...and then some

If We Had a Christmas Card...

2011-12-21T18:10:00.000-08:00

...the picture on the front would look something like this:

And just so you could see how cute and trendy we Lee people are, the photograph would be framed by some sort of cool modern pattern, like IKAT or Chevron (in mustard yellow of course). This Christmas card would truly depict how laid-back our family is, how together we have it. You might even be overwhelmed by our perfection.

A more accurate depiction of our family, however, would actually look something like this:

Me, looking shell-shocked, my children, adorable as ever, but rarely with brushed hair and washed faces, and Ryan, far far away in a distant land.

This year has been one of the craziest of our lives, but we have received so many blessings: Doug's successful open-heart surgery, the news of a joey in the pouch, a new job, new investment properties, THREE of our siblings getting hitched, and so much more. We have learned so much this year and grown closer to each other and, most importantly, to our Savior. He has held our hands through these crazy times and we owe Him everything.

This upcoming year looks promising and hopefully a bit more contained. After three months of being apart, we will be finally joining Ryan in Denver--oh, we have missed him! Then, in February we will be welcoming a new baby into our family. His name will be Desmond, and if he is anything like our other kids, he will be spectacular. Then we'll find ourselves a new home (we'll be staying with my folks till then), and then our lives will be simple and trial-free forevermore (keep your fingers crossed).

So, if we had a Christmas card, that would pretty much be what it would say. But we don't have one this year, so this blog post will have to do. Merry Christmas, you wonderful people, you. We wish you the happiest of seasons and best 2012 possible.

Fall Pictures That Warm My Soul (in no particular order)

2011-12-14T18:30:00.000-08:00

Bella and Me (and Edward and Ryan)

2011-11-28T19:50:00.000-08:00

The audience at Breaking Dawn Part 1 could be divided into two categories. First, there were those who laughed hysterically at all of the ludicrous parts. Second, there were those who wished death on the people who laughed hysterically at all of the ludicrous parts. While I belonged to the former group (and am still finding tomato seeds and other rotten vegetables in my hair), I found myself relating to the movie in a very strange way.

Remember when Bella drank human blood to satiate her half-vampire fetus? Well…the other day Ryan and I stopped at a gas station for drinks. I strolled the aisles looking for something, anything, that sounded good. Nothing did. Not the juices, not the sodas, even the thought of bottled water made me nauseous.

Feeling the impatient jabs of the hungry baby inside of me, I crossed my fingers and settled on a jug of whole milk. As I was accustomed to skim milk, the creamy consistency tasted positively decadent. It coated my throat and my teeth. It both warmed and chilled my stomach.

“This tastes… good,” I said to Ryan, surprised that it was milk, of all beverages, that did the trick.

And then it hit me. Of course! It was so obvious now that I thought of it: the muffled mooing sounds I heard at night, the strange hoof-shaped bruises on my abdomen. I was not pregnant with a normal human fetus, as I’d originally thought. No, this baby was different. Special. This child was obviously half human, half bovine.

What this says about Ryan, I can’t say. All I know is that I polished off the entire jug of milk within 30 seconds.

But seriously now. I felt an honest tenderness toward Edward and Bella the entire movie. I connected to their conflicting and evolving feelings about the human/vampire pregnancy.

When Ryan and I were discussing having another child, Ryan expressed many concerns about my health. My last pregnancies were difficult and I had a horrendous health scare after delivering Kiana. I assured Ryan that my body could handle one more baby and that there was nothing to worry about. When I finally did get pregnant, however, I instantly went into full panic/vomit mode. Thus began what I refer to as my own personal “terrible awful.”

Going through what I went through, and go through, is hard. But I know that Ryan suffers beside me. I’ve seen that horrified expression on his face, the one Edward had as he watched Bella shrivel in pain (although I still feel like my pregnancy has been worse than hers. Sure, her baby was eating her from the inside-out, but at least Bella didn’t have an anxiety disorder).

Even though I have moved passed the whole “I wish I never got pregnant” business, sometimes I feel like I am responsible for our trials. I feel guilty about being sick. Ryan is running a marathon—caring for two children and a partially insane woman, watching that woman cry, providing, back-rubbing, worrying, praying, erranding, cleaning, traveling, doing, going, being—while sometimes it is all I can do just to get out of bed in the morning.

But marriage is like that. Sometimes one partner has to fight the werewolves while the other lies helplessly on the couch. Both roles are difficult. Ryan has carried me through this hard time, but it also takes strength for me to allow myself to be carried. I am learning how to balance my emotions and needs so that being carried is even possible. I am learning about perseverance. Most importantly, I am learning about gratitude, for I am blessed beyond belief in a spouse who loves and supports me through my ups and downs. My own personal vegetarian vampire.

Battling the Beast

2011-11-15T18:07:00.000-08:00

Holy cow. From the intensity of my last post and the gap between then and now, you must think that I am either dead or institutionalized.

Fear not, my internet friends; I am alive and kicking—although sometimes it feels more like kicking and screaming. This anxiety and depression stuff is hard core. It is the biggest battle of my life. At times I feel completely lost and defeated, wondering if I have enough faith and stamina to make it through. I miss myself. I miss my laugh and my sense of reason. I miss being able to wear mascara, knowing it will not spend the day running down my cheeks and merging with a stream of boogers.

Other times (on my good days), however, I understand that this adversity is actually a monumental blessing. I have opportunity for growth, here. Lucky me!

The trick of it is accepting what is and finding joy and peace despite my struggles. This is harder than how it sounds. My brain can be telling me all sorts of rational, soothing things. Meanwhile, my body is telling me that I am in danger and that I am dying. On any given day I have enough adrenaline coursing through my veins to fuel a rocket ship to the moon. Trying to find joy while internalizing my imminent death is difficult.

But possible.

I am in the process of reclaiming myself. I have felt prompted, time and time again, that writing is an important tool (one of many) for my healing. Today I feel like obeying that prompting. I cannot promise consistency, I can only give what I have and some days I don’t have much, but I can promise honesty. And humor. And good stories. I’ll see you when I see you.

Anxiety Sucks

2011-06-24T10:11:00.000-07:00

Maybe the hardest week of my life. I do not write this for sympathy, but write in hopes that your prayers will be with me. I am not ashamed of what I am going through.

My pregnancy illness has evolved into sleepless nights, constant anxiety, and horrendous panic attacks. I spend each night awake shaking, throwing up, and feeling hopeless. I understand these feelings are created by myself (okay, and hormones) and I tell myself over and over that the anxiety cannot last forever. Right now, however, the anxiety feels bigger than me.

Here’s what my anxiety is telling me:

-You have ruined you and your family's lives by getting pregnant.
-You are selfish for medicating yourself while carrying a child.
-Your medications are never going to start working.
-You will never have a restful night ever again.
-This child is not worth it.

Anxiety is dramatic, isn’t it?

As I write this, my legs are shaking and I want to cry. I am willing myself to cry, but the tears are lodged as tightly as the air is lodged my chest.

It is now important to write about how I am blessed, because despite what I am going through, I know that my life is one of rare beauty and happiness. While it is hard to fully enjoy these blessings right now, I can certainly appreciate them.

-I have the most wonderful husband in the world. Heavenly Father created us for each other. Ryan is carrying me through this trial. Carrying me with courage, and understanding, and selflessness. I love him more than anything in the world. I love him so much. (Oh, the tears. They come now. They feel good).
-My children are lovely. They are good and happy, and so cute. If this next baby is anything like them, this suffering will be just a drop in the bucket.
-I am thankful for myself. Deep down inside, I am strong and I can get through this. I am a fun, loving, beautiful woman. I am not my anxiety.
-I am thankful for my family and all those who have rallied around me during this struggle. I have a hard time accepting service, but will do so now with gratitude and humility. Thank you.
-I am thankful for my Savior. He knows this pain. He will sustain me through this.

Here We Go

2011-06-17T14:37:00.000-07:00

Despite the rules, I called a lot of people last week.

Me: “Guess what? I am pregnant!”
Them: “What! That’s great. How far along are you?”
Me: “Oh… about three and a half minutes.”
Them: “That far, eh?

It’s not that I have delayed gratification problems (although I do), it’s that I wanted to get the word out while I was still excited. I knew that those happy feelings would soon be replaced by what I am feeling right now and will continue to feel throughout my entire pregnancy:

DOOM.

I woke up in the middle of the night wrapped in the heavy blanket of morning sickness. I will be gripped in it, squeezed by it, for the next nine months. And, even though I am surrounded by people who love me and will help me, I feel so alone. I feel angry at my body for behaving this way. I feel guilty and selfish knowing that while I have to carry this sickness, my husband will have to carry everything else.

I take heart in knowing that this too shall pass, and in the end it will be worth it, but nothing can change the fact that this journey will be grueling.

I am so scared.

Green and Pink Girl Room

2011-03-13T21:19:00.000-07:00

This room, this boring, green, lackluster room, has been my three-year-old daughter's reality for the past two years.
I sent Studio Five a photo of her bedroom hoping that they'd consider her for their "bedroom makeover" segment. Unfortunately, Teenie doesn't have cancer or any of the other typical ailments that seem to qualify one for a bedroom makeover (although I did mention in the letter, with fingers crossed, her vertical impairment. No one at KSL cared. Trolls.).

So with a budget of only $250, I set out myself to give my little girl a complete bedroom makeover. I wanted to celebrate her "Tinkerbell-ness" without being too literal. Here's how it went down...

First step, new furniture. Our next door neighbors gave us this awesome, solid wood dresser.
And I hunted down this cute sleigh bed on ksl.com for $150, mattresses included.
Then I painted, painted and painted. The cub helped me with some of the details that women simply can't do with out a man's help. Good gracious me, what would I ever do without him?
Then came the bedding. I saw this gorgeous bedding from the Land of Nod, which I couldn't afford, but found something similar and almost as cute at Home Goods. I spent less than $65 for ALL of the bedding.
And I fashioned some rosettes onto a white pillow that I already had.
This is how the dresser came out. I used a free quatrefoil stencil from here.
Almost out of money, I had to get creative with the wall art (it's hard to tell, but this dresser is gigantic and needed something gigantic above it). I ended up finding a bunch of ugly old frames in the basement and spray painting them white. Then I found some cute fabric and, tah-da, ART! Only $30 for the whole project.

A few knick-knacks gave this room the perfect finishing touches: a silhouette made by my sister, Kristy, an antique bird, and statuette that happens to look JUST LIKE my daughter,
A Tinkerbell kitchen from Nana and Gampa.
And cute artwork by my friend Sarah.
I have a few more touches to add to this green and pink girl room (for me, there is no such thing as a finished project), but Teenie is thrilled by her new bedroom. But probably not as thrilled as I am!

How it Began

2011-01-20T14:36:00.000-08:00

When I was pregnant with Doug, the ultrasound technician slipped out of the exam room and quickly returned with the physician, who took charge of the ultrasound wand with a concerned furl to her brow. Ryan and I were soon informed that the baby’s heart didn’t look quite right. No one explained what the repercussions of a heart with only three chambers might be, but the gravity of the problem wasn’t lost on us. I remember all of the “what ifs…” that circled my brain, but never touched my tongue out of horror that the scenarios might actually come true. What if this child will be disabled for life? What if he needs a heart transplant? What if he doesn’t… make it?

The next day we got a second ultrasound with similar findings and were sent to a hospital in Dallas for a fetal echocardiogram. To our relief, the cardiologist was able to locate all four of the chambers and told us that baby Douglas looked healthy as could be. We asked the cardiologist about the funky ultrasounds and he shrugged. “Maybe the way your fetus was positioned hid one of the ventricles from view.”

I have a different hypothesis.

Doug was born a healthy, hearty 8.2 pounds, but the doctor thought it best that we do an echocardiogram just to back the cardiologist’s findings. That’s when we found the holes.

The doctor said they were small and would likely fill in on their own, but I needed to visit a cardiologist when Douglas turned four. As we moved from place to place, Douglas switched pediatricians several times before his fourth birthday, none of them noticing the faint murmur that must have been present. This past year, remembering the instructions I was given when Douglas was born, I took Doug to a cardiologist to make sure the holes had closed up. Instead, we learned that the holes were bigger than we’d originally thought and, without repair, Douglas would not survive past thirty-five. Doug’s heart had already started to swell and the only way to fix the problem was open-heart surgery.

I believe that we would not have known about holes in Doug’s heart had it not been for the ultrasound scare we had while I was pregnant. Surely we would have found out later in his life when problems became more evident, more serious. But Heavenly Father wanted to give us the heads-up, even if He had to scare the boogers out of us to make it happen. Heavenly Father can be tricky like that sometimes.

Because Douglas was able to get this surgery early in life, his recovery was quick and—if you saw him today, one week later, you would agree—miraculous.

Utah Pride

2011-01-07T15:11:00.001-08:00

People told me not to do it. They said it was "Utah Hair."

Well guess what? I like Utah. And I like Utah hair.

So here it is, Kiana's haircut (and this time, not at the hands of her naughty big brother.)

A-lined and stacked in back. Just so you know, we condition her hair in green jello because that's what people from Utah do.

And here is Doug. He is five today. I love him.

Birfday Girl

2010-12-28T18:22:00.001-08:00

Today the teenie koala turned three! She celebrated by choosing her outfit (she was a lady bug),

receiving lots of snuggles from Mom and Dad,

getting totally awesome presents,

sleeping in a brand new big girl bed,
and, her favorite part of all, carrying around balloons, all day!

My you are loved, sweet girl! Happy birthday!

Flexin' My Crafty Muscles

2010-12-03T21:44:00.001-08:00

I fell in love with this 3D Solar System from Pottery Barn Kids. It would be perfect for the cub, who loves all things science. Unfortunately, the product was discontinued, and let's face it, who would pay $70 for a few balls of plastic any way? Pshah!

So I made, yes made, this. Myself.
Granted, it looks like a junior high science project, but may I mention that it is HUGE? Twice the size of the Pottery Barn business. AND it was made with love.

After I was finished, I had Ryan hang it up. Doug thanked HIM for making the wonderful Solar System Whaaa!?

My Table

2010-11-30T12:26:00.000-08:00

Was your Thanksgiving as lovely as mine? I hope so! This year I hosted the holiday at my house. If anything will make you feel like a bona fide adult, pulling a steaming turkey from the over would be it.

And if anything will make you feel like a bona fide Mormon, sewing your own table runner and napkins would be it.

Humor me as I show off my cute Thanksgiving table:

And humor me as I show off the kids table. The cub set it all by himself and, boy, was he proud.

2010-11-13T12:17:00.000-08:00

Just finished refurbishing my grandpa's old oak dresser for Doug. You like?

Hair Triumph

2010-11-12T18:18:00.001-08:00

The Party "Architect"

2010-11-07T16:34:00.001-08:00

My parties may not be the most exciting, but I'll be darned if they don't look great. Designing the look, feel, and taste of the party brings me so much pleasure!
Here's the tablescape for this year's annual Lee Halloween Party.

And the traditional caramel apples (thanks for the labels, Tic!). I admit, these apples weren't all that tasty, but they made darling party favors.

I made almost all of the decorations myself. Spending money for Halloween decorations (of all holidays!) is downright ludicrous.

Outside we had more headstones with sayings like "Jeremy Blake...stepped on the gas instead of the brake" or "I may be dead, but you're ugly."

And here's some of our fabulous party guests.

Ryan is an I-pod touch. Keep your hands off his apps, ladies, they're all mine!

And here's the cutest trick-or-treaters in the neighborhood.

Let the Training Begin!

2010-09-28T14:08:00.000-07:00

Pull Out the Sweaters; It's Autumn Time!

2010-09-27T11:35:00.000-07:00

To School We Go!

2010-09-17T09:22:00.000-07:00

Here's my proud little cub on his first day of preschool.

Boy, he was excited!

And in the spirit of Nie (do you love her as much as I love her?), we had a back-to-school feast! This included crowns, pizza, cupcakes, and a father's blessing.

This Mama Bear loves her big preschool boy!

My Latest Project

2010-09-09T14:38:00.000-07:00

S'pose it's time for a new post. If anything, just to get that pesky swear out of view every time you enter my blog (not that I mind an occasional pesky swear. But you might).

This desk was passed down to me from my aunt. My dad refinished it for her years ago--lovingly scraping off layers of paint and staining the solid oak a warm brown...

... only to have the desk doused in more layers of paint once I got my crafty little hands on it. But as you'd agree, this desk needed a little pick-me-up. It was time.

Ta da! So cute in the cub's room, is it not?

I laugh a little bit every time paint furniture, make it look lovely, and then pull out the sandpaper to distress the crap out of it. It feels so wrong, but looks so right!

And just because he's a great kid, here's also a picture of the cub:

Coupon Insanity and Food Storage

2010-08-25T15:14:00.000-07:00

Smith's, my favorite place ever, has a monthly promotion where they round your coupons up to a dollar. This is a big deal because, if you play your cards right, you can get tons of free, or nearly free, items.

Here's what I got for FREE today:
8 Yoplait Greek Yogurts
4 toothbrushes
4 toothpastes
4 Weber Seasoning Packets
1 Dial Handsoap

Everything else pictured was $.25-$1.00, except for the milk and cheeses (which were still on sale for well under $2). Plus I got some gourmet pita bread which, at $3.50, truly felt like a splurge.

All of these items rang up at $186 but after my coupons and fvc, the total came to $86. Not bad, eh?

Now most of this stuff I'll either freeze or run downstairs to food storage. I know our food storage doesn't look like much now, but I was able to get all this stuff without paying more than my usual grocery bill.
I just started this collection six month ago. I put it off forever because I never felt like we had enough money to spare (with babies, houses, and surprise expenses). Food storage is one EXPENSIVE commandment. I love couponing because I can still be obedient without breaking the bank.

Plus, there's that added benefit of having a supply in case there's an emergency. Oh, that too.

Me and My Llama...

2010-08-23T22:05:00.000-07:00

I have a confession to make. I hope you still like me afterwards. I hope I don’t totally repulse you. But here it is: until today, I had not visited the dentist is seven years.

You are resting your head between your knees, blowing out rhythmic puffs of air to keep yourself from vomiting, aren’t you?

Even though you are totally grossed out, I feel much better now that it’s out in the open. Phew!

Why, you may ask, did you put it off so long? Well, I’ll tell you: I have tooth enamel of steel. Seriously. I have a contract with a local jeweler that when I croak, I’ll bequeath him my teeth so that he can more efficiently cut his diamonds. Rocket ships are built with materials less durable than my friendly chompers. I have had only one fluke cavity my entire life, and I swear that it wasn’t really a cavity, but a desperate attempt by my mouth to fit in with the mouths of my peers.

But even if one does have incredibly talented teeth, one still must pay their dues in the dental chair, right? At least that’s what society would deem “hygienic.”

After much haranguing from my social conscience, I finally set up a family dentist day in which I received my first dental cleaning since I got married, Ryan’s first dental appointment since before his mission, and the cubs’ first dental appointment since, like, ever.

And it was fun. I forgot how much I like the dentist. I liked listening to the hygienists swoon over my teeth and marvel at how they practically repel bacteria. I liked hearing the gasps as I told them how long it’d been since my last visit (they proclaimed my mouth looked like one that had just returned for its six month cleaning). I liked how slippery-smooth my teeth feel as I slide off the chair. And I loved the goodie bag I received, which contained my very first tongue-scraper. A good tool, that.

And yep. I was cavity-free.

But the best part of the family dentist day was watching my kiddles also enjoy their experience. They were not scared, not one bit, and especially enjoyed getting their spit suctioned from their mouth. I always liked that part, too.

I was informed that they also have teeth of steel. Good cubs.

Adventures in Colorado (Part 3)

2010-08-20T14:05:00.001-07:00

Nothin' beats fishin' with Grandpa Tom. My mom did it when she was little and now it is my turn.
Watch me practice.
Yep, fishin' is fun, but the best part comes after the fish has been caught....
Looking at the guts!
Now, that's what I'm talking about!

The Great Produce Challenge

2010-08-16T21:15:00.000-07:00

Thanks to my friends Katie and Janelle, I have discovered another excellent way to save on the grocery bill. Would you believe I got all these goodies for fifteen buckaroos? I did! I swear it! A few weeks back I joined a local food co-op (Bountiful Baskets, if you're interested) and have been enjoying the fruits thereof ever since.

The fabulous price tag does not come without a catch. Each week, I have to request a basket of produce at a very specific/sometimes inconvenient time and pick up the basket at an equally specific/ sometimes inconvenient time.

Also, the fruits and veggies I get each week are a surprise! Last week I was thrilled with every single item, but this week... well, there was eggplant involved. What more can I say?

Oh, but the mystery of it all! With it, I have invented a little game that I like to call "The Great Produce Challenge." My goal is to create interesting recipes to coordinate with my surprise fruits and vegetables and hopefully develop a tolerance for vegetables usually loathe. Last week, I made a fabulous stir fry and learned, that if diced within an inch of its life, zucchini is actually freakin' awesome. Broccoli too!

Other things I made: stuffed peppers, banana bread, Caesar salad, smoothies, fruit salads...

Another part of the challenge is to put ALL of the produce to good use. Since there is so much of it, this is a challenge indeed. I always make a sizable dent in the produce (alongside the produce I've purchased at the grocery store), but have had to chop, freeze, and can certain items to make up the difference.

As for the eggplant, I believe the compost pile qualifies as putting the produce to "good use." Don't you?

Adventures in Colorado (Part 2: Cousin Joy)

2010-08-04T12:48:00.000-07:00

Adventures in Colorado (Part 1)

2010-08-03T12:14:00.000-07:00

Sure, us Lee cubs might look all cute and innocent....

but don't be deceived....

Okay, maybe you, Santa, be deceived, but everyone else know this: we are children of danger.

We laugh in the faces of spiders and possibly-rabid snakes (and, yes, I am wearing a FUBU shirt)...

We allow ourselves to be launched onto slip-n-slides...

And we are glad...

Real glad...

And not only do we laugh in the face of bugs and snakes, but we ride them. "Consider yourself conquered, large, yellow, spotted bug."

We also ride really big, really fast, really dizzy-making rides that really should have height requirements, but don't.

After the Swinging Pirate Ship and The Cyclone, all other rides seem rather dull. We are adrenaline junkies, us.
Even when running though the sprinklers...

...we go big and we go rude.

So while we, Lee cubs, might look tender and fragile....

At least we don't resort to sissy couponing to get our thrills.

Thank you, Gramma Aidy, for making all of our wildest dreams come true!!!

My New Skill: and it's Not Nunchucks.

2010-08-02T12:39:00.000-07:00

If you think jumping out of a plane, plummeting toward the earth, and then pulling a string only moments before splatting your guts all across the mountainside is a rush... you've never handed a cashier a stack of freshly-clipped coupons and watched your grocery bill reduce by half.

Until you've done it, you simply haven't lived.

I can often be seen exiting Smiths leaping heavenward and clicking my heels in the air.

Would you like to see today's grocery excitement? Alright, buckle your seat belt, my friend.

All these items rung up as $83.00. After scanning my Fresh Values Card and then handing the Coupon Scrooge (AKA the cashier...more about him later) my hefty stack of clippings, my total came to.....dthrdthrdthtdthrdthrdthrrrrrr....

$34.12!!!!

When I got home, my heart dropped when I realized that I had forgotten to hand the Scrooge my four Weber Marinade coupons worth 50 cents each. I had to make a conscious effort not to dwell on that little mistake because that is the sort of thing that'll send an avid couponer to the loony bin.

Now today's shopping success wasn't even close to my most spectacular, but a pretty typical example of what I am able to do each week with my couponing skills. No doubt, I'll be posting more pictures of future grocery triumphs as my fancy is tickled. Sorry.

A few extra thoughts on coupons.

Coupons can be used for good or they can be used for evil:

-Just because you have a coupon for a product, does not mean you are getting a good deal. In fact, 95% of the time, you are better off purchasing the generic brand. ONLY purchase a product if it is on super-duper, life-altering, amazing sale and you have a coupon for it. There are many websites that compile store sales, rank items according to sale's value, and list a corresponding coupon. I use Grocery Smarts.

-Couponing can lead to a toxic diet. Just because you can get Hamburger Helper for 25 cents a box, doesn't mean you should. Down with processed foods! Use your coupons for household items, yogurts, cheeses, condiments, cereals, girly products, lunch meats, whole grain breads, and occasionally Betty Crocker Warm Delights. By doing so, the bulk of your money can go to fresh produce and meats.

-Get four Sunday papers. You'll receive four sets of coupons and can stock up when items go on sale. You should see my food storage! Woooweeee!

Veggie Tales

2010-07-16T13:16:00.000-07:00

Behold the salsa garden:

Ry and I spent a good chunk of the early summer digging, chiseling, building, planting and conquering.

And in just a couple of weeks we'll be harvesting. Then we'll have salsa. Lots of salsa! We planted sixteen tomato plants (plus two rogue plants, which we didn't plant, but celebrate nonetheless), six pepper varieties, four rows of corn, etc.

Stick it, Pace Picante Factory; I have a canner and I know how to use it!

Bethanyisms (Stranger From the Past... part 3)

2010-07-14T21:29:00.000-07:00

You thought I forgot to finish my story, didn’t you? Ha! Not so! I was just building some literary suspense. So much, in fact, that you’re probably baffled as to which story I am referring.

Yup, I’m that good.

Go refresh your memory here and here. Then, pour yourself a glass of Dr. Pepper and meet me back here in a couple minutes. I’ll be waiting…

So… yeah… freeze outs. My girls and I had just YMCA’d ourselves silly at the Stake Dance and had to stop at the pump to re-gas before truckin’ it home for the night. Don’t you worry now; we hadn’t started the freeze out yet. We were young women of scruples, remember.

A truck full of guys pulled in at the pump beside us. They were strangers. They were cute. We made googly-eyes at them and they at us. Two of the guys went inside the 7eleven to get Slurpies while their buddy, we’ll call him Chet, stayed outside to flirt with us through our unrolled window. Our tank full and our curfews impending, we blew the handsome chap a farewell kiss and pulled out of the gas station.

I’m not sure who had the idea—certainly not me… no, certainly not—but someone proposed that we begin our freeze out immediately. We were far enough from the gas station that no one could see into our car, but close enough that the boys would know we were up to some mischief. We pulled off our shirts and waved them out the windows like hankies—giggling like crazy, knowing that the guys would NEVER be able to catch up with us.

I learned an important lesson that night… about teenage boys. In one fluid movement, Chet knocked the gas-hose from his car, popped his keys in the ignition and, VRRRROOOOOOMMMM, skidded onto the main road.

We shrieked with terror and delight as Chet gained on us. “Faster, faster!!!” we coaxed our driver, but her car was no match for the willpower of a warm-blooded 16-year-old male. He veered into the lane beside us and rolled down his window—both cars traveling at an unpardonable speed.

“Wooooh!” He yelled, leaning his head out of the driver’s window and revealing that he had somehow, while racing to catch up with us, also removed his shirt.

“Ahhhh!” we replied.

Next thing we knew, Chet had pulled off his trousers as was swinging them out his car window like he was fixin’ to lasso himself some dinner. “Woooooohweeee!” he hollered. I still don’t understand how his was able to do this while keeping his foot on the gas and eye on the road… but it is what it is.

Now, us girls, we continued shrieking and wailing as though our innocence was being vacuumed from us in the most deplorable manner (though, admittedly, this was the most interesting and exhilarating thing that had happened to us in quite some time). We did our best at covering ourselves and made a quick-thinking turn onto the highway, thereby losing Chet, in all his pantless glory, forever.

“This is not a story to tell our parents,” I said as we made our way down C-470, our heartbeats beginning to settle. “Not ever.” And everyone agreed.

…but back to the service line at Gandolfos, nearly five years later.

“Don’t I know you?” the handsome, scruffy customer asked.

Hmmm. “I… don’t… think so?”

“No, I swear. You look very familiar to me. Do you go to UVSC?”

The line of customers behind him began to grumble. My boss gave me the move-it-along-woman look so I gestured to the next customer. “Welcome to Gandolfo’s. What can I do for…”

“Now I remember!” the scruffy customer gave his finger a satisfied snap. “You’re that girl! You know, the one without a shirt!”

I felt the blood drain from my face because I knew exactly what he was talking about. He was Chet. All of the thirty customers in line fell silent and gaped at me.

