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.)

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.






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.
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.


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.

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??)

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.

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.

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!

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: