind, intelligent, talented, happy, freakishly creative, energetic, fun, mature beyond her years, spiritual beyond her years, with a capacity to love well beyond her years. She is sensitive to others, always thinking of others, always worrying about others, always going out of her way to make others happy. So this year we decided to Bring Honor to her not once, but twice. She deserved every bit of it.

Honor #1: "Chinese New Year" party at Grandma's on New Years Eve. We had it early so she could celebrate with her cousins who were visiting for the holidays.

We had fun painting scrolls

hanging lanterns

trying to eat Costco's Orange Chicken with chopsticks (spearing works)

admiring the New Years Baby

and enjoying a few choice moments of sibling harmony.

We wrapped up the night by making origami face masks and watching Kung Fu Panda.
Afterward, the kids relished their annual chance to stay up until midnight.
It was a perfect way to ring in the new year.

Honor #2: Last night, on her birthday's eve, Derrick and I took Rachael to PF Changs, sans extra siblings, for the first time ever. Rachael loves Chinese food and has always wanted to go to PF Changs to try the "real" kind (we don't get our kids out much.) It did not disappoint. Through the evening, I sat back and noticed that Rachael's behavior during her birthday dinner was typical of her behavior at large. She was happy. She was enthusiastic. She was thankful, gracious, polite, chatty, funny, playful and thrilled with everything. She was impressive with her ten-minute dissertation on the role Abigail Adams played in Revolutionary America and the continued effect Ms. Adams has on our country's women today. She was tickled (as were her moochy parents) when our server upgraded her free mini-dessert to a free big dessert in honor, I can only assume, of her general cuteness and likeability. The server's generosity was not wasted; the flourless chocolate dome was fairly licked off the platter.

We had a great time with much luck, the biggest indicator of which is that we can call this phenomenal little girl our own.

Happy Birthday, Rachey! You bring honor to us all.

this genetically-engineered food thing is really getting out of hand

2010-01-20T23:44:00.000-08:00

Tonight I made cupcakes for my daughter to take to school tomorrow. I opened up the egg carton and gasped in astonishment at the gargantuan eggs that sat inside it. Because I knew you wouldn't believe just how gargantuan these eggs were, I propped one up against an apple for a convincing visual aide:

Imagine my added shock when, still intimidated by their sheer size and volume, I cracked one of these eggs open and two yolks spilled from it into the bowl.

Something about this midnight experience sharply illuminated, to me, just what eggs really are (chicken fetuses), and how strange (disgusting) it is that we eat them.

It's freaky how big these eggs are. I'm officially freaked.

Fancy Shmancy

2010-01-15T15:59:00.000-08:00

Last week, the cutest, funniest, smartest, kindest, most competent, capable, responsible, active, adventurous, caring, sensitive, optimistic and loving husband and father in the world celebrated his 37th birthday. He thinks he's old. We think he's wonderful.

We wanted to do something special for him this year, so the kids dreamed up a "Real, Fancy Restaurant" (their words). We hung Fancy Tablecloths over the entryways to the dining room, dimmed the lights, and lit Fancy Candles on a Fancy Table complete with a black tablecloth, fresh flowers, and Grandma's Special Super Fancy China, which hasn't been used since two Christmases ago. (Yeah, it's that Fancy.)

This was no dummy establishment. Megan named the restaurant Derrick's Delights and typed up the following Fancy Menu (note the many fanciful adjectives):

Drinks: World's Finest Champagne (Martinelli's White Grape Juice, of course)
Appetizers: Bistro Salad of mixed greens, capers, and onions
Entree: Succulent Indian Curry, steamed jasmine rice, warm, crisp flatbread
Dessert: Decadant Triple Chocolate Fudge Cake with rich vanilla bean ice cream.

It all went off perfectly. Dad came home, waited in the Fancy Foyer (our living room with a few dining chairs set in it) and relaxed to Fancy Classical Music while mom changed from sweaty chef to glamorous date. We sat and enjoyed our Fancy Fare while the gracious waiters showered us with flawless service. The youngest waiter, however, got bored with serving and decided to sit down next to us and be served instead. (He's nobody's fool.) We allowed this addition to our Fancy Romantic Dinner because, honestly...how do you shoo away a four-year old with a mustache?

I had to use the flash to get these photos to come out, so you'll just have to imagine the sultry ambience, the darkened decadence, the sheer extravagance that was Derrick's Delights:

The Fancy Dessert: a flourless chocolate cake that was supposed

to look like the one from Julie & Julia. It almost did, until it sank

in the middle. (Keep trying, Mom.)

Ethan was just told that he would be receiving his

tips in fruit snacks.

My two favorite smooth-skinned fellas.

(Facial hair on men is so overrated.)

Derrick left (stayed home) one very satisfied customer.

Happy Birthday, Dad.

We think you are the fanciest of them all.

Festivus for the Restivus

2010-01-06T23:50:00.000-08:00

They got to me. Those rotten, stinking magazine covers finally got to me.

This December, as I pulled out old Enrichment Night crafts and homemade ornaments to deck my little hall, I found myself wanting to break out of my tacky standard of decor (i.e., this...)

and shoot for something more along the lines of, say, this...

I looked around my living room bathed in mismatched, garish red-and-green garb and realized that my holiday decor was approximately two decades out of style (which is quite an accomplishment, considering that I haven't even owned my own home half that long.) I found myself suddenly wanting Christmas to be about all the things it's not supposed to be about: money, nice things, slick appearances. I began yearning for a sleek, department-store styled silver and gold theme; understated yet elegant, dignified yet festive, untouched by sticky hands and preschool-produced glitterglue wall hangings "for Mom." I'd like to say that I tempered my materialistic desires through my own self-control and character, but the thing that really halted it was my pocketbook. Short of Oprah arriving on my doorstep, a Christmas Miracle Home Makeover was not happening this year.

So I decided to turn my holiday aspirations to something far more attainable: having fun. I'm happy to say that I met and exceeded this goal, and did it all without the help of Martha Stewart Living. A few highlights:

Wavy Lays potato chips dipped in chocolate fondue. What a happy accident. Two great tastes that coagulate-on-your-thighs-together.
Scoring positive feedback on the Slurpee giftcards I gave to my nieces and nephews. Who says money (and junk food) can't buy affection?
Setting a new world record on pounds of sugar and fat consumed in a single day by a woman my height and (now increased) weight. It shouldn't feel this good to plump up, but somehow it does.
Beating my sisters in trivial pursuit (Dad was my teammate--need I say more?)
Beating my sisters in cards (Mom was my teammate--dig into her past for more info on her cardsharkiness.)
Our first ever fake tree. Definitely not our last. Convenience trumps sentimentality yet again. And I can't even pretend to be sad about it.
Ice skating with the the ward, watching Alvin and the Chipmunks with the kids, cooking and baking with the women, a Christmas Eve program with the whole family, staying up late to watch Julie and Julia with my sister who I never get to see, post-Christmas shopping for eight hours while Grandpa-the-Saint watched all the kids, staying up too late, sleeping in too late, and waking up to brilliant new snow. It's amazing how much kinder each morning looks when it doesn't start until ten a.m. I spent the better part of a week:
Too lazy to exercise.
Too lazy to clean my house.
Too lazy to blog.
Too lazy to eat a vegetable.
In elasticized waistbands for the majority of the day and night (yes, Virginia, you can wear pajama bottoms to the grocery store...)
Soaking up my family
Soaking up the season

We are a lucky, lucky crew to have one another. Here's some visual proof (and please forgive my spacing errors; my computer's buggy tonight.)

The thrill of opening (yet another) lightsaber.

And thanks for the cute jammies, Grandma Laura.

This interchangeable purse was a big hit for my Mom. Have any of

you seen these? They are supercool. (And doesn't my mom look cute?)

Is Christmas Day really this painful for men? Really, guys?

Cute fam! As you can see, Makenzie's my spunky middlechild kindred spirit

(remember what I told you, Kenz...it's compliment when they say you're like me...)

Our gift from Grandma and Grandpa S. was to dogsit Abby for four weeks.
(Yeah, Merry Christmas to you, too.)

Grandpa's just the best. Especially at Christmastime. He broke from tradition and started
his shopping a full 48 hours before Christmas Eve. The stores didn't know what to do when
they saw Rod Christensen coming in so early. I'm sure some kind of door prize was involved.

And then there's Frank. I feel a certain kinship with him this year.

Let Martha Stewart have her designer Christmas.

Long Live Festivus!

Bring (dis) Honor to Us All

2009-11-19T09:58:00.000-08:00

Do you remember this song from Mulan? I was reminded of it when my daughter saw my Halloween costume a few weeks ago. About three hours before the big church party I was running like a mad dog through Goodwill, frantically trying to throw a costume together. It didn't need to be great; I just had to keep my promise to some girlfriends that I'd actually dress up this year. The clock was ticking furiously, and just as I was about to fall back on that fallback of all costumes--the dreaded "'80s girl"-- I spotted a long, blue "silk" robe peeking out between a ripped ballerina tutu and a deeply stained graduation gown. In a flash of genius, I thought "I'll go as a geisha! It will be a real, bona fide Halloween costume, and totally unique. Perfect!" With a flushed face and fingers trembling in anticipation, I bought the robe ($2.50--a little steep), stopped at the fabric store for a quick, lime green obi, stopped at the drugstore for white face paint, and finished up at a local Chinese restaurant for some hair-adorning chopsticks. This would be my first Halloween costume in a decade, and I was going to do it right.

One hectic hour later, after getting the kids all done up, I receded to my boudair and went to work. I painted my face white, my lips red, slicked my hair back w/the chopsticks, and even found some white hose. (When was I ever wearing white hose? Please forgive the transgression). A pair of slipper-like shoes finished the look. I stood back and sized myself up in the mirror, and had to admit that for a robust blue-eyed blonde of Danish descent, I looked, well...nothing like a geisha. But I looked like a dorky American mom trying really hard to play a geisha, and I was cool with that. I mean, it was the Edison Ward Trunk or Treat. Expectations of ingenuity weren't exactly soaring.

So I walked out and showed my girls the finished product. They smiled and asked exactly what I was dressed as. I didn't have time to explain what a geisha was, so I just said, "Oh, I'm like one of the girls on Mulan." (Yes, Walt Disney has provided the frame of reference in which I'm raising my children, thank you very much.)

So then Rachael asks, in all seriousness, "Oh, you mean like one of the girls who dishonors her family?" At this point, I was sniffing too much face goo off my upper lip to let this comment bother me, so I muttered something about eastern beauty and yelled at the kids to get in the car. As we were pulling out of the driveway, Megan said, "Mom, you don't look pretty, but you look good."

We soon arrived at the ward party, which had the biggest turnout in the history of ward parties. I was happy to have such a vast audience for which to make my glamorous debut. Derrick would be meeting us there from work, and I couldn't wait to show him my costume. How proud he would be, married to such a creative and fun woman! He sauntered my way with a smile on his face. In a low voice he said, "I heard my wife was coming as a lady of the night. Cool."

"What do you mean, lady of the night? Where did you hear that?"

"Oh, I passed by ---- and ------- (male friends of ours who shall remain nameless) and they told me you came as a prostitute."

"What? A geisha's not a prostitute! Haven't you read the book? A geisha is a beautiful woman who entertains with tea parties and innocent dancing. She is not a prostitute!" I was not as insulted by this attack on my costume as I was by the bald ignorance standing before me. Everyone knows that geishas are not prostitutes. (Well, not really.) Derrick was unruffled.

"Whatever. I just think it's pretty sweet that you came to the kids' Halloween party as an Asian hooker. Great example for our girls." His lazy smile incensed me.

"I am not a hooker! I'm a geisha--I'm a geisha! A geisha is not a hooker! Haven't you read the book?" Why I kept asking him if he'd read Memoirs of a Geisha, I do not know. I think I was trying to point out the fact that he had not read it, and therefore had no store of knowledge concerning Asians or their hookers. (I, on the other hand, was surely an expert on far eastern sexual politics, seeing as over a decade ago I read an Oprah bestseller.)

"C'mon, I'm just teasing. I think you look great."

"Whatever. I am not a hooker." I stood against the hallway, arms folded in front of me, my surly pout enhanced by its small, red-lined lips. Derrick patted me gently on the shoulder.

"I know you're not a hooker, Jen. I know." Worse than this shameless condescension was the fact that he never once told me that I looked pretty. I began to wonder: Was Megan right? Was it remotely possible that I did not look attractive with white face paint, bloodred lips, and slicked back hair? An Asian hooker was one thing, but an ugly Asian hooker? That was suicide.

No, I told myself. I'm a geisha, I'm a geisha...I'm a beautiful, elegant woman who entertains through dance and song. I'm a lovely water lily, a delicate rose...

We made our way through the crowded, noisy hall toward dinner in the gym. A (male) friend passed by and lowered his voice toward me. "Ooh, a lady of the night, huh? Niiice."

Bringing dishonor to my family

(and don't tell me that's not one hot geisha)

Who knew they made light-up orange light sabers with pumpkin handles? Thank you, Value Village.

The proverbial '80's girl. Much cuter when you haven't live in the '80's.

Even as a witch, Rachael understands the need to sidesaddle.

(I must be doing something right.)

So you see, the kids looked darling, I looked trashy (and apparently ugly), and we had a busy, fun, killer Halloween. Great ward party--Derrick won second place in the chili cookoff and my fishing game was a hit. The kids got tons of loot, and I even sprang for the expensive chocolate candy, which redeemed my sorely under-decorated trunk. Now it's on to Thanksgiving in Seaside and Christmas at home. Love this time of year!

The best line of Thursday night T.V.

2009-11-13T07:35:00.000-08:00

Kenneth on 30 Rock: "I feel as useless as a Mom's college degree!"

I have never laughed so hard at a television screen. Finally, somebody said it.

Gettin' My Freak On

2009-10-29T10:42:00.000-07:00

Ethan's, Megan's, and Rachael's carving artistry.

To Do Before Friday at 2:30:

Create final touches on kids' costumes, hair and makeup

Create costumes for Derrick and I

Create oceanic backdrop for ward carnival fishing game

Create and decorate two dozen cupcakes with kids (they insist on helping, which really speeds things up)

Create presumably contest winning chili

Create presumably contest winning cornbread

Do not create apple pie. I really dislike creating apple pie.

Create basket of goodies to "boo" our neigbors. We got boo-ed two weeks ago, and have still failed to respond. I know. Ungracious.

Create imaginative trunk display for the (freaking) Trunk or Treaters

Create stylish yet casually coordinating outfits for family pictures on Saturday morning. First must purchase such outfits.

Create more money in my checking account.

I am not a creative person. I know many of you reading this are. Help! And pardon my french (and the pun), but what the freak is going on? When did Halloween become a quasi-Christmas, complete with a checklist, baking and stress? Am I the only one feeling the heat? (I doubt it.) Despite the to-dos, I think we'll still have fun. Or at least my kids will. Hope you do, too.

Happy Halloween!

October Sky

2009-10-26T09:27:00.000-07:00

Great movie.

Okay, I don't usually post in a family-journal kind of way. For me, blogging is just a random, silly outlet that I use to blow off steam when I'm in the mood. (As you can tell by my sporadic postings, I'm a very moody blogger.) But we just had such a nice October weekend, I'd like to stray from my norm and actually write about what we did. I apologize in advance that you have to read about someone else's kids doing cute things, but I will be mocking my husband (as usual) so bear with me.

Friday night: Three-hour Primary Program practice in the chapel. The only good thing about this is that afterward, the weekend had nowhere to go but up.

Saturday morning: 10-mile run with my good friend and running/life mentor, Stephanie. Am I bragging about the 10 miles? You bet. But before you're too impressed, think of an elephant rumbling down the grasslands of Africa. That's about how good I looked and felt doing it. Imagine how much better I felt when Stephanie offhandedly informed me that she'd already ran seven miles before I showed up, and then spent the last three miles of our route texting her kids--while running. She was that bored.

Saturday morning: Ethan's final "flag football" game (term used loosely) and trophy ceremony/pizza party. Ethan was more excited about the trophy than anything that transpired on the field all season. I am proud to say that my son loves to chase and tackle the other players, just never when or where he's supposed to. During this last game, I think he finally began to understand that you are supposed to be somewhere in the general vicinity of the football. I consider that a successful season for a four-year old.

Thank you Coach Martin--there's a special place in heaven

for people who voluntarily coach four-year olds.

Saturday afternoon: Partook of neighborhood "pumpkin patch." This is truly hilarious. Our HOA scatters a bunch of pumpkins in an empty house lot around the corner, then takes families over on a "tractor"--a golf cart with a bale of hay strapped to the back--to select pumpkins. Afterward we go back to the Welcome Center for lunch, treats and pumpkin painting. My kids absolutely love it, and it saves me a trip to the real pumpkin patch, which I've been to nineteen times for school field trips.

Have you ever seen such a lush autumnal landscape?

Mom and Dad are all smiles at the efficiency of the

"Pumpkin Patch." See the bale of hay? Authentic, I tell you.

Saturday afternoon. Took a rare and much-needed nap w/hubby, then woke before him and read in bed for over an hour--during the day! Can I tell you what a treat this was on a Saturday afternoon, when I usually clean my house or run not-fun errands? Thank you, DVR, for the quality child care that afforded me this blissful opportunity.

Read it now. That's all I will say.

Saturday evening: Cleaned up house, got stuff ready for Sunday, dropped the kids at Grandma's (thank you, Cindy!) then used free movie tix to see yet another Really, Really Bad Movie. Yes, we actually spent two hours viewing All About Steve with Sandra Bullock (it was the only non-animated, non-R-rated option.) It could not have been lamer, so I will not admit that I sortakinda enjoyed it in a way. There's just something about Sandra. I know she's not an Oscar winner, I know her movies are bubble gum, but I still feel like I'm watching an old friend with the big white smile on the screen. And I do think she's funny. I dare you to rent this, but don't say I didn't warn you. And don't tell anyone you want to impress that you kind of liked it, which I know you kind of will.

Sunday morning: The Big Show. My kids thought they were debuting on Broadway (not that we like to make things all about us.) The planning/practicing/kid-herding for this annual event has loomed over my (and many others') head(s) for some time, and through what can only be described as divine intervention, it went off without a hitch. I'd even say it was beautiful, especially when my little ladies performed. Rachael played lovely prelude music on the piano, and Megan played a lovely solo (Teach Me to Walk) on her violin. Even Ethan knew all the words to the songs and sang them with...let's just call it gusto. Suffice it to say that nobody in the congregation could miss Ethan Smith's performance up on the stand. As an ironic bonus, he was seated next to the Bishop for the entire meeting. Sometimes I wish video cameras were allowed in church.

Sunday afternoon: Wonderful home teachers visit with a nice message, save one hiccup: they brought a large, clear jar of colorful m&ms and set it on the coffee table before us.

We all stared longingly while pretending to listen to said message. Afterward, we were ready to dive in when our usually kind home teacher informed us that we could only have one m&m every time we did an act of service. He'd even written "Service Jar" on the glass with permanent marker. Was he kidding? As soon as he left, we started backlogging everything we'd done in the last few weeks that could qualify as service: housework, churchwork, homework, ab-work. We rewarded ourselves amply.

Sunday evening: Looking forward to a primaryprogramless week and lots of fun Halloween activities. Any ideas on a couples' costume that my husband will actually be seen in? Am I the only one who thinks his face lends itself to a vampire disguise? (The jaw, the abnormal frowning ability...somehow it just works.)

A Poser's Dream Comes True

2009-10-06T11:24:00.000-07:00

St. George Marathon
October 3, 2009
Final Time: 4:10:17

I've never considered myself a Real Runner. Real Runners wear overpriced Nike gear, drink "goo," and run marathons. Well, last weekend I did all three and though I still won't put myself in the Real Runner category, I'll certainly stake my claim as a very excited wannabe. I ran my first marathon, and what an experience! I could write pages (as you surely know), but I will restrain myself and give you the highlights:

No injuries: My knee miraculously healed, and I ran like a dream. I felt fantastic the whole way, except for the last two miles when my body decided it was done. I pushed through it, though, and finished with a smile. I was so excited!

Perfect weather and unparalleled scenery. Anyone who's been to Southern Utah knows that the world turns pink when the sun comes up, which is when we started our run. We had front row seats to the desert's best. Breathtaking.

Accomodating staff: Maybe I was just a doe-eyed newbie, but boy, did it feel like we were in good hands. The runners were provided with water, gatorade, fruit, power bars, muscle cream, vaseline, and even goo along the way (although that was more of a punishment--imagine having your throat injected with a cup of rotten caramel while you're panting for air). We were met at the finish line with misters, medals, flowers (if your husband's as sweet as mine), and a parkful of free goodies. Who said Real Runners were healthy eaters? Everyone went straight for the free soda and ice cream. That's when I knew I was among friends.

Good--no, great--company: In addition to the thrill of running the race, I got to do it with my good friend, Wendy Sunderlage, whom I haven't seen in years, and her sister Kerry and good friend April. What a fun and encouraging group of gals to sweat with! We talked and laughed and almost cried together. Wendy's sister provided us a huge, lovely home to stay the weekend in with enough beds for everyone--the most important thing pre-race! Her parents were also in town and were so generous, cooking for us and helping us get ready. After the race we showered and layed around for awhile, then went to "Five Guys" burger joint for dinner. Either it was the post-race appetite or that was about the tastiest hamburger I've ever had. Wendy's husband, Rob, is a good friend of ours, too, and does alot of climbing with Derrick. Laughing and hanging out with these generous, funny friends was as meaningful as finishing the race. I'm so glad we've kept it touch over the years.

I was scared silly about this whole thing but, as everyone who's ever run a marathon promised me I would, I now just feel giddy. And grateful. I feel thankful, thankful, blessed and lucky and thankful: for health and strength and dear friends and red rock and no blisters and misters and free ice cream and hot showers. But mostly for my husband, who's listened to me obsess over this for weeks and has not only endured it, but has treated me like royalty through the entire experience.

And, yes, I'm also thankful that it's over. Now you don't have to hear about it anymore, and I can go back to blogging about the things I do best: watching bad movies and forgetting important stuff. No posing there!

Where have all the cowboys gone?

2009-09-16T22:08:00.001-07:00

Does anyone remember this touching duo circa 1984? We watched this movie with the kids on tv the other night, and I gotta say...it's fantastic. No, really. Funny, touching, relevant (well, except for the whole karate theme...) and very family-friendly. The kids enjoyed it about one-tenth as much as Derrick and I did. It's a valentine to the eighties, and I'm tellin' ya, those were the days. Derrick still has the hots for Elizabeth Shue, and I tried, unsuccessfully, to convince him that I had her exact hairdo in highschool, except mine was twice as big. (I grew up in a small town, okay? Spiral perms were the rage.)

As so often happens in life, this seemingly unimportant piece of fiction took on a profound meaning in the days to follow. As my three faithful readers know, I've spent the last six months training for the St. George Marathon coming up in October. I've trained hard, stayed injury free (you may recall my unfortunate foot incident from last year) and have gotten incredibly excited about this fateful day which is now less than three weeks away. We've booked plane tickets and hotel rooms and I've had my jitters and the whole nine yards. So, the other night I'm out running, feeling great, and out of nowhere--whoosh!--a sharp, searing pain shoots up my left knee. I try to run on it--nope. I stop and walk for a while then try again. Nope. I walk the rest of the way home, ice it for awhile, it feels better, and I go to bed, not daring to think I may be truly injured.

Woke up the next day--sore. Ouch. Didn't run, iced it, ibuprofined-up. Have stayed off it for two days. Am not even considering the possibility that it won't heal immediately. But what I am wondering lately is this: Where is my Mr. Miyagi? If you want to know how I feel, what I need, just take a look at this:

Daniel-san's pleading to be healed, and oh, how he's healed. Mr. Miyagi simply claps his hands together high in the air, rubs them for awhile (remember the cymbals?) and magically heals Daniel-san's poor, victimized knee. Daniel-san then stands up and strides out to become the champion of the All-Valley Karate tournament, besting his enemies, winning his true love, and proving himself to the world.

I don't ask much. And I've quite a bit in common with Daniel-san: I dress five years behind, am kinda broke, and rely way too much on my mother. So, again, I'm asking the reader and the fates alike: Where is my Mr. Miyagi? What gives? I need his warm guidance, quiet strength, and pearls of wisdom. But mostly, I need that cymbal-crashing, hand-rubbing, far-eastern magic to fix me up real nice for this marathon. I need it bad.

In the unlikely event that Pat Morita* does not read this and show up on my doorstep, does anyone have any other ideas? I'm a hurtin'.

*and I just read that Pat Morita has died. which kinda ruins the story. sorry. to Pat's family. and about the story.

And WHOOP, there it is

2009-09-06T18:13:00.000-07:00

What could have inspired my husband to make such an outlandish, uncharacteristic "whoop whoop" gesture in the above photo? Well, last weekend, Derrick and I enjoyed one of the most scenic, exhilirating and exciting weekend getaways of our married life. Where could we have gone, you might ask? What did we do? Well, I'll start by telling you what this exotic vacation did not include:

First class airfare (or any airfare)
Tropical destination
Luxury hotel (or any hotel)
Luxury rental car (or any rental car)
Showers. As in, we did not shower. At all.
Running water.
Flushable toilets.
Sleeping in late. Or any sleeping. As in, we did not sleep. At all.
Attractive (clean) clothing.
Attractive (clean) hair and makeup.
Fresh Breath
Basic Personal Hygiene
Time alone together (which was probably a good thing, considering the above three items that were not included in this romantic getaway.)

Our exciting weekend did include the following:

Cramming into two borrowed, oversized vans with eleven other sweaty passengers.
Multiple trips to outhouses, cleverly euphemised by the race sponsors as "Honey Pots."
Multiple shots of hand sanitizer instead of soap and water after Honey Pot use. These were usually followed with the handling and consumption of finger foods, like power bars, bagels or crackers. (I'm still trying not to think about it.)
Driving and getting lost for 24 straight hours (did I mention, with no sleep?) through enough windy roads to require additional visits to the Honey Pots
Running three legs of 3-7 miles each: uphill, downhill, in the dark, on the freeway as semis zoomed past, and through scary downtown Portland alone at midnight (where was the security, for the love?)
Talking, laughing, crying (one of our valiant runners had an unfortunate encounter with a pothole in the dead of night), yelling, cheering and praying (to finish with some sort of dignity.)
The curious, aforementioned "whoop-whoop" gesture, which Derrick is still at a loss to explain. (Please don't judge.)
Wondering what lifestyle changes we should make when this really is one of the best weekends we've ever spent together. (Please don't judge.)

Yes, it was Oregon's very own Hood-to-Coast, also known as the "Mother of all Relays." This race begins at beautiful Mt. Hood and ends on the equally beautiful beach of Seaside, Oregon. 1500 teams of twelve runners each take turns running for a total of 179 miles. Here's a few highlights:

Despite minimal training and a knee injury, Derrick runs really well and brings our team across the finish line at the beach. (Classic Derrick, procrasting and then pulling it off at the last minute to hoards of cheers and applause. I'm not bitter about my own training for months ahead of time, really.)