“Bethany?” my boss asked, a concerned furl to his brow. As long as he’d known me, I had always seemed so innocent, so virtuous. How on earth was I going to explain myself out of this one?

Especially after what I said next...

“Oooooh yeah!” I accused Chet loudly. “Well you didn’t have any pants!!!!”

2010-07-13T20:06:00.000-07:00

Sierra: Hey Bethy. Just called to talk about the Bachelorette. Ali’s dress. Thoughts?

Bethany: The idea was good, but the execution was lacking.

Sierra: My thoughts exactly.

Bethany: We are so sisters.

Sierra: Well, gotta go to work. Love you.

Bethany: Love you, too. Bye.

The Fourth

2010-07-12T16:43:00.000-07:00

The Fourth of July is one of my all-time favorite holidays. Parades, barbecues, fireworks, an excuse to dress the family in matching outfits... what's not to like? This Fourth was especially awesome because my folks came in town to help celebrate. Nothing reminds you how spectacularly adorable your children are more than Gampa and Gamma fawning over them...

...and can you blame them?

Here we are getting ready for the Sugarhouse Bike parade.

Oh my, it is a fun event. Hundreds of kids ride down the street on their bikes, throwing candy, and feeling like celebrities.

Kiana won the "best decorated bike"category. Personally, I think she won for being the cutest girl in the parade, but since I decorated both the bike and Kiana, I felt mighty proud of myself either way.

Here's me accepting a gift certificate for a personal pan pizza on Kiana's behalf. I am either proclaiming "I DID IT! I REALLY DID IT" or pretending to be a chipmunk. I can't remember which.

Here's the bike. I thought the stuffed "aminals" on the back were a patirotic touch.

Doug let the parade business go to his head. Here, he struts down the street followed by his doting entourage.

Bring on the fireworks.

Sunday Behavior

2010-07-11T20:59:00.000-07:00

Have you ever felt like a sacrament sermon was given specifically for you—that the words were inspired to give peace and comfort, guidance and enlightenment on a trial you were facing in that exact moment in your life? It’s a warm/fuzzy feeling, that one.

Have you ever felt like a sacrament sermon was given specifically because of you… and not because of something you did right, but because of something you did wrong? That’s a whole different feeling entirely.

Today the stake presidency came to our ward with a very urgent, very specific message. Three talks, one full hour—the topic: sacrament meeting reverence (translation: “controlling your children during church”).

Upon hearing the subject matter, I rubbed my nose and shuffled my feet from side to side. My mind flashed back to the time Doug yelled “Are you going to spank me, Mom?!” at the top of his lungs right after the sacrament prayer. It was our first week in the new ward and set a firm precedence for things to come.

My kids struggle at church. They struggle loud and they struggle big. The Stake presidency must’ve caught wind of it. I’d always romanticized the idea of being someone’s muse, but somehow, this is not what I had in mind.

One of the counselors spoke about arming our diaper bags with reverent, spiritual activities: family photo albums, BOM storybooks, blank paper for children to draw pictures of temples and portraits of the bishop. I looked over at Kiana’s coloring book. Holy Hannah! The Little Mermaid is naked! Princess Jasmine is dressed like a harlot! How had I never noticed this before?!

Next, the counselor told up to make sure the snacks we brought for our children were clean and non-distracting. I looked over at Doug. There was a tootsie pop stuck in his hair.

I spent the whole meeting hypersensitive of every move and noise my children made, my shushing noises sounding like a windstorm in Kansas more than a motherly reminder at good behavior. I could feel the ward’s eyes on me—judging me, rebuking me, pitying me. And then, just as the stake president concluded with his testimony on Sunday reverence, THWACK. A Disney’ Princesses coloring book had sailed through the air and beaned me right in the noggin.

It was too good. I had to laugh. And I did.

My Personal Chew-Toy

2010-07-09T12:20:00.000-07:00

I often express myself with my teeth.

Ask any of the ballpoint pens in my house. They’ll tell you it’s true. Pocked bottoms, flattened caps, they’ve all been mutilated in a horrific, gruesome manner that would cause the most enthusiastic horror-film buff to run to the bathroom with his hands cupped over his mouth.

It’s that bad.

Sigmund Frued would’ve suggested that my chewing-on-things problem was a result of not having my oral needs met as an infant—to which I respond “ew” (But I respond “ew” to almost everything Frued has ever proposed). Personally, I believe that I chew on pens, and other household items, to keep myself from chewing on humans.

And no, this post is not a salute to Twilight.

If you are truly loved by me, you have, at one point or another, been munched upon by me. Whether a victim of a spirited velosiraptor attack of just a casual good-to-see-ya nip, you can’t help but feel bathed in the warmth of my love—even while massaging the teeth-shaped indentations from your skin.

There is one person, however, who has been chewed-upon more than any other. Ryan. He has endured exactly six years of my insatiable teeth (six in a half if you include our courtship) and, I must say, is better for it. I could write a whole book about how much I love this good-natured, hard-working, ruggedly-handsome, ridiculously-forgiving man. I love him so much and, even still, I can’t believe he chose me.

Thank you, Pooh Bear, for all that you are. These have been the best fang-dulling years of my life!

Happy Anniversary!

How You Know You're a Grown-up...

2010-05-18T17:25:00.000-07:00

I never thought I'd be the gardening sort, but here I am, the gardening sort... my Grandma Pat's girl through and through! I am obsessed with my flowers--tiptoeing outside in my socks first thing in the morning just to see which friend opened its petals for me today. I like my garden to feel wild. I love perennials; I think annuals are wimpy things and usually stick my nose up as I pass them at the nursery.
Ryan and I made a border around the garden out of small stone tiles. I can't believe what a huge difference such a simple and inexpensive task made.
My poppies have started to bloom. They are my favorite flowers--gigantic paper blooms, delicate, yet flamboyant. The fiery-orange blast will only last a week or so, so I'm making sure to enjoy it while it lasts...even though the poppies clash terribly with the rest of my garden.
The Japanese Maple is our newest addition. It adds a masculine touch to our front yard.
I wonder how this garden will look in a few months when the spring blooms are spent and the summer ones emerge! We'll see!

Hair Sadness

2010-04-06T12:09:00.000-07:00

You know how I feel about hair, right? I love hair. It is important to me. Remember when I got that HORRIBLE, HORRIBLE hair cut? Even though my hair is long and gorgeous right now (I should totally post pictures of it), I still feel upset at what happened that fateful day three years ago.

Unfortunately, there has been another hair tragidy in my family. Doug, bless his soul, decided to take advantage of my neglect by giving himself a haircut.

This hair cut was not the tragidy. Rather, I laughed and laughed my face off when I saw what he'd done.

No, the real tragidy was that he also cut Kiana's hair... the hair that took 27 grueling months to achieve... the hair that I have been petting and sniffing and loving for the last three weeks. He cut it all around. He cut it so that there were nubbins here and long peices there. He cut out my heart.

Remember when Kiana's hair looked like this:

That seemed like only last week... oh wait, that WAS only last week.

Now my kids look like this:

My Easter Bunnies!

2010-03-29T10:50:00.000-07:00

All the Ways that I am Famous

2010-02-23T15:49:00.000-08:00

If you ever need to get in to an exclusive swanky night club, and can’t, I’d be the one to call.

I know people.

I am connected to so many important celebrities that I am practically famous myself.

“Who, Bethany? Who are you connected to?” you may ask. Well, I’m not one to name-drop or anything… but since you asked…

1.) I waited on Marie Osmond’s table while working at the Spaghetti factory.

2.) Chelsea Hightower is my best friend.

3.) Back in the day, I kissed a boy named Andrew on the “A” at Utah State. I was SHOCKED to see him in a major motion picture several months later (I have photographs to prove that the kiss happened, too. Won't be showing those pictures to my husband. Nope. No way.).

4.) My husband is a blood relative of Butch Cassidy.

5.) I made Tony Gwynn a sandwich while working at Gandolfo’s (and, no, he was not the “stranger from the past.” More on that later…)

6.) John Stockton helped my great grandmother down the stairs at the dentist’s office.

And… the newest celebrity that makes me practically famous:

Lily Scott

You may recognize her from this season of American Idol. She has silver hair, of which I totally disapprove, and a cool indie voice, of which I COMPLETELY approve.

I was her babysitter way back when and, boy oh boy, do I have stories. But just as I find it inappropriate to name-drop, I also think it’s rude to tell stories about other people without their permission. So I won’t tell you about the time six-year-old Lily told my sister about the birds and the bees using graphic anatomical names such as “the boy thingy” and “the girl thingy” or the time she snuck into the pantry and ate a whole box of Chewy Granola Bars. Or there was that time that her brother got his lip stuck inside a K-Swiss pocketknife and after a jar of Vaseline, a tub of Country Crock, and a quart of mayonnaise, his lower lip--free at last--had swelled to the size of a radish.

Nope, I won’t tell you those stories, but I will say that after the pocket-knife fiasco, I refused to babysit for the Scotts again. Or maybe I hadn’t been invited back… hmm… can’t remember.

Anyhow, Lily has grown into an incredibly talented woman and, while I am slightly miffed that now I HAVE to watch American Idol this season, I will definitely vote for her. You should too!

(Do you know anyone famous?)

Bethanyisms (Stranger From the Past... continued)

2010-02-20T13:20:00.000-08:00

Let me rewind this story to its true beginning: high school.

But before I begin, I must preface this story, as I do with many of my stories, with the fact that IT WAS NOT MY FAULT.

It was completely the fault of my big brother, Jared. He and his cool friends had a tradition of “freezing out” on the way home from Stake dances. If you are not familiar with the term, freezing out is when one rolls down all the car windows, blasts the AC, and removes all insulating clothing from the upper portion of one’s body. All this is done in the middle of winter and, for a reason that only a teenager can understand, is considered, like, totally fun.

One day, the boys made the mistake of freezing out while I was in the car with them. I, fourteen at the time, was bundled up in the backseat with my coat and a blanket, screaming at the boys to roll up the windows and put their shirts back on over their “pukish bodies.” Inside, however, I was thrilled that the boys would let me witness something so magical, so sacred.

Naturally, as my girlfriends and I came of age, we decided to carry on the tradition. It was done in innocence, I assure you. The freeze outs occurred on the highway in the middle of the night when no passing car could possibly see in. And while we did remove most of our insulating clothing, we did NOT remove our under things; that would be indecent.

So obviously, with so many safeguards in place, my friends and I were blameless for what happened on that cold winter night. Not to blame at all…

(to be continued…)

Bethanyisms (Stranger From the Past)

2010-02-15T11:38:00.000-08:00

The line was long, as it usually was at the Gandolfo’s Delicatessen on a weekend night. I, then 21, was stationed at the cash register and my boss, Mr. Gandolfo himself, was next to me working the potato salad scoop.

We had a pretty efficient system and the line was moving smoothly.

Until it wasn’t.

“Don’t I know you?” the handsome, scruffy customer asked. He had just ordered the South Hampton with bacon.

Hmmm. “I… don’t… think so?” I replied.

“No, I swear. You look very familiar to me. Do you go to UVSC?”

“Nope.”

The line of customers behind him began to grumble. My boss gave me the move-it-along-woman look so I gestured to the next customer. “Welcome to Gandolfo’s. What can I do for…”

“Now I remember!” the scruffy customer gave his finger a satisfied snap. “You’re that girl! You know, the one without a shirt!”

I felt the blood drain from my face because I knew exactly what he was talking about. All of the thirty customers in line fell silent and gaped at me.

“Bethany?” my boss asked, a concerned furl to his brow. As long as he’d known me, I had always seemed so innocent, so virtuous. And I absolutely was! How on earth was I going to explain myself out of this one?

Especially after what I said next...

(to be continued)

High School Revisited (1)

2010-02-08T23:14:00.000-08:00

The first memory that pops into my head, of high school that is, is standing up in choir class and trying out for a solo.

I didn’t have amazing self-esteem back then. I had big teeth and a squishy nose, my ACT scores reminded me how smart I wasn’t, and I was the last person to finish the mile in my gym class. There were very few things about myself that I was implicitly sure of, but one thing that I knew I could do reasonably well was singing.

I remember clearing my throat and looking nervously around the room. Everyone was staring at me: Craig, Lindsey, Alex, Shauni, Sarah, Allison… but really, I was singing for one person.

The choir director, Mr. Roberts.

He was fat, and mean, and bald, and old, and Satan, and wore pants that were, frankly, too tight around the crotch area. And he didn’t like me at all.

I know, right? Not liking me? Ludicrous!

But I wanted him to like me so badly. Mr. Robert’s opinion mattered so much because he had power over who got parts in the musical (I tried out every year to no avail), and because he liked all of my friends, but didn’t like me. But the main reason his opinion mattered so much is because I needed him—of all people—to validate my “one and only” talent.

The pianist gave the introduction and I let my voice soar. I sounded good… real good. I held my end note until the piano stopped. The room went quiet and I looked hopefully at Mr. Roberts.

His face turned turnip red before my very eyes. “No, no, no!!!!” he yelled, smacking his pen down on his sheet music over and over again. “You got the count all wrong?! Can’t you do anything right?! Will someone else show Bethany how to sing properly?!”

I bet you think I am exaggerating. Certainly no teacher would ever yell like that, in front of everyone, at a tender girl of 5’2”.

But he did, and I remembered every word.

This was not the first time Mr. Roberts had put me in my place. He had many times before and several of those times I had deserved it. But this time...this time it was not contructive, it was cruel.

I tried not to cry, because crying is not cool, but the tears started to come anyway. I felt like the one thing that made me special … maybe didn’t. Maybe I wasn’t a good singer after all. Maybe I didn’t have anything to offer. I picked up my backpack and removed myself from class—finding an abandoned broom closet in which to cry myself silly.

Now, I don’t believe that I was a victim of Mr. Roberts. No one can take something from you if you don’t let them. But I left a part of me in that choir room that day--the part of me that loved to sing, the part of me that loved to perform. I gave it to Mr. Roberts willingly, selfishly.

Boy, did I show him.

Now that I am all grown up and so wise and stuff, I can see what I let myself do. Sometimes I miss that part of me—while singing softly to my cub as I rock her to sleep or when I hear the ward choir sing and I am not standing there with them.

But sometimes I don’t miss that part of me at all.

Bedroom Makeover Part II

2010-02-07T20:32:00.000-08:00

Here's our new bed:

The bedding is a Christmas present from my mom and pop. Isn't it beautiful?! (Man, I could sure use an interrobang right now).

And doesn't it go well with the dresser I refurbished?!

Next stop, a new mirror. I was thinking something black with a more modern feel to it. What do you think?

Cookie Time!

2010-02-03T18:32:00.001-08:00

Love sugar cookies, but have yet to find the perfect recipe? Look no further! I have found the BEST Sugar cookie recipe ever and am dying to share it with you. Happy Valentine's Day!

Ingredients

3 c. flour
1 c. sugar
1/2 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. baking powder
1 c. butter
1 egg
3 Tbs. cream or milk
1 tsp. vanilla

Frosting

2/3 c. butter
2 ib. powdered sugar
1/2 c. milk
2 tsp. vanilla

First, find yourself a worthy co-baker.

Then, preheat the oven to 350. Sift together the dry ingredients. Cut in the butter and then mix in all the other stuff. Divide dough and roll flat.

Cut into shapes and place on an ungreased cookie sheet. Bake for 8-10 minutes.

While cookies are cooling, whip ingredients for the frosting. Don't forget to lick the beater!!!!

When cookies are cool, frost generously... and I mean GENEROUSLY. Like 50% cookie and 50% frosting. You won't be sorry.

Enjoy!

Do the Crime Together...

2010-02-03T07:17:00.000-08:00

Do the time together.

Lesson learned.

You Could go to Pottery Barn...

2010-02-01T21:43:00.000-08:00

You could go to Pottery Barn and buy this for $799:

Or this for $1300:

Or...

You could go online and buy this ugly thing for $100:

And then get a bunch of these for $4 each.

Slap a little paint on the dresser, rough it up a little bit, and then ta-daaaaa!

Just as good.

Stay tuned for more bedroom makeover updates...

B.U.S.ted

2010-01-31T18:34:00.000-08:00

Good evening friends.

Have you ever been burdened with BUS (Bunchy Undie Syndrome)? Or BGS?

Where, for whatever reason, your under-things have stretched in such a way that they rise above the waistline of your pants or skirt and look… well… bunchy.

Oh, come now—you know it’s happened to you before.

I would like to forward you on to my sister's blog ,where you will be both horrified and thrilled by her public brush with BUS.

And then, after you’ve finished reading, ask yourself if you can imagine the very same thing happening to yours truly.

“isms” run in our family.

Are You Still There?

2010-01-26T13:35:00.000-08:00

I leaped up from the computer chair, arms akimbo, and bellowed “I am the best writer in the wooooooorld!”

Okay, so I know that my statement was ridiculous, but it’s quite the sensation finishing one’s first novel. I have been working on this project for three years—laying awake till the wee hours of the morning phrasing the next paragraph in my chapter , neglecting my children as I stared blankly at the computer screen, setting aside my blog (which was a little like giving up crack cocaine), —and now it is done…

ish.

Even though it feels like I’ve climbed Mt. