A Blog About Hormones. Ohhh, This Should Be Fun.

Basically, us women can blame almost anything on hormones and get away with it.


-Ate a whole jar of nutella in two minutes? pregnant

-Zits the size of radishes? that time of the month

-A bit overzealous? ovulating

-Using questionable adjectives? PMS

-Toots? bloated


If anyone inquires about our odd behavior, all we have to do is point smugly at a calendar and *Bingo* we are UNTOUCHABLE. Hormones are the end-all be all of excuses.


Now that I’m in lactation mode, I’m not sure I have excuse. I’m not pregnant and my body wouldn’t let me get that way even if I wanted to. No cycle, no hormonal eruptions, right?

Last week I was watching Oprah and the Jonas Brothers were on. For those of you who are no longer in the training bra stage of life, let me explain who the Jonas Brothers are. They are the 21st century equivalent of Hansen: three girly-looking teenage brothers with exceptionally bad hair and a following of teeny bopper fans that would make even N’Sync blush (Oprah likened the Jonas Brothers to the Beatles, which I thought was sacrilegious).



Now, I’ve never heard their music and don’t care to (too cool to care), but I do watch Oprah while folding the laundry, and being that they were her featured guests, I watched politely.

On the show, the Jonas Brothers invited two of their “biggest fans” onto the stage with them. The girls were screaming, giggling, weeping, and bouncing, as only thirteen year-old-girls could.

And I sat there, folding socks… and weeping uncontrollably myself. And not just a little. Salty tears and liquid boogers streamed down my face. I was so happy for these girls. I was so touched by the Jonas Brother’s humanity. I was so moved by Oprah for facilitating this event.

Please tell me it was hormones! Please tell me I’m not crazy! Please excuse my weird behavior!

But most of all, please don’t make me listen to the Jonas Brothers sing!

Have you ever done anything odd under the influence (of hormones)?

Poker Face

Don’t laugh, Bethany. Whatever you do, don’t laugh.

“Tsss...”

Hold it in, Woman. Suck it up. Think bad horrible ugly thoughts.

“Tsss heh heh…”

Man slaughter. Puppy mills. Miracle whip.

“Tsss sss sssch…”

Fine. Whatever. Let it out you pitiful excuse for a human being.

“Tsss heh hah ha HAAAAAAAAA!


The above illustration is why I really shouldn’t attempt April Fools spoofs. My poker face looks more like an over-filled water balloon. I rarely make it to the punch line before exploding into hysterics. I give myself away EVERY TIME.

But like a fool, I still attempt little pranks anyway. I have to. Ryan is always getting me good—teasing me ruthlessly, hiding things from me, tickling me. I must retaliate. But I shouldn’t.

Case in Point (A): Ryan is up late watching the playoffs. He thinks I’m already asleep so he tiptoes into the bedroom as to not wake me up. He kneels down and begins saying his prayers. That’s when I get my brilliant idea. I quietly slide his pillow under the covers and underneath my legs. I resume my “sleeping” position.

I try not to think of how hilarious it will be when he lays down and instead of finding his fluffy pillow he will be confronted with the cold and lonely mattress. I try not to picture him roaming around the dark house in search of his pillow. I try not to think of those things.

But I think of those things.

And then the space behind nose gets all tickly. My throat expands and contracts. My chest gets tight with pent-up energy. Oh my heck! It’s coming and can’t be stopped!

“Ahhhhh! Ha ha haaaa!”

Ryan opens one eye and looks at me all perplexed.

“You okay, Buns?” he asks.

“Mmm hmm,” I chortle.

“I was praying, you know,” he says.

I nod reverently.

“Where’s my pillow, Buns?”

I remove his pillow from between my knees and offer it up. I feel kind of dumb. I had jumped into the deep end without my floaties.


Case in Point (B): Ryan and I are both in the kitchen. He is making a protein shake. He turns around for a brief moment to cut up a banana. Now’s my chance. I grab the blender full of frozen strawberries and protein powder and stash it in the cupboard. I look to see if he noticed. Nope. Still slicing the banana.

So I run away. I run into the bedroom and jump into bed. I pull the covers over my body and hide. Maybe if I can’t see him and he can’t see me, I won’t laugh.

But I start shaking. I cup my hands over my mouth to stifle the inevitable “tee hee hee’s”. But I hear his footsteps. He knows where I am. He knows what I did.

“Ahhhhh! Ho Ho Ho! Heeee!”

The covers fly off of my body. I am there. I am laughing. I feel vulnerable.

Ryan pulls out the “tickle finger.” I feel more vulnerable.

And then I get the tickle torture of my life. And I deserved it and I know it. And I’m loving it. And I’m proud of myself. Especially when he asks me where I hid the blender and I won’t tell him.


Did I mention that I have a great life?

Warning: Brush Thoroughly After this Post. Pictures May Cause Cavities.

Let's Talk Idol

I have several nightmares fairly regularly:

1.) The “Oh My Gosh! I forgot to take one of my finals and didn’t actually graduate” dream.

2.) The “My teeth keep falling out” dream

3.) The “Nobody likes me” dream.

4.) The “I’m a contestant on American Idol (and nobody likes me)” dream.


Wasn’t it horrific watching Brooke forget her lyrics on AI on Tuesday! Talk about a real life nightmare!

I take full credit for her not getting eliminated. Well, Meggie might have had something to do with it, too. Even though neither of us had joined in the American Idol democracy before, we made a pact to vote for Brooke. And I did. Four times. We saved her.

True, Brooke is not the most talented contestant. She pulls weird faces when she sings and isn’t always in tune. But I love her. She makes modest look cool. She is kind. And she is a great musician. Wouldn’t it be great if there was a musician that little girls could really look up to? America is thirsty for celebrities on good behavior. That’s probably why Brooke is still around.

I’m especially glad Brooke didn’t get voted off last night because she would’ve been haunted for all eternity about her little flub. She needs one more chance to shine and then she can go in peace.

As for the winner... David or David. I’d be happy either way.

While I am shamelessly addicted to American Idol this season, I won’t be sad when it’s over. Then So You Think You Can Dance is on and it is THE BEST SHOW IN THE WORLD.

Then maybe my “American Idol (and nobody likes me)” dreams will go away. I’ve never had a So You Think You Can Dance nightmare.

Speaking of good shows… new Greys, Office, and LOST are on tonight. I am giddy.

And yes, I’m aware that my brain is going to rot right out of my head.

Computer Fix

Miss me? Oh, not as much as I missed you.

Last night I couldn't sleep. I was wide awake till 3:00. Thinking. Planning. Typing on an air keyboard. Gazing into a vegetable computer screen.

Computer withdrawals. Have you been there?

On Friday, I was five minutes away from throwing my computer into the oven and turning the knob to broil. My painfully slow computer deserved a slow painful death.

Enter Megan Brady. She is the person you call if you need a babysitter or a primary class substitute. She is the person you call if you need to borrow something. She is the person you call if you need a kidney. SHE WILL SAY YES. I hope I will be like her when I grow up.

Anyhow, she volunteered her husband (Thanks Blake) to zap all the spyware on our hard drive. And then she volunteered to babysit Doug while Ryan and I participated in a youth fireside. Don't you wish you had a Megan Brady (much better the a Sven, if you ask me)?

I am so grateful, so relieved, to have a computer that works and does so in a timely manner. Phew. I can finally get my Internet fix.

People.com
CNN.com
Facebook
Blogger
Hotmail

Computer morphine. Mmmmm. I feel better. *twitch twitch, scratch scratch.*

Sealed with a...

Do you think that kissing is an instinct or a learned behavior?

I sometimes think it’s a learned behavior. In fact, I might wager that kissing didn’t come into play until baking soda was invented. Can you imagine the morning breath of someone who had gone 35 years with out any sense of dental hygiene? I wouldn’t care how much they resembled Jake Gyllenhaal. Nooooo thank you.

I use to think that all you had to do to make a baby was kiss a boy with your belly buttons touching. Now that I understand that kissing is not necessary (although recommended) for such a procedure, I realize that Adam and Eve may have never experienced a good hearty make-out session.

So, under the hypothesis that kissing is a learned behavior, how do you thing us human beings figured it out? Kissing I mean. I surely wouldn’t have thought of it on my own:

“Geez, I love him so much that I’d love to share all of the fluids in my mouth with him while concurrently making interesting squishy smacking noises with my lips.”

It would’ve had to have been an accident. Like two people bobbing for the same apple and latching on to each other instead. Then they realized that each other tasted much better than that blasted apple anyway. The rest was history.

Then again, sometimes I’m pretty sure kissing is an instinct. Especially when I’m around Kiana. I can’t control myself. By days end, every inch of that baby girl’s face has been kissed twice over. Actually, I love her so much that my first instinct would be to eat her. Kissing her is just the next best alternative.

Whether in the heat of passion or the pureness of a mother’s love for child, I’m glad kissing is around. It’s a bloomin’ brilliant way to express your self when words just aren’t doing the trick. Don’t know, don’t care how the kiss came to be. I’m just glad it is.

To Grandma on her Birthday

I dedicate my first "poop in the potty" EVER to you, Grandma Adie. May all of your birthday wishes come true.

Love,
Doug

Hair

No matter where the conversation begins, it usually ends with hair.

“Blah blah blah…Iraq?”
“I agree, but blah blah blah…ponytail.”

Yep, that’s pretty much how goes with the Robinson/Hall girls. One can not place too much emphasis on the importance of hair. Want proof? Look at my mom’s arsenal of hair products. And notice all of the round brushes I use to create one hair-do.



They may look similar, but believe me, each one serves an independent and extremely important function.

Perhaps the most damning piece of evidence in our hair obsession case is this:



SIERRA.

I was beloved and special until my sister Sierra spouted her first curl. Then, all of the sudden, I was demoted to house elf. Sierra was the favorite. I would be angry, but who could have bad feelings toward a person whose hair could do this one day:



And this the next:



Oh and this:



Not may people know this about Sierra, but she is paying her way through college by charging people for the opportunity to run their fingers through her hair. I should know. I’ve already forked out a semester worth of groceries so that I could brush her beauteous mane for an hour. Might I add that it was worth every penny.

Now that you understand the importance that a Robinson woman places on hair, visualize the stir Kiana caused when she was born like this:


Bald.

Good thing the Robinson women are crafty. I now have a “hair support” drawer containing everything (short of Rogaine) that a bald little girl could use. Most of the ribbons and hats were supplied or hand made by my dear mother.



This month has been a good one for Kiana’s scalp, though. It began with the growth of one hair (only discernable in the sunlight). But soon other little hairs followed suit. Although I can’t yet articulate the color of Kiana’s hair, her head has become a glorious crown of fuzz. I happily pet her fluffy little scalp everyday. Doug even joined in the fun yesterday.

Go Kiana!


P.S. Sierra is not really the favorite. I am the favorite. I will always be the favorite.

The Grand Elliptathon 2008

Okay, so I add one more thing to my “envy” list.

I envy you if you can run marathons. I want to run a marathon. I have the desire. I have the will-power. But I just don’t have the knees.

My friends Heather and Jenelle are signed up for the St. George marathon. My BFF Dana just told me that she is training for the half marathon. I am so proud of them but…

uhnch!

I want to run one too!

So I’ve decided. I’m running an elliptathon. 26 miles on the elliptical trainer. Ryan is joining me in this conquest. We will be training for the next month and a half and running the elliptathon side by side by the first of June. I realize that an elliptathon is nowhere near the beast that a real marathon is, but an accomplishment nonetheless. Do you want to run an elliptathon, too?

Rolly Pollie

My sixth-grade teacher, Mrs. Leonard, always got peeved if we called them "potato bugs." We could call them sow bugs, woodlice, pill bugs, terrestrial isopods, or rolly pollies. But if we so much as sneezed the word “potato bug” Mrs. L. would start twitching and write our name on the board.

My education on potato bugs began long before my sixth grade Crustacean unit, however. I researched them at age three—collecting them by the dozen, coaxing them into balls, flicking them across the room like marbles. I even remember holding one while it gave birth—little gray pellets being deposited onto my hand as the mother strolled nonchalantly across my palm (if only human labor were that simple).

At five, I took my research to a whole new level. I remember my dad laughing/vomiting in his mouth as he tweezed a squished potato bug from the upper cavity of my nostril. Getting the potato bug “stuck” was (thus far) the most romantic thing that had ever happened in my life.

Douglas is now learning the joys of potato bugs himself. He gets so riled–up when ever he sees a “tay-toe bug” stroll across our patio. He lays on his stomach and examines the isopod up close. He engages the bug in conversation.

“Hi Mr. Tay-toe Bug, I’m Doug. Guess what! Mom gave me fruit snackies today. Yeah, they were pretty good… except for the purple ones. Mom always eats my purple fruit snackies before I get to them. I don’t even know what the purple ones taste like.

“Yeah, I’m talking about YOU, Mom. Whatcha gonna do about it?

“Oops! I din't mean to scare you Little Tay-toe (pat pat). So what’s your favorite color of fruit snackie? I bet you like orange. Or blue. You could be the blue-sort.

“Well, its been great talking with you, Mr. Tay-toe bug. Now you must DIE.”

Squish.

Adventures in Dougland (The Gooka)

Meet Doug’s “gooka."


Doug has made it clear time and time again that no sleep will be occurring unless his beloved blanket is somewhere in the mix.

The gooka has been washed so many times that sleeping with steel wool would seem a comfortable alternative. This is of no consequence to Doug. He loves that gooka.

Grandma Aidy crocheted Doug a replacement gooka, identical in size and color, just infinitely softer. Doug was not fooled when we swapped blankets. Instead of snuggling with the imposter, he began eating it… strand by strand (I found little blue fluffs in his diaper for weeks).


“Why did he eat the blanket” you may ask. Well, I’ll tell you. For the very same reason he licked the television screen or combed peach yogurt through his hair: just because.

So we returned the only true gooka to its owner.


Before we go to bed each night, we tiptoe into Doug’s room to give the sleeping boy a goodnight kiss. For the last few weeks this is what we found in his bed:



Don’t be alarmed. It is not a headless toddler. Doug’s head is wrapped beneath layers and layers of gooka. Either Doug thinks he is a tootsie pop or the gooka has become a more advanced form of sleeping mask. Either way, we slowly unwrap Doug’s head and tuck the blanket in his arms. He can’t sleep without his gooka, after all.

General Conference Weekend

General Conference weekend is so great; it’s a gentle nudge inspiring me to do and be just a little better.

For those of you who may read my blog and aren’t LDS, General Conference is when the leaders of the Mormon Church broadcast sermons (talks) to reiterate our beliefs and encourage us to be our best. It is an excellent opportunity to hear the words of a living prophet and the apostles. Our current prophet is President Thomas S.Monson.

Mormons worship God the Father and His son, Jesus Christ. We believe that the prophet, just like biblical prophets in times of old, is in direct communication with God. He is able to receive revelation and guide the members of the church. He is a mouth-piece of the Lord. We do not worship our prophet, but we do honor him and look to him for guidance.

For more information, visit LDS.org.

This conference, I particularly loved Elder Oaks talk on testimony. I don’t bare my testimony often. I feel shy about it. I don’t want my testimony to be compared to anyone else’s. Often, when I try to express it out loud, I trip over my words.

Nonetheless, I feel inspired to share my testimony.

I am a disciple of Jesus Christ and a member if His church. Jesus walked upon this earth and atoned for the world’s sins. I love my Savior and know that it is only through him and his sacrifice that I can have eternal life.

I feel my Savior’s love as I look at the beautiful world around me, as I breathe the air, as I contemplate the miracle of life, as I listen to music, read literature, go on hikes, and enjoy art. God is everywhere and when I acknowledge his presence, life is a joyous place to be.

I have a testimony of prayer. I know that the Lord hears me as I bow my head and plead with him on my own and my family’s behalf. I have received answers to my prayers. I have received comfort and forgiveness time and time again.

I have a testimony of families. I know that if I live well, I can be with my family for time and all eternity. Nothing gives me more happiness then that.

All of these things I believe. My testimony defines me.

Spider Season has Arrived.

The spider was a pervert.

I stepped out of the bathtub and there it was, gawking at me with its eight filthy eyeballs. It was blocking my access to the towels.

“Neither can live while the other survives..." I thought to myself.

I skittered out of the bathroom and into the bedroom where Ryan was in the midst of a deep REM cycle (it was the middle of the night). I wiggled his big toe.

“Pooh Bear?” I said timidly.

Snore.

“Ahem… Pooh Bear?” I shook with a little more gusto.

Snore.

“Pooh Bear!!!!” Ryan gasped and rocketed to an upright position.

“Uh, Babe, there’s a perverted spider in the bathroom,” I said.

Ryan looked at me. I was bare naked and dripping wet. “Are you serious?” he asked.

“Uh huh. It's blocking the towels,” I said.

Ryan got up and stumbled to the bathroom. He squished the grape-sized spider in a tissue and flushed it down the toilet. Satisfied, I grabbed my towel.

“While you’re up, there’s another spider under the cup by the bathtub.” This particular spider had repelled from the ceiling during my bath and upon landing on the bathroom floor was immediately caged beneath the cup.

Ryan took care of the other spider and went back to bed.

I joined him a few minutes later. “Thank you, Ryan,” I whispered as I pulled the sheets up to my chin.

Ryan leaned over and kissed my cheek. “It’s my job to get the spiders,” he said.

So I ironed all of his shirts today.

Referrals

Are you a blog stalker? Do you read someones blog daily, not because you know them or are related to them, but because their blog is genuinely awesome . Who is it? Cuz I want to read their blog, too!