Sporting my wickedhot neon vest just before a midnight run on the freeway. I was terrified, in this order, of a)the long uphill route, b) getting hit by a speeding semi, and c)getting attacked from a psycho in the neighboring woods. I survived all and actually had a fantastic run. (And by the way, I think my upper arm should be alot thinner and more toned for all of the freaking running I've been doing. But that's another post.)

What Derrick will be wearing next year.

How can a weekend involving all the glamour listed above and Captain Underpants not be romantic? Forget Hawaii and the Bahamas...we've found our Happy Place.

And all kidding aside, this race was inspiring in every way. 18,000 runners cheering each other on, beautiful scenery and most of all, a truly great team to do it with. Great job Chi, Paul, Dan, James, Derrick, Jason, Jenny, Meg, Amber, Michelle and Rachel! I've never had so much miserable fun in my life. Let's do it again next year!

Pulled, Mold 'n Cold

2009-08-02T18:43:00.001-07:00

My three loyal readers may have noticed that I haven't posted anything for awhile. This is because:

a) It's summertime; b) we've been gone a lot, which means I have alot to blog, which means I don't want to blog because it's too much work; and c) my Adult ADD (a "friend" diagnosed me) inspired an eight-week long indifference to blogging. The cycle has completed itself, however, and I now hope to make a Travolta-esque comeback.

I am fully planning to do a long, painfully boring "catch-up" post with pictures of my cute kids and family reunions. In the meantime, however, I felt it only right that I share with you the three real highlights of my summer. These will be listed from the least to the most important, although they're all huge:

1. My first ever successfully-grown head of lettuce.

I've planted gardens before (with very little success), and was always told it was too hot to grow lettuce here. What do those Master Gardeners know? My garden is actually kickin' this year, and I'm so excited! I snipped this lettuce for a tasty Sunday salad. Harvesting and eating out of my backyard? Totally blogworthy for me.

2. My first ever Jell-o Mold

I reluctantly made this for Megan's baptism/4th of July barbeque. I have always had strong views on Jell-0, like the abolitionists had strong views on slavery. My husband, on the other hand, loves it. For 10 years I've protected my children from this particular bit of Mormon kitsch. Derrick, however, thinks I'm cruelly depriving them of a colorful (read: slimy) piece of Americana. This year, as my daughter's religious rite of passage transpired within the Season of Jell-0, I decided to offer my family their own edible rite of passage with a patriotic, layered ring. I gagged down a small bite (yep, it's still nasty), but the rest of my family inhaled it with gusto. It made a real big dent in our otherwise highbrow culinary habits.

And don't think just because this is a white trash dessert that it was easy to make. It was a major pain in my white trash backside, what with the multiple layers and all. (And please forgive my messy, white trash fridge. We had tons of company. It's usually spotless, really.)

3. My first ever Slurpee

I took my first sip of this icy, chemical concoction a few months ago when treating my kids one hot spring day. Would you believe I'd never, ever bought one before? It was love at first slurp, especially since they have Crystal Light flavors now. No calories, no carbonation, no caffeine...that pretty much qualifies it as a health food, right?

And here's the real bragging right: Our 7-11, on Clearwater Avenue here in Kennewick, Washington...yes, my humble hometown...is the SLURPEE CAPITOL OF THE WORLD. You think I'm kidding right now. I am not kidding. They sell more Slurpees than any other 7-11 in America (hence, the world), and consequently have the largest Slurpee flavor selection anywhere. I think it's around twenty-five flavors. (Still not kidding.) They have a banner out front and, more recently, a ten-foot trophy (still not kidding) inside with a massive metal cup on the top. I dare you to go in and ask one of the proud cashiers about their store's status as International Slurpee champions. If you can get out of there in less than twenty minutes, I'll buy you an AppleMango 42-ouncer myself.

My one complaint? The term slurpee. Couldn't we call it an iced-fruit beverage or even a slushed punch? There's gotta be a way for a grown woman to drink up in a more dignified (un-white trash) manner.

Letting Go

2009-06-01T13:09:00.000-07:00

These are the kind of weekends I love. A little fun, a little work, a little relaxation. Alot of sun, alot of friends, alot of family. Not alot of errands.

I have but one minor complaint about this weekend, and it 's about some serious attachment issues concerning the following:

For the past four years, this shirt has covered my back during housework, late night videos, reading in bed and cooking things with red sauce. It also covered my belly during post-baby bodydom and 'round the clock nursing. I bought it at Old Navy for approximately five dollars right after I had Ethan. It was loose, cool, comfy, and, as you can see, terribly flattering. It has been my trusted friend and companion these long years of Ethantoddlerhood, and it is not without a lump in my throat that I bid it farewell tonight.

I discovered several rather large holes in its front panel today, and I wondered: how long had they been there? Weeks, months, years? I wouldn't know; I generally avoided mirors when wearing this shirt. I decided that stumbling upon these holes tonight may have been the Universe telling me that it was, in fact, time to let go. (Vanity certainly wasn't going to do it.) And so with trembling fingers I pack Good 'Ole Purple into my Goodwill bag and send it soaring into the great beyond. May it grace another mother's menial tasks (read: life) the way it has graced mine.

A FINE howdy-do.

2009-05-15T06:48:00.000-07:00

A few years ago, Megan traveled through the age-old rite of passage that is obtaining her very own, very first library card. She had been begging me for one for months, but the prerequisite for this shiny, steel-gray gem was the child's ability to write her first and last name without help. Megan was but a wee preschooler at the time, and despite her parent's conviction that she was surely a genius (our child? could she be anything but?), the little darling could not yet patch "Megan" and "Smith" together without a bit of prodding by mom. When the blessed day arrived that she could finally do so, she marched up to the desk, signed the form, and emerged triumphant with her first (of what I fear will be many) credit-card-of-sorts. She felt grownup and proud, and I thought the whole episode was so cute. Until today.

Meg had an unusually voracious appetite for books at the 'ole Mid-Columbia Library today, and she wanted to check them out on "her" card. (Out of convenience, we usually use mine for the whole family.) I agreed, and she whipped that baby out of her embroidered back pocket with the flair of Poncho Villa. She slapped it down on the desk, shiny as new, and waited for some service. A pale blond woman, whose white face disappeared into whiter hair, sat behind the desk. She scanned the card, then peered down her bifocals at the young patron with a smile/frown.

"You can't use this today."

"Why not?" Meg's eyebrows would have furrowed, had there been
hair there to furrow. (Her face is still completely smooth and hairless, with spider veins on her temples, like a newborn's. I love it.)

"You have a fine of ten dollars."

I felt Megan's hand stiffen in mine, and saw her flinch behind a calm face. Ten dollars! Ten dollars! Such a sum of money!

"Yes. Ten dollars," said the librarian, as if she could read our silent thoughts. (I am not kidding with these italics. She actually repeated the amount emphatically, in a sort of stage whisper.)

I stood quietly, unsure whether to lecture or reassure my daughter. Before I could speak, she looked up at me with her toffee-drop eyes and said, "Mom, I think I have enough allowance to pay for that." I wanted to hug her. She didn't even consider asking me to pay for it, though I had already begun wondering how I could justify doing so. Her sweet offer, however, gave me a perfect launch into Teaching Responsibility.

"Yes, honey, ten dollars is alot of money, and you'll need to pay it. We'll come back and pay it next time when you can bring your allowance."

Her upper lip visibly stiffened as she braced herself to part with such a dear sum of money. How I wanted to pay it for her, and relieve her suffering! But I dared not, for then what would become of this child? She may go through life without an understanding of care, responsibility, even the value of a hard-earned dollar. No, I must be strict, much as it tore at my pulsing mother-heart. For the good of my children, I would set an example of careful accountability. After all, they would someday take after their mother. Passing on my discipline and frugality was the least I could do.

I then pulled out my own library card so I could check out the entire family's materials. I decided to use the self-checkout machine this time (I'd had enough of Pasty-Face Drama Queen behind Customer Service.) I went to scan my first book, but was promptly halted by a large indicator on the screen:

UNABLE TO PROCEED WITH CHECKOUT

PATRON OWES $12.40

PLEASE PAY PROMPTLY

So.

Anyway.

You know...I've decided that the only industry weathering the storm of this horrific economy is the wretched Public Library System, and they do so off the backs of harmless little borrowers like me. If the Civil Engineering industry was clearing half the profit that Public Libraries were, I'd be buying all my books in brand-new hardcover, folding the corners and staining the pages all I liked, and then shipping them to you, my less fortunate friends, in a gracious and condescending gesture. And I wouldn't give that shabby MCL the view of my upturned nose. (Oh, the twisted fantasies I keep.)

HANDSOME SUCKS

2009-04-29T21:36:00.000-07:00

Yes, I realize that I am too old, too motherly, and too Mormon to title my blog with such a coarse expression, but please read on before you judge. As with everything else I do wrong, it's really not my fault.

Yesterday I was dressing Ethan in my favorite shirt of his, which, of course, means he hates it. Yet I insist on him wearing it at least twice a month so that I feel better about having bought it. I got both arms in his sleeves when he looked down and noticed what I was putting on him.

"I don't like this shirt! I don't wanna wear this shirt!" The standard howls and shrieks ensued.

"But why not? You look so handsome in it." My voice automatically kicked into soothing mother gear, calm and gentle enough to annoy even myself.

"I don't wanna be handsome!"

"Come on, honey..."

"No! I don't wanna be handsome! I wanna be AWESOME!!"

Good grief.

"I WANT MY SPIDERMAN SHIRT!!" (I know all caps is annoying, but Ethan's entire personality is all caps, and there's just no way around it.)

From this statement, I can only assume he was requesting the ketchup-red atrocity that has been lurking in a quiet drawer where I attempt to hide a regrettable pile of hand-me downs (thank you, Julie) that I keep around only for painting and playing in the mud. This shirt has an enormous blue, crackly, off-centered iron-on of Spidey that hits Ethan about three inches above his belly button, because the shirt itself is short enough on him to qualify as a crop top (there's a term I haven't used since '89.) Furthermore, I have never been able to successfully determine whether this sad and wilted occurrence is an actual shirt or, in fact, a pajama top. It fails either way.

Which brings me to the story of another young man who obstinately refused the title of Handsome when it was generously offered him. When Derrick and I were engaged, several people in our glittering social circle came out of the woodwork and started telling me how "handsome" my fiancée was. Not "cute" or "attractive" or "good-looking," but always, "handsome." I started hearing things like, "Got yourself a handsome fellow there," or "That fiancée of yours is a handsome man, very handsome." I would have accepted these compliments with the pleasure of a young girl in love were it not for one curious fact: they all came from gray-haired men in their mid-sixties. My bishop, some old family friends, and my creepy Uncle Louis. Never heard a peep about my husband's studliness from a single woman, only men. Still not sure what that was all about. But I digress.

Upon relating this well-deserved praise to my espoused, his reaction was less flattered than I would have expected. (I mean, give me a second-hand compliment about my looks and I'm yours for life.) He simply frowned and said, "Handsome sucks."

"What?"

"Handsome sucks."

"What do you mean, handsome sucks? Everybody wants to be handsome. Clark Gable's handsome. Brad Pitt's handsome. Tom Cruise is handsome."

"No, those guys aren't handsome. Handsome sucks."

" Well, what do you want to be?"

"Hot."

Good grief. Did they make spiderman crop tops in mens' sizes back in '95? Derrick could have used one, although the over-sixty set may have found it a bit puzzling on their new young darling. As the years have gone by, however, we've both decided that Derrick's geriatric fan base was, in fact, alot younger, cooler, and more observant than we once gave them credit for. In fact, if anyone knows who's handsome and who's not, it's retired grandpas. Just ask my handsome husband.

ONE REMOTE TO RULE THEM ALL

2009-04-21T22:11:00.000-07:00

His problems are over. The Logitech Harmony 620 is here.
Derrick P. Smith will be mocked by multiple remotes no more.

Happy Easter

2009-04-14T09:21:00.000-07:00

Easter Weekend Lovelies:

Introducing Ethan to Thai food on Friday night while Grandma whisked the girls off to Hannah Montana: The Movie (and yes, I did want to see that flick myself)
Watching my girls imitate Miley's dance moves--quite impressively, I might add--all weekend long
Running a 5k with my husband on Saturday morning
Beating my husband in 5k on Saturday morning
Not letting my husband forget it since Saturday morning
Coloring eggs with the kids; making treats with the kids; eating too much candy with the kids
Watching kids perform creative skits about the New Testament on Saturday night; Ethan playing a mean "Martha" who is too busy making "My Tomato Sauce!" (as he called it) to sit down and listen next to Megan's angelic portrayal of "Mary"
Beautiful music in church on Sunday morning
First Sunday back in Primary as new 2nd counselor; loving being back in there with my own little lovelies
Hedonistic Easter feast after church, during which we reversed any benefits gained during 5k run
My parents coming over to celebrate Easter and their 41st wedding anniversary. Dad giving Mom floor tickets to Billy Joel/Elton John in Seattle. Them acting as giddy as newlyweds. Me loving living by my parents.

Easter Weekend Not-So-Lovelies:

My niece announcing that she was "suspicious" of the Easter Bunny on the car ride over to our house
She and the rest of the kids sneaking back to our room to google up and learning that the likeliest candidate for the E.B. was, in fact, their parents
Us adults enjoying ripe strawberries and lemon chiffon cake out front, blissfully unaware that our childrens' innocence was being shattered just two rooms away

Guess you can't win them all.
But it was still a great weekend.

How was yours?

Good Friends + Bad Movie = Great Times

2009-03-19T10:56:00.000-07:00

The only thing more fun than watching a good movie with your friends is watching a bad one. So it happened this blustery March weekend when our good friends, the Shorts, came for a visit. Before I launch into my critical tirade, I must convey the level of fun we always have with the Short family. They are fun, funny, intelligent, witty, easygoing, gracious, generous...and that only sums up their personalities. Of course they are gorgeous and glamorous as well (they're friends of ours, for Pete's sake.)

Somehow we couldn't manage to get a picture of the four
of us together. But at least I'm posting these. Baby steps.

We wanted to break down some of the misconceptions our West coast friends may have had about Kennewick being a small, crusty town, so we decided to show them some of the classier hot spots: the bowling alley, the Rollerena and, of course, Costco.

boring use of handlebars

fun use of handlebars

ethan thinks he's hit the jackpot with a computer screen from 1985

how cute is this family?

Believe it or not, we had a blast at all three places, and Rachel scored a cute pair of jeans at Costco, which she claimed was the first article of clothing she'd ever purchased there. (Was she kidding? My closet is full of Costco and Target staples. Am I the only woman who buys her clothes at the same stores she can get produce and toilet paper? I thought this was normal.) But I digress.

Nothing so flattering as the floodlights at Celebrity Bowl.

After appeasing our children with the aforementioned activities, we did manage a little adult fun. We hired two sitters, hooked them up with pizza, and then made our way to Anthony's for dinner (on the river; pretty; yum). Jason wowed us all by entering the famed "Oyster Slurp" contest which was being held in the foyer of the restaurant. Yes, four grown men stood around a table that was graced with large platters of raw oysters, and at the signal, slurped them up as fast as they could. We were expecting great things from Jason, who was the only true northwesterner at the table, in addition to being at least 25 years younger than all of the other contenders.

Talk about a smug grin.
(He thought he was pretty hot stuff with those oysters.)

Alas, it was not to be: our poor Jason came in dead last, finishing only half his platter of oysters as the victor slurped his own up at an unbelievable rate. Oh, the agony of defeat.

Remember, Jason, that you are a successful attorney and champion golfer.

We all have our talents.

After a scrumptious dinner at Anthony's, we were perfectly positioned for a bit of candy and a great movie. Unfortunately, there was nothing great playing, so we settled on Taken, a Liam Neeson action movie (yes, we ladies were being generous.) This movie was well done and fast paced, BUT....because of the subject matter, I do not recommend it for mothers, fathers, women, or men with any kind of regard for the sanctity of life or the dignity of the human soul. In other words, Derrick and Jason loved it.

After the flick, it was only 9 pm and we had a couple more hours before we needed to get home. The usual Kennewick nightlife--i.e., concerts, gallery openings, jazz clubs--seemed hard to find on this particular Friday night. So what to do? See another movie, of course! And due to some lofty (but highly classified) theater connections, we were able to get into the next one free. So we decided that This One's For the Girls (a big shout out to Martina), and dragged our hubbys to He's Just Not That Into You, hoping for a fun, feel good show that would end the evening on a high note. But as with Jason's ill-fated slurpoff, it was not meant to be.

This movie was not original, funny, or clever. It was: unoriginal, boring, crass, and forgettable. Think of every irritating cliche you've ever seen in a romantic comedy, times it by two hours, and you've got He's Just Not That Into You. I'm surprised the critics were as easy on it as they were.

Besides the predictably lazy morals, the worst thing about this movie is its illustration of men and women. Men are made out to be self-centered, immature jerks who seemingly can't stand women, don't want to marry women, don't want to be married to women, and don't want to be bothered with women, period.(Maybe that's why half of the characters are gay.) The women fare no better. They are silly, whiny, and naive, with the emotional maturity of fourteen-year old girls. The women who are older and more mature are played as uptight, boring, and lifeless. These female characters put up with or follow around men who, apparently, just don't like them much at all. I sat there wondering, "Do men really hate women this much?" I was surprised that so many "empowered" female actresses would consent to play roles that made women look so victimized, so ignorant, and so stupid.

(I used a whole lot of adjectives in that last paragraph. Fifteen, to be exact.)

And there you have it. Alot of smart, funny people I know liked this movie, so I may make some enemies from this post, but I dare not consent by my silence.

Having said all that, I can now admit that I'm glad we saw this movie because it spawned a fun game on the car ride home. We will call it something original, like: What's the Worst Movie You've Ever Seen?

Derrick: He's Just Not That Into You
Jen: The Object of My Affection
Rachel: Circle of Friends
Jason: The Ultimate Gift

So now what I want to know is: What's the worst movie you've ever seen? I can hardly wait to find out. Whatever your answer may be, I hope you at least got to enjoy it with some good friends and Original Reese's Peanut Butter Cups (not their ugly stepchild, Reese's Pieces. Really, Jason, what were you thinking??)

Remote (out of) Control

2009-02-04T21:14:00.000-08:00

Question: How angry does your husband get when you finally get the kids to bed and he's anxious to catch up on last season's 24 DVDs and he can't find the remote control anywhere--anywhere--in the house? (Without said remote, he cannot watch DVD at all.) On a sliding scale, would you say he's:

a) A little disgruntled
b) Put out
c) Seriously put out
d) Fully irritated
e) Raging

If you answered "a" through "d," you have my condolences. If you answered "e", please call me. I need someone to talk to.

If Life Were Hard, It Wouldn't Be This Easy

2009-01-27T23:18:00.001-08:00

Anyone read this Sheri Dew book? Can't say that I have, but I'd love a copy if you want to send it to me. It crossed my mind this afternoon, because I was thinking about how not-hard--I'd even venture to say blessed--my life really is:

Last Sunday was a really great day at church and home. Don't you just love these (somewhat rare) Sundays? I taught Relief Society and am still kind of on that high you get when a lesson is out of your hair. Had a good dinner, had the missionaries in our home with a wonderful investigator, had our first official "Family Council." (hint: do not start by telling your three children, who have been harassing you for a puppy for the last two years, that this is a time they can "bring up anything that's on their mind." Trust me.)

I spent this Tuesday morning getting my hair done and perusing the sale racks of Fred Meyer while my good friend Stacey watched Ethan. (It's the Kennewick version of a day at the spa followed by Nordstrom, but I Take What I Can Get.)

Ethan asked me to give him a mohawk this morning. Dad usually puts the kibosh on this, deeming it "goofy." I, on the other hand, agree with Adam Sandler: "Goofy is the new Handsome." And Derrick was at work this morning, so while the cat's away...

When I was finished, Ethan looked at himself in the mirror and said "Mom, is this a flowhawk?" I had no answer. I'm finding that I really don't know what a flowhawk is. But I think it may go something like this...

Uncanny. And don't think Ethan wouldn't be all over the cigs if they were available.

Last night, we had some good friends over for pizza and Pseudo-FHE. When you just can't face cooking dinner or planning home evening for your family on a Monday night, Pseudo-FHE is a very manageable, guilt-free way to go. Simply find some of your favorite people in the ward and invite them over for pizza. You've now taught your children an invaluable lesson on fellowshipping. Gorge on pizza (take out; don't you dare do homemade!), then stick Enchanted in for your kids while you and your friends talk and play games, uninterrupted for a solid ninety minutes. If your friends bring cookie dough for dessert, like ours did, even better. You see how it all works out? Everyone eats (family dinner, per church counsel), everyone is in the same room together (family [at] home, per church counsel), it's at night (evening...per church counsel?) and alot more fun than listening to one of Mom's crafty, charty, laminated lessons. Follow my rationale on this and like I said...easy, peezy, lemon-(guilt free)-squeezy.

Yesterday I was on the phone with my sister. She was putting dishes away while talking to me. She digressed from her story just long enough to mention that there were small curds on her cake pan that she thought might be mice poop. Hopefully not, though. Mice poop. She was calm, almost disinterested, and got back to telling me her story. How does this little anecdote pertain to posting on my blessed life? A few years ago, mice poop would have caused my sister to call an exterminator, a realtor, and a lawyer. I think many of my irresponsible escapades horrified her orderly sensibilities, although she always reacted discreetly. My neatfreak, on-the-ball, Type A sister (and I mean that in a loving way, Jaim) is, after three kids, finally crossing over to the dark side, where mice poop--and any poop, for that matter--is of minimal concern. Welcome to my world, little sis. You may forget your keys, your kids, and where you are, but I guarantee you'll like it here.

I am worried that my stylist colored my hair too dark this time. I asked for lowlights, but they look like lowdarks to me. My scrupulously attentive seven-year old noticed my new 'do right away and said "Your hair looks different." I expressed my concern about the dark color, and she immediately reassured me.

"Actually Mom, it looks better this way. Before, I mean it was kind of blonde and there were dark stripes in it and, well, you know...it just looked kind of really blond and brown and, you know..." She smiled nervously.
"Bleached-out and scraggly?"
"Yeah," she gushed, relieved that I'd said the words for her. Of course, knowing how horrible my hair looked before makes me all the more confident in the way it looks now. Derrick then came home and, surprisingly, noticed my darker tone, too. He said, "Your hair looks really nice. It's very thinning."
"What do you mean, like my hair's getting thinner?"
"No, it makes you look thinner."
"What?"
"I don't know, it just makes your face look thinner or something, somehow...I don't know..." His voice wisely trailed off at this point as he edged away from the kitchen counter where I stood in front of a large block of knives.

Such are my family's versions of compliments. Apparently, I went from a bleached-out, fat-faced blonde to a silky, svelte brunette in the space of two hours. As I stated earlier, however, I'll Take What I Can Get. Hence, their devoted praise makes the post. Last fun thing in my not-so-hard life?

My parents brought us back chocolate covered Macadamia nuts from Hawaii. They are my favorite. Guess I'd better schedule another cut and color soon.

Perfect 10

2009-01-19T21:17:00.000-08:00

Rachael turned ten yesterday. Ten. We had her party on Monday since there was no school. The girls had a great time gliding around the local ice rink, stopping only for the briefest nod to cake and presents. I stood and watched, freezing and dwelling on the surreal nature of it all. (Sorry about the dark photo--it was taken in terrible lighting through a pane of glass.)

How could this be the tenth birthday party I've thrown for my little daughter? I remember her first birthday party in our tiny apartment in Lake Oswego. It really doesn't seem like that long ago. And in another ten years, it's possible (though not probable, I hope) that she could be married! If you know me, you know I was flirting with depression by now, thinking such thoughts, until something wonderful happened. Ethan threw a major fit.

A full-blown, MacDaddy humdinger. I scolded, I threatened, I gripped, I swatted, I yelled. And right then, the epiphany hit me harder than my son hits his sisters: Older Kids Are Easier. They're more interesting to talk to, require less physically, and show you some results for your many years of parenting. In sum, with older children, you get more bang for your buck.

Don't get me wrong. I am in no hurry for Ethan to age; in fact, I've spent many moons wishing I could slow down time and enjoy my wee ones a bit longer. But then, on days like today, I wonder: what if my wish came true, and they stayed three forever? Oh, I'm so thankful I don't have magic powers. (Yet. I'm not giving up.) I suppose that children growing up too fast beats the alternative: permanent toddlers.

This may sound like a sour attitude toward toddlers, but what I mean to convey is an optimistic outlook about the inevitability of change, especially within our families. I'm still sad that my kids are growing up, and probably always will be. When they're thirty, I'll mourn that they are no longer twenty. But there's not a single thing I can do about it, so I'd better learn to just enjoy.

And having said all this, I will also say that I am thrilled with the way my not-so-little Rachael has turned out so far. A perfect ten, if you ask me. I am not kidding or just blogbragging (blagging? brogging?). She's pretty fantastic.

As was the cake Aunt Julie whipped up for her. Hooray for talented sisters!

Your ticket to a fantabulous 2009

2009-01-16T16:36:00.000-08:00

Forget inspirational gobbledy-gook about improving yourself this year. We really don't need motivational books or speakers because it's been my observation that, without exception, bumper stickers act as a calming voice of reason for life's toughest questions.

Seriously, have you ever read a bumper sticker that didn't convey wisdom, beseech repentance, or simply ooze with sophistication? I can see why automobile owners are eager to show off their quick wit and political savvy in this upscale manner. Any car, no matter how expensive, looks classier with a big, bright bumper sticker tacked on the rear. The larger the letters, the better. Swear words are especially engaging. After my (second) trip to Costco today, I nearly rear-ended a sticker that said it all:

Get out of Hell Free

(John 3:16)

Who needs religion when you've got Oprah, Mitch Albom, and bumper stickers? And to think I've invested so much of my time...

Tag Revisited

2008-12-26T19:40:00.000-08:00

My novice as a blogger has become all too apparent. I forgot that when you fill out a "tag," you're supposed to tag other people to answer the same questions on their own blogs. So...Sarah, Lisa, Melissa, and Tania, it now rests with you. It's a simple tag, but fun to peek into what other people do for Christmas.

And speaking of...I am typing this on my new computer! Thank you, Derrick! (I so don't deserve it.) What were some of your favorite gifts this year?

Merry Christmas

2008-12-23T10:05:00.000-08:00

I hope you're all having a wonderful week before Christmas. We are enjoying heavy-duty snow that caused a two-hour delay for school every day last week, and are pretty much snowed in this week, which has made our time at home deliciously quiet and lazy. This kind of snow is a novelty for Kennewick, so it's been fun to have a true White Christmas.

I stole this tag from Rachel because I thought it looked fun (sorry I didn't even ask, Rache!)

1. Wrapping Paper or Gift Bags? Gift bags in a hurry, paper when I have time. I really don't enjoy wrapping presents, though...it comes to close to a craft.

2. Real Tree or artificial? Real. Every year I think "we should really get an artificial tree and save the hassle," and then every year once the real tree's up, I'm so glad we didn't. Gorgeous!

3. When do you put up the tree? The first weekend of December

4. When do you take the tree down? Usually right after the New Year, depending on how dry it is.

5. Do you like egg nog? Not really, but Derrick and Rachael can guzzle it like water

6. Favorite gift received as a child? An oversized, stuffed doll that my mom made me by hand, with yellow yarn hair and a yellow and blue flowered dress with bloomers and everything. I thought about doing the same for my girls this year, until I saw the pattern and remembered that I don't know how to sew.

7. Hardest person to buy for? My in-laws. They really do have everything.

8. Easiest person to buy for? Ethan. He loves it all!

9. Do you have a nativity scene? A really cheesy one I got for $8.00 at Deseret Book. We've gone through several sets and keep losing pieces, so I'm holding out for a nice one when the kids are a bit older.

10. Mail or email Christmas cards? Mail! Probably my very favorite Christmas tradition...so I'd better get one from anyone who's reading this.

11. Worst Christmas gift you ever received? When I was about six, my brother said he had a fancy gift for me. I unwrapped a beautiful, velvet jewelry box, and opened it anticipating diamond earrings or some other gift so likely from my ten year old brother. Imagine my surprise when a pair of underwear popped out of the box! (At least they had ruffles on the behind.) Still not over it, Doug.

12. Favorite Christmas movie? Mr. Krueger's Christmas. I bawl like a baby every time.

13. When do you start shopping for Christmas? Mid-November. I get about 85% done, and think I'm home free, then remember the last 15% and fly into a panic the week before Christmas.

14. Have you ever recycled a Christmas present? Does putting ruffled undies on one of my stuffed animals count?

15. Favorite thing to eat at Christmas? Sugar cookies with frosting and sprinkles. We rarely make them any other time of the year, and I can eat the dough like it's ice cream.

16. Lights on the tree? Yes. All white and lovely.

17. Favorite Christmas Song? "We Three Kings/God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" medley by BareNaked Ladies and Sarah Maclaughlin.

18. Travel at Christmas or stay home? Home!!

19. Can you name all of Santa's reindeer? ...Dasher, Dancer, Prancer and Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen and Rudolph. Oh, and does "Olive the Other Reindeer" count these days? I read that story to Ethan the other night and realized what a massive ripoff it is of the Rudolph story. She used her nose to "smell" Santa's sleigh home instead of lighting it. Shameless Christmas cash cow, but Ethan loves it.

20. Angel on top of the tree or star? Star. Ours is crooked this year and no number of attempts will straighten it.

21. Open the presents on Christmas Eve or Morning? One on Christmas Eve and the rest Christmas morning.

22. Most annoying thing about this time of year? Un-fun, obligatory parties and the post office.

23. Favorite ornament? The silver snowflake Melissa and Morgan bought us years ago.

24. Favorite for Christmas dinner? My mom's homemade rolls and pumpkin pie. I guess I'm a traditionalist.

25. What do you want for Christmas this year? A new computer and a nap.

Progress

2008-12-16T17:05:00.000-08:00

I am happy to report that last night I transported a hot, creamy chicken dish, hot rice, hot rolls, a large mixed salad, and three plates of heavily frosted sugar cookies to my lovely friends, Ian and Lora , without incident.

No spills, no burns, no frosting on the floor (or brow.) That's progress.

Exposed

2008-12-09T14:44:00.000-08:00

So Derrick and I are driving home on Sunday afternoon from a blissfully child-free weekend in Portland, during which we attended his company Christmas party, took his parents to dinner downtown for his mom's birthday, and capped off the night with a viewing of Australia (that's another post) in a lovely and unique theater called Cinetopia (still, another post). I was enjoying the lazy Sunday drive, chatting with hubby about this and that, when he suddenly turned to me and said, "What is that crap all over your sunglasses?" I drew in a sharp breath--such language from hubby!--and flipped down the passenger mirror. A white, shiny goo was smeared across the entire crown of my gorgeous Nine Wests (yeah, that's all I can afford.) I took off the glasses, murmured and clucked in confusion, then checked my purse for a clue. I found it.

"Oh, it was just a stray Junior Mint," I informed him lightly. I'd opened a box at the theater, then slipped it into my purse, half-eaten. (I believe I was distracted when Hugh Jackman appeared shirtless on his horse.) The unsecured JM had apparently rolled out and smashed into my shades, which then rolled around in my purse, thus producing the frosted brow effect. My husband looked at the glasses, then at me, shook his head, and sputtered (sputtered, I tell you) loudly.

"Just a stray Junior Mint? Just a stray Junior Mint?? Jen, your whole life is a stray Junior Mint!" Although we were both laughing at this point, you may suspect my dear hubby of a bit of nastiness. Before you rush to judgment, however, there are things that you should know. Things that I have kept carefully hoarded and hidden. Until now.

October 2001. Queen Creek, AZ. Our little purple car reeks for a week. We cannot figure out what is causing the smell. While giving it a good interior cleaning one day, Derrick discovers, in a tiny pocket where the trunk meets the backseat, a large wrapped slab of salmon, purchased by yours truly, that has been bathing in its own juices (and the Arizona heat) for seven days and seven nights. Oops! (I added a charmingly girlish smile to this "oops.")

March 2002. Queen Creek, AZ: Our little purple car reeks for a week. We cannot figure out what is causing the smell. One day, upon retrieving his golf bag from the trunk, Derrick is surprised when the shredded remains of a full gallon of milk fall out of the bag. Apparently, I had forgotten to bring the milk in from the store, and it had rolled deep into his golf bag in the trunk, which, of course, explains why it was so darn hard for us to track down that odor. After a week in the 120-degree trunk, it had finally exploded inside of his bag (I mean, a for-real explosion.) Derrick was really happy during the several hours he spent peeling apart and cleaning out the bag. It was an easy, convenient, fun job for him. Oops. (didn't attempt the smile this time.)

August 2004. Kennewick, WA: We are at the famed Benton County Fair on a balmy summer evening when Derrick opens the hatch in the back of the minivan to retrieve Megan's stroller, only to have ten pounds of thawed, rotting ground beef fall onto his feet. (I thought there may have been something I'd forgotten to unload from my Costco run.) Oops.

And my husband does not normally swear. Really.

March 2005. Kennewick, WA: I am filling the basin sink by the washing machine with cold water to soak some onesies that have been violated by my new baby boy. Said boy cries to be nursed just after I turn on the water and, like any good mother, I leave it running to go and oblige. I really meant to go back and turn the water off when the sink was filled. Twenty minutes later, my three-year old walks down the hall and into the living room, where I'm still nursing on the couch, and asks innocently, "Mommy, why are there suds all over the floor?" I look down the hall--the hall covered with brand-new, gorgeous, glossy, dark cherry hardwood--and see a tidal wave of soapy water. It leaked not only into every crack of the hardwood, but into the carpeted hallway and bedrooms beyond. Derrick was extrasuperhappy when the smell of soaked wood and wet carpet greeted him at the front door. Uh...sorry, hon.

December 2008. Kennewick, WA: I generously agree to cook and transport two gigantic foil pans of Cranberry Chicken to the ward Christmas Party. After cooking the chicken, I cover it tightly with foil, making sure to seal each pan. Since there's a good inch and a half of space between the dark red sauce and the top of the pan, I figure that as long as they're tightly sealed, they should be just fine on the floor of the car for the short ride to the church. Derrick is on a business call up until we leave, so I'm rushing to get the kids and the two gigantic foil pans full of dark red sauce out the door. Derrick is still on his cell phone as we pull out of the (inclined) driveway, and is thus still oblivious to the vicious vermin that awaits him. We are all in a good mood, laughing and making merry on our way to the party. I have completely forgotten about the chicken. We park and as Derrick opens the side door to unbuckle Ethan, what meets his eyes and nostrils but an onslaught of the dark red sauce, covering nearly every inch, nook and cranny of our van's lovely gray carpeting. Oozing across the floor, underneath the mud mats, down where the removable seats latch into the floor, out of the opened side door. To his credit, Derrick merely expletes, "JEN!!!", then firmly clenches his jaw. He helps me, the kids, and the dark red sauce into the church, turns back around, and promptly drives off to clean up the mess. He is gone for over an hour, missing all of dinner and most of the program, because: he has to go to the car wash that has a shampoo station, then realizes that he has to go to the ATM to get cash, the store to get change, then back to the car wash/shampoo station. With each stop he makes, he gets extrasuperhappier. To his credit, by the time he returns and I apologize for the ninth time (I'm a whiz with apologies), he seems reasonably at peace with the world. To our credit as a couple, neither of us has mentioned this disaster since. Some wounds are too fresh.

Which brings me to our Sunday drive. The JM episode happened a mere twenty-four hours after the DRS debaucle. And yes, upon further investigation, I found that the single Stray Junior Mint actually represented at least one dozen misplaced mints, all of them melted across my wallet, hand lotion, lipgloss, loose change, receipts, gum, kleenex. An especially naughty mint had even spread itself across Meg's pink plastic Hello Kitty wallet, heavy with $24 dollars of saved-up allowance I'd sworn to preserve and protect. I have spent the better part of this evening scrubbing each item down with soap and an abrasive sponge. My purse is now agitating on gentle cycle; I am now confessing to the world at large.

This has been an emotional but ultimately liberating post. You may think these tales should embarrass me, but little do you know that the real embarrassment is that these kinds of adventures visit our home on a monthly, weekly, sometimes daily basis. Not always as dramatic as those listed above, but always just as annoying. Especially to a certain, highly resilient spouse.

And as usual, dear Derrick was right: My life is akin to a stray Junior Mint. Fairly sweet and seemingly harmless, with a looming disaster just around the next mental lapse. Thank goodness I found a guy who focuses on the Sweet and tolerates the Mental Lapse.

p.s. Sarah, Ashley, and Rachel, you have no business reading this post, you disgustingly responsible, non-forgetful, always on-time supermoms. You shouldn't even be associating with the likes of me (but I'm glad that you do.) And my sisters? Forget it. They belong in the S.A.R. Club. Sisters-in-law? Even worse; they should be co-presidents. My only allie is my dearly devoted mom, who, though not quite as bad as I am, has always sympathized with my "free spirit." Yeah, that's what the two of us like to call it.

Halloween II

2008-11-02T22:54:00.001-08:00

Pretty sure this is a movie. Anyway, as a p.s. to my Halloween post, I just had to steal this irresistable cartoon from my cool friend Sarah's blog. This one's for you, Don.

Halloween

2008-11-02T21:08:00.001-08:00

There was the perusing, the choosing, and then...

There were the pumpkins!

There was a Glamour Witch and an Indian Princess

There was a very convincing Spiderman, who refused to pose for any more pictures after his annoying mother took seventy-five of them at his pre-school party.

(To the left is Spidey's new best friend, Mr. Incredible. Mom's decided she needs to pony up the cash and hook poor Ethan up with some muscles next year.)

There again was Spiderman, defying his desperate mother's plea to pose with the girls. "NO! I don't like pictures!!" was his mantra of the evening. Hence, Mom has not a single photo of all the children together. (The humanity!) He is fully potty-trained, by the way, so rest assured he is not doing what it looks like he's doing here.

There was a visit from Grandma and Grandpa the weekend before,which kicked the spooky season off to a happy start for the kids, and made Dad happy as he relegated pumpkin carving to Grandpa Neal.

There was a swingin' party at Aunt Julie's, followed by a Trunk or Treat at the church, followed by a Costume Parade on the stage, followed by Trick or Treating in a friendly, cheery, Halloween-conducive neighborhood. And, most importantly, there was Sixty-Five Degree Weather all evening, which made Mom euphoric, the children energetic, and our Halloween the happiest one we can remember in many years.

Oh yeah. And there was Candy. Mountains of candy. And parents who were too tired to say no.

Every child's Hallowdream.

(And a dreamy Halloween to you all!)

Hyrum Ray Christensen 1920 - 2008

2008-10-20T22:40:00.000-07:00

No, this is not a movie title--I promise I'll get back to that on my next post. This is the name of my paternal grandfather, who passed away last Thursday. I'd like to talk about him a little bit.

Grandpa Ray and Grandma Lorraine are the parents of ten--yes, ten--children. They spent their lives farming in rural Idaho, working harder than you or I can imagine and earning just enough money to support their large family. Grandpa's faith in the gospel was unwavering, as was his commitment to living it. He left behind no impressive titles, no big money. No advanced degree, no lofty church calling. He'd gained little of what doesn't matter and earned everything that does. At the service, my aunt said that in one generation from now, Grandpa's posterity will likely exceed 500 people. That number will, of course, multiply tenfold in years to come. Today I listened to stories of the warmth, affection, gentle disipline, and tender teaching this man offered his family. He'd given them all that he had, in every capacity. My mind, quite on its own, drifted from the small country chapel to the greater country at large, and the political hysteria that's been racking it in recent months. I thought of the many hopefuls on the local and national levels, and the god-like status they would be flung to upon winning their victories. How loud their acclaim will be, how noisy their triumph. My mind found it's way back into the meeting room, warm with the bodies and breath and tears of Grandpa's descendants. In a few years, five hundred of us will claim his name. Then one thousand...two thousand. I wondered: who is really shaping this nation? And more troubling: who am I allowing to shape me?

Distance is, and always has been, alluring. Most of us yearn to attach ourselves to a cause, or at least a platform, larger and more sophisticated than ourselves, be it intellectual, political or otherwise. Grandpa didn't have this luxury; he had ten mouths to feed. He dealt in realities, and in doing so afforded his children, and their children, the unprecedented opportunity to deal in the abstract. His progeny gets to learn from the safe remove of academic theory and self-imposed virtue about a variety of subjects that may have (probably have) little to do with their real growth and purpose, here and now. Listening to my aunt's life sketch of Grandpa, I cringed to think how often my vertical quest for Self____ (insert noun here: Fulfillment, Progression, Aggrandization, Gratification) precludes me from a horizontal quest to help others. To understand, not influence. To create, not consume. I cringed to think how often I'd been seduced by the allure of the distant rather than thrilled by the immediate, which is all we ever really have. I cringed to think about how, sometimes, I am more passionate about remote issues than I am about the people I claim to be most passionate about.

I once heard a mother of eight compare her life to a white frosted cake. She said, "To the world, my life looks boring and plain. But to me," she then swiped a bit of the frosting and licked it off her finger, "it's rich and sweet and spectacular." I couldn't describe my Grandpa Ray's life any better. Simple to the onlookers, heavenly to the partakers. Rich. Sweet. Spectacular.

The Jane Austen (a.k.a) Relief Society Book Club

2008-10-05T03:20:00.000-07:00

Have you noticed the chest-beating pride we Mormon Women take in our deathless devotion to all things Jane Austen? Kind of annoying, if you ask me (and it's my blog, so you're asking.) Don't get me wrong. I enjoy Jane Austen movies for many reasons: great dialogue, gorgeous scenery, good acting. But I wonder: what's the obsession? Why Jane and only Jane? And when did building an Austen video library become a legitimate example of Provident Living?

Funny how nobody even mentions the books anymore. (I'm chastising myself here. I read Emma a few years ago, and P&P in high school, but that's about it.) I own--and love--a couple of JA movies, but I have aquaintances whom I suspect watch only Jane Austen, be it produced by BBC, A&E, or Paramount. They own any and every Austen DVD available: old versions, new versions, versions based on her novels, versions based on her writing of the novels, versions based on people having book clubs about her novels. Desperate contemporary writers have even published "sequels" to Pride and Prejudice, or Darcy's Story (I swear it exists), telling Mr. Darcy's side of his turbulent romance with Miss Lizzie. And oh...to be Miss Lizzie. Every LDS woman's first(?) and finest fantasy.

C'mon, ladies...haven't we milked this cow dry?

It's just that it's become so predictable. LDS Mom=Jane Austin Devotee. I'm suspecting it has to do with losing ourselves in a world wherein women don't clean bathrooms or change diapers or even do their own hair. A gracious cook announces dinner is served instead of us serving it. Combine these savory morsels with the "clean" factor, and you've got a hit with maxed-out moms. Which is a good thing. Sure.

I'd just like to occasionally enjoy a movie that we haven't all seen seventeen times. I'm understating here; you know you've seen Emma many more times than that. I'd like to watch a good film that occurs in this century and hasn't recycled the same six actors repeatedly to fill the lead roles of it's innumerable re-makes. I'd like studios to produce clean movies, made for grownups, that rival Ms. Austen's wit and storytelling. I'd like to appreciate Jane Austen without only appreciating Jane Austen, as our particular female culture seems bent on doing. Every ward book group I've joined, every ward girls' night I've attended, every conversation about movies among LDS women, the main attraction is always the same: Jane, center stage. Time to think outside the box, I'd say.

This post has really worn me out. I'm gonna make some popcorn, grab a quilt, and pop in Sense and Sensibility. Forget everything I just wrote. Willoughby is hot.

Almost Famous

2008-10-01T10:20:00.000-07:00

A few years ago, the manager of the Welcome Center in our neighborhood asked if they could have my girls pose for some photos to put in their pamphlets, ads, etc. Derrick works closely with the Welcome Center, as his firm does the all the civil engineering for our development, but I know that had nothing to do with this request. I know that my children were needed for their dazzling good looks and me, for my legendary stage-mothering skills. So, here's a glance back to good 'ole 2004 and some of the photos that ended up in the newspaper, Creekstone pamphlets and magazines, and even in some brochures on airplanes. (An old friend called us from the airport, wondering what the heck our kidlets were doing on his flight!) So if you're one of the few people on the continent who haven't seen my child stars yet, here's a bit of what the (highly professional) photo shoot produced when Rache was just five, and Megan, three:

Weren't they sweet? Well, the Welcome Center beckoned us once again this year, and--sigh--once again I consented to having our good looks exploited for no pay. (What can you do when your public needs you?) Picture day just happened to fall on the same day as my half-misery-marathon, so these outfits were pulled out of the closet and not ironed about thirty minutes before shuttertime. Literally, they were the only solid pieces of clothing in my kids' wardrobe, which is why a multitude of us ended up in brown. (It hasn't happened yet, but someday I'll show up in something besides a plain T-shirt for my family portraits.)

Here is another completely candid shot of us frolicking in the clover while sharing secrets and giggles. (A typical Saturday afternoon for our family, of course.)

I imagine these photographs will be splashed across every major magazine in the country, so be watching your Gap ads! The upside is that we can keep these images at no cost. So there's our merrychristmasfromtheSmithfamily photo, free! (I am not kidding. Expect it in December.)

The downside is that looking at the old photos of the girls made me nostalgic and slightly depressed about how fast my family is growing up. I've really been struggling with this lately, as I seem to every September when school starts. President Monson's talk today at General Conference , however, gave me a much needed perspective change. The main goal I'm taking away from Conference this year: to enjoy what I have, today, and not wish my time away on the past or future. To stop trying to do more; rather, keep doing what I am already doing, more happily and gratefully.

I am now opening up the commentary for two answers I hope to receive from all of you:
1. What part of conference inspired you the most?
2. How cute is my family and how much do I look like I haven't aged a bit since you saw me last? (Comments for #2 need be neither truthful nor sincere, obviously.)

I'd better run. Our fifteen minutes of fame are almost up, and I'm gonna make the most of it. Gotta go find someone to do lunch with!

un- "Happy Feet"

2008-09-14T00:25:00.000-07:00

This is a totally unauthorized post by Derrick

This is going to be somewhat personal, a little mushy, and definately a violation of Jen's blogging rules for her site. Sorry Jen!

I had to hack into Jen's Blogger account and post to her site. I want everyone in Jen's blogosphere to know how proud I am of her! This morning Jen finished her first half-marathon. To make this even more amazing, you should know that she injured her foot a couple of weeks ago and has been struggling with some very painful Plantar Fasciitis. She took a break from training two weeks ago, and on Wednesday she went out to test the injury on a run. After a very painful mile, she decided she wasn't going to attempt the half-marathon on Saturday. This REALLY bummed her out, as she had spent the entire summer training for this event.

However, on Friday she decided she would wrap her foot and give it her best shot!

My wife is tough! 13 miles is a LOOOONNNNGGGG way. Rachael, Megan, Ethan, and I decided we would drive the van along the route so we could cheer her on. I was really amazed at how well she did. At the half-way point, she ran up and gave the girls a high-five and a big smile, BUT, I could tell from the look in her face that she was in a lot of pain.

At about 10 miles, she started to show the pain in her face, and I started to worry. She slowed her pace slightly, and dropped back from her running partners. When she passed us at mile 11.5, she had quite the grimace ... both Rachael and Megan both commented that they were worried about her. They were both getting upset ... but she kept going.

She ended up finishing the entire half-marathon without walking. I couldn't believe it ... since she had just planned to start the race, send her training partners off to a good start, and quit after a mile or two.

After the race I helped her to the van. She pulled her shoe off, unwrapped her foot, and exposed a huge protrusion from the bottom middle of her foot. Her fascia tendons were so swollen that it looked like someone had shoved a marble under the skin. It looked really bad ...

I'm so proud of you Jen! You are such a great example to our children! Our two young daugters both saw a different side of their Mom today ...

Way to go!

Love,

Derrick

Reality Bites

2008-08-26T20:43:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking lately about the difference between Bloggereality and, well, reality. I've observed a rather large gap between the two, at least for myself, and--I am hoping--for all of you (if I'm wrong on this, then I really did get the shaft and my life is pitiful compared to everyone else's perfect children, dream vacations, and stunning good looks.) So, though perhaps my own reality doesn't always "bite," it doesn't always smile, either. Case in point: Big, Annual Camping Trip, lots of planning, some of our best friends, perfect location, lots of junk food shopping, lots of packing, lots of excited kids, lots of excited adults. Bloggereality would report that this trip went perfectly, as evidenced by the perfectly posted pictures, but I am here to set the record straight. I learned last weekend that coming down with something akin to Strep Throat, complete with fever, chills and vomiting in a "cabin" (dare we give it that much credit?) with nothing nearby but an outhouse is, in the end, its own brand of adventure. Real adventure, not sissybloggingadventure. You know what I mean.

After a miserable first night, Derrick kindly suggested we pack up and go home, but I had waited all year to hang out with the Shorts and (name the B movie that made this tune famous) Nothin's Gonna Stop Us Now. So I knocked back enough Extra Strength Excedrin to see me through the day. (btw: did you know that Excedrin is loaded with caffeine? I had no idea, but it explains why it made me feel so geeoood.) I pasted on a smile and tried to have fun, and loved Rachel and Jason all the more for forgiving my going to bed at 9 pm and the wet mop personality I surely had all weekend. (How tragic for them to miss out on my usual, fascinating self.) They even allowed me and my germs to eat at the same picnic table with them. Rachel called me today, almost one week later, to kindly ask how I was feeling and wondered: did I find out if it was strep? She just wanted to know because--and please don't feel bad, Jen--every last one of her kids now have what I had, just in time to go back to school. (And I thought being a wet mop was my worst offense.) She wasn't annoyed at all, just hoped I felt better. Do you see why we're still friends?

So. I didn't get to be hyper and goofy with my kids and howl at the moon in the great outdoors, like I'd planned. But...

I did get to go on a horseback ride with Rachael (my daughter) which was about the coolest thing we've ever done together (horses are super pretty and smell good when you're buzzed on Excedrin.)

And on our last day I got to follow the children through the trees to the "secret place" they'd been doggedly hiding from us all weekend, which we parents had to admit was pretty spectacular.

And I got to smell Megan's proud find (think dead. think fish. no. think only fish skin.)

And I got to consume mass quantities of Rachel's sublime homemade-yes-straight-from-her-garden spaghetti sauce, which is the new Bomb in my life (need that recipe, Rache! need you to grow the veggies for me, Rache!) I missed out on canoeing, fishing, and the slip 'n slide (achey body napping in said "cabin")...

but I got to be in the beautiful mountains with my great friends, great family, and great weather. When you've got the essentials covered, even if things aren't blogperfect, they can still be really, really good.

There was dirt, there was a graham cracker, there was chocolate.
That's all we know.

These two hotties got even hotter when they

made us breakfast two days in a row.

Ethan and Max. All weekend. Do not even ask.

Ethan cruelly takes advantage of Mom's illness and realizes lifelong dream of eating nothing but BBQ Lays for two days straight.

For once, when dealing with Ethan, Dad isn't the only horse's as*.

The elusive Secret Place

Clara had to be the sweetest, quietest, happiest baby I'd ever been around. Yes, I am including my own children in this assessment.

We thought it would be a good idea to let the kids spend alot of time unsupervised in this rocky, secluded area that had lots of water and the lingering possibility of bears. Children do need to explore.

Meg wasn't quite old enough to do her own trail ride, like Rache, but she was a good sport about doing a pull ride with her dad. Considering her size, she may just have a future in jockeying.

The dead fishskin find. Still not sure where she found it, how she got it, why she wanted it. Never did get a clear answer on that.

Remember that scene on City Slickers when they talk about their "best day?" I think the day of the trail ride was Rachael's Best Day. She just couldn't stop smiling. I was so happy to be there with her.

Doped up as I was.

Cool Runnings

2008-08-13T14:49:00.000-07:00

I've decided on a B-movie theme for my post titles...I'll see how long I can keep it going.

I am spending the week at my in-laws house in Seaside, Oregon. Laura (my mom-in-law) is wonderful and always insists on watching the kids if I want to go do anything. It's only polite that I take her up on it once in awhile.

So this morning I went for a gloriously long, slow, quiet, solitary run along the beach. For the first time I can remember, the beach was absolutely empty. No people, no dogs. No kids. No cars. No running buddies. No iPod. Just me, the seagulls, the salt-heavy air, and the waves crashing into the velvety Oregon coastline.

There are worse ways to spend a Wednesday morning.

Simple pleasure, perhaps, but too good not to share. Tell me again why we spend money on theme parks?

August Rush (Updated 08/10/08)

2008-08-10T20:03:00.000-07:00

Have any of you seen this movie? If you have: I'm sorry. If you haven't: do NOT be duped by this steamy photo. Run...run far, far away from anywhere it can be found or anyone who tells you to watch it. I will refrain from further analysis here (read: Derrick made me delete what I'd originally written because he said some of you may have liked it, and I was being too rude.) Let's just say that, besides terribly good-looking actors, the only worthwhile thing to come out of this movie is the title, which describes how quickly the last month of summer has come upon us. (I know this is a stretch, but I needed a clever title for my post.) In my grand tradition of shove-it-all-into-one-fat-post blogging, I now offer a randomly ordered recap of some of July's activities:

He did it! The stallion on the mountain.
I got to meet him at the dishonestly titled "Paradise Lodge" (think panel siding, no t.v., and unsettling smell of the great outdoors) when he came down off the mountain, and joined him for a group dinner and program afterward. He received an award for summitting from none other than Dave Hahn, who holds the world record for climbing Mt. Everest the most times. (Can you believe we run in such circles?) It was fun to peek into Derrick's alternate universe; he is in fabulous shape and breezed through it all. I am such the proud wife! Read more about his Mt. Rainier climb here, if you'd like.

Visiting the Portland Children's Museum on our way to Seaside. Have any of you been here with your kids? If not, get here! It's so much fun. Derrick was with us, but for once had the camera. Whenever I see pics of myself, I am reminded why I am always willing to be the photographer, not the subject.

Riding the supercool "train" in downtown Seaside. This is one of many pics I took on our Seaside trip, but out of courtesy to the reader, I will spare you the ninety-some beach/carousel/ice cream/boardwalk photos of my children that I take each time we go, except for this one:

It's just too cute.

We had fun, and celebrated the Fourth of July down on the shore, if by "celebrating" I mean freezing on a windy beach while my sweet, naive husband tried to put on a fireworks show with a $19.95 box of fireworks. We all cheered and clapped, but it was like watching a limping puppy trying to fetch a ball. (You really do get what you pay for.) He saved the longest, thickest firework, labeled "Tower of Power" for the final act, it surely being the fiery climax of the entire extravaganza. You can imagine the look on his face, then, when he opened it only to unroll a large poster of a black cat on a yellow background, with the words "Tower of Power" in thick black letters above. We are still unsure of what this poster meant or why it was there (some kind of sinister practical joke put on by the Forest Service?) but it was a grand finale that truly befitted its show. Rachael then burned her foot on a sparkler, making this the second year in a row that our patriotic escapades at the beach have resulted in personal injury. In spite of all this, I do still love my country.

The only thing Megan wanted for her seventh birthday was a snorkeling kit. If only these inexpensive requests would last...

Ethan's summer (and fall, winter and spring) diet. Parts is parts, I guess.

Celebrating my 35th birthday with the family and, more importantly, a Limited Edition Girl Scout Thin Mint Ice Cream Cake from Dairy Queen. Forget what I said about Chukars; this was the bomb! Most of the fam was out of town, so my dad joined us for dinner and cake (again, Derrick took the photo here.) I received a beautiful watch from Derrick, various pieces of artwork from the girls, and this homemade pinata from Rachael:

She spent hours in her bedroom working on it in secret, then filled it with my favorite candy. As soon as she gave it to me she begged me to break it, but I couldn't bear the thought of smashing her handiwork so we kept it for a week before the big bashing. Whoppers still pack a tasty crunch after being trapped in toilet paper rolls and tissue paper for a week!

I've been doing quite a bit of running this month and thought I'd post about it, but it's hard to take a snapshot of yourself while pounding the pavement. So I found a photo that looks almost exactly the way I look when I run. Different hair color, of course...

July also boasted an exciting visit from Riley (to my kids, she has one name, like Madonna). This was followed by an insanely fun Christensen Family Reunion near--not in--Sun Valley, Idaho (read: we were in the middle of nowhere, in a place affectionately nicknamed the "Armpit of Idaho," with no Demi Moore sightings anywhere). I was having too much fun during this trip to take any decent pictures. Sometimes you gotta live in the moment instead of "capturing" it!

And now, in the interest of full disclosure, I feel that I should inform you of a couple of vices I've acquired this month:

Vice #1: John Adams Miniseries on DVDClear your schedule, rent it, put your kids to bed, watch it. Now.

Vice #2: The Cosby Show

You read that right. We cancelled our extended cable (but not our DVR) because we weren't using it much, but now find that there is absolutely nothing on t.v. when we do want to veg. We came across an old Cosby rerun one day and enjoyed it immensely with the kids. It occurred to us later that nothing was stopping us from recording each episode (two per day!) and watching it late at night, or in the afternoon with kids, or while doing laundry...you get the picture. As the summer wears on, Claire and Cliff are becoming part of the family. One night after a mini-Cosbython, I turned off the t.v. and sighed. "I want to be a Huxtable," I announced. "I want to live in their world." Derrick was quiet for a moment, then replied in all seriousness: "Well, they probably have a housekeeper." This was said in the same way you say "That-perfect-lds-family-down-the-street-must-have-a-housekeeper." Because, you know, the Huxtables are real. We thought about it for awhile. "Yeah," I conceded. "They probably do have a housekeeper." We both felt better knowing that the Huxtables must have some help in running things so smoothly. We know we have a problem. I dare any of you to watch it and not get hooked.

After a busy month, we are now enjoying some easy time at home with swimming, tennis lessons, the Wii, puzzles, the park, and that rascal Elvin's chauvenistic tendencies. We're looking forward to the girls spending an entire week at Grandma's alone (!) and our annual camping trip with the Shorts, which will surely be the highlight of an already fantastic summer. I bought school supplies today with mixed feelings. I have loved spending so much time with my kids this summer. Gratitude overwhelms!

Is it really a holiday?

2008-07-24T21:43:00.000-07:00

I just realized, sitting here alone at 10 pm while Derrick is climbing up heaven-knows-where, that today is Pioneer Day. Gotta admit it: this "holiday" never held alot of interest for me, except for when I was ten years old and my mom sewed me an apron and bonnet so I could walk around Keewaydin Park nineteen times singing, "Pioneer children sang as they walked, and walked, and walked, and walked...and (high note here) waaalked." It was a hundred degrees and despite my sweat and tears, I unjustly lost the costume contest. Determined to win something, I decided next to brave the watermelon eating contest and promptly threw up afterwards. (Do you remember any of this, Sarah? I'm sure you were suffering right by my side.)

At any rate, July 24th usually comes and goes and I am none the wiser for it. Perhaps it's because I live outside of Utah, or that I am pitifully ignorant of any pioneer heritage I may posses (how long can I use the "it's not my season" excuse?), or that July is always a whirlwind of crazybusy in our family, so this peculiar holiday gets quickly squeezed out. Regardless of the reason, I don't think much about Pioneer Day, and I probably should. Tonight, however, I came across an essay (in the form of a devotional address) that made me do so. It was written for people like me who just don't get into the whole Pioneer Day Thing, and the author just happens to be Tessa Santiago, who was my favorite English professor at BYU. So in the interest of having nothing interesting to write today, I think I'll gracefully bow out of my blog and let Dr. Santiago do the work, since she is such a better writer than I, and, let's face it, its no skin off her back. The talk can be found here, and don't be fooled by its dry title. I guarantee a totally satisfying experience.

Happy 24th of July!

Operation Riley

2008-07-12T08:34:00.000-07:00

The sleepless nights, fits of despair, and weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth are finally over: Riley's here! If you are not a Curtis, this post may have little interest for you, but it's big news in the Smith household (and blogging about it gives me an excuse to show off my cute kids.) The girls are having a ball and savoring every minute with their still-best-friend-in-the-world. So far, I think the visit has lived up to expectations:

We started the first day right with Meg's belated birthday party at "Monkey Dooz," the most ridiculously overpriced but worth-every-penny little girls' beauty salon.
They began by dressing up...

Then a careful selection of nail color was agonized over...(do not be fooled by this cheery photo; it took awhile)

Next was the pedicure. (Meg was a little too comfortable in this getup.)

Hair came next. Somehow I think Riley was pleased with hers.

You just don't see coiffs like this anymore!

Paris and Nicole got nothin' on us!

Final results. Move over, JonBenet! The girls partying by the pool, which is how they've spent most of their week (thank you Shannons!) Here they are by the gool 'ole mushroom pool while Meg was in lessons.

Megan won the goofiest costume contest the girls held on the trampoline that night. Riley was her costume designer. We think the puffy undies are what secured the title. Thank you, Heather and Randy, for sharing your cutie with us. We're having such fun! More photos to come soon...

Happy/Sappy

2008-07-01T14:38:00.001-07:00

I've been happy this summer. Very happy. This morning Megan asked me what my favorite thing about summer is, and I was hard-pressed to narrow it down to one thing. But I did manage a Top Ten List of things that I believe are contributing to my current state of immense satisfaction:

1. Not having to drag my kids out of bed in the morning. They are high energy children once they're awake, but getting them awake requires a megaphone and crowbar.

2. Swimming lessons at 11 am. The kids sleep in while I work out, catch up on housework, mail, etc. We get piano and violin done after breakfast, then head down to the pool with a picnic lunch packed for the park afterward. The pool and park are followed by no other scheduled activities for the kids. This single factor may be the sole reason for my summer happiness. So nice to take our time getting the day started.

3. The heat. We had a cold and windy spring, so I'm loving the 95+ temp.

4. Blogging. I've just recently converted, as you know. I used to be anti-blog, now I'm pro-. All you bloggers were right: it is fun. (And narcissistic and self-validating in a slightly pathetic way, but who's asking?)

5. My Young Womens "High Adventure" activity is now safely in the past. I drove six teens in my van, alongside a larger Mormon caravan, to Coeur d'Alene for a weekend of mind-boggling fun. A day at a water/theme park was followed by camping overnight and then a sixteen mile scenic bike ride the next morning. Let me rephrase: we started in the morning, but it was actually midday by the time each valiant youth was on their bike, on the trail, ready to begin. Is anyone out there familiar with the process of camping/eating/packing/driving/wear-your-helmet-and-don't-get-in-a-wreck-or-lost-or-dehydrated-and-two-hours-later-we're-still-waiting-for-one-of-the-beehives that goes into one of these "super" activities? If so, you can imagine my delight upon learning, as we finally approached the trail head to start biking, that due to unseasonable snow, the bottom of the trail could not be reached. Therefore the shuttle, which normally would take us back up the mountain to our cars, could not be boarded. Thus, rather than ride the original sixteen miles downhill as planned, we would have to ride nearly all the way down, then turn around and ride all the way back up. This did not bode well for one of my Mia Maids who thought that white ballet flats would be a good shoe of choice for the ride (I had a splendid time walking her, and our bikes, back up the mountain.)

The planning and execution of this exotic getaway loomed over me for some time, and I can now officially check it off my list. I have so many, um, interesting anecdotes to share about this trip, I really need to splinter off into a new post. Suffice it to say my van reeked of body odor, flatulence and Nacho Cheese Doritos for two days afterward and I've decided that potty-training is actually less disgusting than having teenagers will be.

6. Another camping trip that was actually fun. We met my mom's extended family for a weekend reunion in beautiful Round Lake (again in Northern Idaho--what is up?) and had fun talking, eating, and getting to know each other better. The scenery was breathtaking, and Derrick and I enjoyed a long, mosquito-infested run gazing out at what surely was the setting for the Anne of Green Gables movies. It was that beautiful. A mysterious potluck dinner followed by family lore around the campfire confirmed my formerly vague suspicion that quirky families are, indeed, the best. And even amongst all that nature I managed a bit of shopping. I found this ring at a flea market in Sandpoint:

I thought it was funky and kind of cute. Back at camp, however, my brother-in-law soberly announced that it was "absolutely ugly." I fled to Derrick for his surely dissenting opinion, but he only shrugged and said, "I don't know that much about women's costume jewelry." (I did not take this statement as a good sign.) The womenfolk, however, have assured me of the ring's cutefunkiness, and my little daughters love it. As I have no taste in womens costume jewelry myself, I'll go with my seven and nine-year old's opinions.

7. Celebrating Moogley's seventh birthday. Actually, this should probably cause me unhappiness. We begged and pleaded with her to stay six, and she told us she would if she could, but she didn't know how. We spent the day swimming with friends and cousins, followed up by a three hour trip to the mall, headed by yours truly while Derrick napped with Ethan at home. (Don't worry, honey, your day is coming...scouts will happen sooner than you think.) This kind of outing may sound unfun to some of you, but after my weekend with the Young Women, herding four giggling young girls around Columbia Center was a walk in the park. At least we had clean restrooms, and my girls don't think they know how to solve global warming.

On her seventh birthday

Ain't she sweet?

8. Getting on board. Derrick has been such a great example to me this past year. Concerns over his cholesterol have led him to eating well and working out like crazy, culminating in his Mt. Rainer climb coming up in a few weeks. Although I'm not quite as psychotic--I mean, committed--as he is, I have stepped up my exercise game a bit. I'm getting ready for a half-marathon in October, which is something I've always put off doing far into the future. I ran seven miles yesterday, which may as well have a been a full marathon for me. And it wasn't too bad! I know I'm bragging shamelessly here, but if my blog doesn't care about my health, who does? Of course I haven't lost any weight (that would only happen in a fair world), but I feel great, and the exercise has definitely contributed to my happy factor.

9. Celebrating thirteen years of wonderful. I really mean this. I cannot believe how fast it's gone, how fun it's been, and how you can still be getting to know and falling in love with someone after thirteen years of marriage.

10. Looking forward to more good times. Fourth of July at the beach, Riley (Rachael and Megan's best friend from Utah-!-) coming to visit, my dad's family reunion in Sun Valley, an adults only weekend in Seattle to celebrate my parent's 40th wedding anniversary (Go Mariners! even if you stink this year, we'll be there to cheer you on), helping with Rache's Activity Day Camp, not going on the Wilderness Trek with the Young Women (a great reason to have children) and finishing up the summer on our annual camping trip with the Shorts, this time in cabins (!) complete with horseback riding, canoeing, and a waterslide. Add to all this reading some great books (am loving Rain of Gold), finally seeing Amalie (CleanFlicks version), and having more time to swim/eat/laugh with my kiddos and go to Rite Aid before the movies with my husband, and you see I have the makings of one tasty summer. (And you can also see why I've been so lame about blogging and am trying to recap it all into one, gigantic post.) Happy summer to you all!

It's Beginning to Look Alot Like Christmas...

2008-06-26T08:17:00.000-07:00

Forget Sees Candies, forget Chukar Cherries, forget homemade fudge. For Christmas 2008, Derrick has already decided what each and every one of you is receiving from the Smith family:

That's right: Garlic and Jalapeno Pickled Asparagus. How, you ask? How could a man as unassuming as my husband come up with such a sophisticated, impressive gift? Well, he actually received a jar of pickled asparagus from a co-worker for his 35th birthday. It was meant as a gag gift, but Derrick took one bite of the jalapeno and garlic concoction and was smitten. He ranted and raved for weeks about how delicious the asparagus was, how it would make a great Christmas gift, and please, please, please couldn't I learn how to can something, just this once? (The nerve! My pantry is full of cans...of pop.)

You all know what a doting wife I am, so of course I pulled myself up by my bootstraps and got the job done. My good friend Cara (who will be partially responsible for any damaged relationships due to this gift) was kind enough to help me with--okay, do most of--the work. She is a true canning/cooking whiz and shared some of her talent with me (thank you, Cara!) Will any of the three people reading this blog think less of me if I tell you that this is the first thing I have ever canned? Ever. I've done freezer jam, but the art of canning has eluded me. Until now. The pickled asparagus has given me a shot of heartburn, I mean, confidence, that has me excited to try canning some peaches in August. But don't worry. We won't burden you at Christmastime with sweet, juicy peaches. We know your family is dying for a bite of Derrick's Special Garlic and Jalapeno Asparagus. We'll keep the peaches for ourselves. Happy Holidays!

Rappin' Rodney

2008-06-19T08:30:00.000-07:00

Do any of you remember this song by Rodney Dangerfield, circa 1983? We used to sing it to my dad at the dinner table and thought we were hysterical. Rod was always such a good sport--about everything. So this past week it was fun to honor him for Fathers Day and, more importantly, his 60th birthday! Please forgive the blurry photo--it is a result of my careless photography, not my father's lack of handsomeness, which hasn't diminished a bit over the years! When someone you love has a big b-day, its a nice time to reflect on that person's qualities, and here is a non-inclusive list of my dad's:

kind

funny

warm

compassionate

self-deprecating

intelligent

spiritual

organized

well-read
successful (in his career and otherwise)
faithful (to church and family)

a leader and example in every way

Some may think this list a bit optimistic, but if you know my dad, you know that it barely scratches the surface. Every girl thinks she has the best dad in the world, but I happen to know that mine really is. Happy Birthday, Rappin' Rodney!

p.s. Here is our attempt to take a picture of ourselves. I know...very adolescent, but Rod was a good sport and played along

Tim Russert

2008-06-13T15:16:00.001-07:00

Tim Russert

1950 - 2008

I'm surprised by how sad I am at Tim Russert's sudden passing today. He was my favorite newsperson, and I feel somehow like I just lost an old friend. He always exuded alot of warmth and optimism; very refreshing in the news world. I will miss seeing him on "Meet the Press," especially during this election year. Hats off to him.

Lowlights

2008-06-06T14:51:00.001-07:00

Chukar success aside, it's been a rough week

#1: Rachael, my mother, and I had our Spring Piano Recital on Saturday. Rache and Mom played beautifully, but as for me, can you spell s-l-a-u-g-h-t-e-r? I do this every time. No matter how much I practice or how well I know a piece, I cannot play in front of an audience. This time, not only did my hands shake, but my right leg started shaking as I worked the pedal. Of course, the audience was to my right, so they could easily view my shakiness, which made me shake more. My stage fright used to really upset me, but this time I just took it in stride: slaughtered my piece as expected, enjoyed the rest of the recital, then sampled the refreshment table afterwards. So although I'm still making a fool of myself at recitals, I just don't care too much anymore. Now that's progress. (If you look closely at this photo, which was taken just before my song, you can see that I'm smiling to keep from crying. But aren't Rachael and my mom adorable?)

#2: I'm fighting another spring cold (don't even get me started on the one I had in March)

#3: I gained a pound, probably from gorging on Chukar Cherries (that's a whole other post), but let's just use the 'ole female/retention/cyclical standby.

#4: This fall I have to choose between Obama and McCain. Ugh.

Highlights

2008-06-06T14:40:00.001-07:00

The highlight of my week was managing to swipe an entire case of Chukar Cherries using my trusty five-finger discount. Have any of you out there experienced Chukar Cherries? They are, in a word, the bomb. (How cool do I sound saying that?) They are an overpriced little treasure of our underappreciated little region, and I don't buy them too often. You can imagine my delight, then, upon seeing the bountiful open tins set as a centerpiece on each table at Derrick's Psuedo-Fancy Business Thingy.

My dinner companions and I munched happily on the tasty morsels before, during and after our meal, commenting on their tasty morselness and how it was a shame they were so pricey. I mentioned how, although we'd given them as gifts, we always failed to buy any for ourselves. The lovely lady on my left (who is now my new best friend), said "Don't worry, I won't tell anybody if you stuff some in your purse on the way out." HA HA! I laughed, a little too loudly.

Later, when I came huffing and puffing back into the ballroom after the Cricket Episode (please see previous post), everyone was leaving and I decided to grab one more Chukar for the road. My New Best Friend picked up the tin (which was still pretty full, to my surprise) and forced them on me--forced them, I tell you!--saying, "Here, just take them. What are they going to do with all these? You know they'll just throw them out." I hemmed and hawed for almost three seconds, then swiped them and ran. Derrick and I gorged the entire way home--cricket in one hand, Chukars in the other--and I'm happy to report that no caloric label could be found anywhere on the tin. I assauged my guilt by making him take the rest of them to work the next morning. I'm sure his fifteen employees enjoyed the four cherries we had left over.

Want Fries With That?

2008-06-04T21:31:00.000-07:00

At 9:00 this evening I found myself, in a dress and heels, standing at the counter of Petco ordering One Large Cricket. The boy cashier eyed me skeptically.

"Just one?"

"Just one."

"Large or small?"

"Large. How much are they?"

"Ten cents."

"I'll take it."

The cashier then calmly stated into the loudspeaker, "One large cricket, please. One large cricket." The request echoed throughout the store, reminding me so much of a burger joint, I wondered if you could order by number (Value Meal #1: One large cricket, two small worms and a Coke...) I was impressed when one minute later, a tiny woman emerged from the back of the store through the crowd, delivering the product to me with a big smile. Efficient, that Petco.

As my order was placed over the intercom, laughter erupted in the line. I didn't see what was so funny, until later Derrick explained to me that they sell crickets in bulk for reptiles to eat, so a customer purchasing just one was a bit of a spectacle. Somehow this did not occur to me at the time of purchase. I just assumed Petco sold crickets for one purpose only: every nine-year old girl needed her own cricket named Lucky to take in a jar to school for Insect Day. Why else would they keep thousands of crickets in stock?

The upside of tonight's rather embarrassing display was that it gave me a brief respite from a psuedo-fancy dinner at the Red Lion that was agony. It was one of Derrick's business thingys complete with a two hour program and slide show--need I say more? You've all been to them. At 8:35 I remembered the promised cricket would only be available until 9:00 (when Petco closes) so I had to jump up and run out on the show. I made it to the car and peeled out before the evil speaker could drag me back in with his long cane. Thank you, Lucky!

Frequenting The Finer Establishments; or, I Spent Way Too Much Time At Rite Aid This Weekend

2008-06-02T21:12:00.000-07:00

So you say there's nothing to do in Kennewick? Well, I'll have you know I went to Rite Aid--yes, the old Rite Aid behind Columbia Center Mall--not once, but twice this weekend. I hadn't been in ages, and then suddenly, it was upon me. And oh, was it good.

Friday night found me at a girls night out (yay!) with some friends of mine who work with Derrick and were kind enough to include me in their fun. We started the evening w/dinner (remind me to post later on the female fascination with Applebees appetizers) and then hit "Baby Mama," which was actually pretty funny (I'll give it 3 1/2 stars).

**As I'm typing this, Derrick just shoved his new, fancy shmancy running socks in my face, forcing me to smell them after he took a long run. He exclaimed, "These socks are amazing! Even after I run in them, they smell like they just came out of the dryer!" Smelly or not, I do not appreciated just-ran-in-socks shoved in my face. And please see my last post on the word "amazing."**

Okay. So after Applebee's and before Baby Mama, we wanted treats for the movie, and why should we pay theater prices when we each had a purse large enough to haul in a package of Oreos and a gallon of milk? So we proceeded, and would you believe me if I told you I spent more on candy than I did on dinner? For real.

Saturday came and D. and I headed out for a blessed night alone. Yummy Thai food and some clothes shopping for Derrick left me with a sweet tooth. We wandered through Fuzziwigs in search of something, but I was too cheap to pay the $4.95 for a handful of Runts. We wanted to spend our last hour out browsing Barnes and Noble and I toyed with the option of a gourmet cookie or cake, but again my humble roots kept me from paying four dollars for a Rice Krispie treat. Well, guess what just happens to sit right across the parking lot of B&N?

Oh, the ecstasy! My second trek to the great RA in less than 24 hours, and just as much money spent on junk. We returned to Barnes and Noble with our booty in tow, and I flipped through a book entitled (I'm not kidding here), The Taste of Sweet: Exploring our Relationship with our Favorite Treats. I plopped down in a comfy chair and inhaled a package of Neccos in approximately one minute while I read about our nations obsession with sugar. D. was off browsing his own books, and we reunited just in time to split a Kit Kat before heading home. It was a great night, a great weekend, and good eats at a very good price.

Gripe of the week: It's AMAZING

2008-05-25T15:42:00.000-07:00

What's with the word "amazing" these days? I am so sick of it! Any question I ask about how something looks, tastes, feels, was or, in the case of a person, is, I get the same canned answer: amazing! "It was amazing!" "The food was amazing!" "She is amazing!" The weather for this time of year, your sister's vacation to Hungary, your daughter's first-grade teacher, your new hairstylist's foiling techniqe, the sale at The Children's Place--and, of course, whoever happens to be singing for Paula--all of them, amazing.

I think our love affair with "amazing" must have something to do with our shoddy collective vocabulary (and I certainly include myself in this generalization.) "Amazing" covers it all: nice, good, fun, interesting, exciting, different, competent, even above-average. A mediocre event can even slip into the amazing category on a good day, because the person describing the event may only know one word with which to describe it (that word being the only adjective heard on t.v., especially reality t.v.; the fact that I know this may explain the shoddiness of my own vocabulary). In fact, I set this whole mess squarely on Paula Abdul's shoulders, whom I think should file a patent for the word.

Maybe we should all just 'fess up and substitute "amazing" with "awesome," the Reagan-era equivalent of "amazing." After hearing awesome! in every other sentence, we'd realize how ridiculous we sound doing the same thing with amazing! And we'd realize that when we term everything "amazing," nothing really is.

I've griped now. I feel better.

So much for my new knives

2008-05-21T08:56:00.000-07:00

Curse you, Wusthof!

2008-05-20T21:54:00.000-07:00

With gifts like these, who needs weapons?

Ladies, keep your flowers, candy, and bathrobes - this mom wanted knives for Mother's Day! For the last decade, I've used the same three steak knives to cut everything from bread to roast to packages received in the mail. I've hinted heavily to Derrick about a nice, quality set of knives for Christmas or Mother's Day. My hints always went unacknowledged (as most wives' hints do) and I thought they would be ignored again this year, but Derrick faked me out something good. Upon my Annual Hinting of the Knives, Derrick responded with a raised eyebrow and hinted back to me that my request was a bit expensive for a Mother's Day gift. Now, my hubby's not perfect, but he is usually very generous with gifts for me (which I so appreciate) so I was somewhat taken aback by his response. Very un-Derricklike. I resisted the urge to give him a lengthly lecture on husbandly duties and instead went for the wounded martyr role, which has (sort of) worked for me in the past. "Okay," I meekly replied. "Well then, I could use some new slippers."

Peeking around the kitchen door, however, I saw that Derrick had on his LIE FACE (a sort of smirk/scowl thing that makes him the world's worst liar) and so I knew the game was on. On Mother's Day I opened up not just any 'ole knives, but several pieces of the Wusthof ("voosthoff") collection - much nicer than the knives I'd asked for, and heavily researched, weighed, and measured by my adorable husband. Apparently, these are the only knives that Derrick's Grandma Dollie will slice with. If you know Derrick's Grandma Dollie, you know this is big (she orders her flour from Canada--need I say more?) Derrick delivers again with a perfect, (semi) romantic gift! I'm one lucky lady.

Never Say Never

2008-05-19T14:28:00.000-07:00

That's what I said about starting a blog: never. I thought that starting my own blog would be narcissistic, embarrassing, and all-around boring for anyone else to read. However, I would read others' blogs, and savor every juicy morsel; I just loved hearing about a day in the life of my friends, family, and yes, complete strangers. I finally realized what a parasite I've been - devouring your delish dish while serving up none of my own. So I'm taking my first step into the Great Blogosphere.

I am excited to put my random thoughts and relatively unattractive photos into the great void, and even more eager to hear and see your own. (My six-year old just walked by and told me this last sentence was rude. Of course, I explained, I meant I was excited to hear from you, not that you, or anything about you, was random or unattractive. She's way too smart.)

I'm just figuring out this blogging thing, so forgive the primitive layout and lack of exciting pictures for now (as opposed to the many exciting pictures that will surely be posted in the future??) I'm working on it!

So if you are one of the three people who may be reading this blog, feel free to leave a comment so it looks like I have friends. If you do not know me at all and somehow stumbled upon this blog, feel free leave a comment so it looks like I have friends. Thanks, and happy time wasting--er, I mean, blogging!

My Profile!

2007-06-04T21:55:00.000-07:00

This is my profile.

More coming soon!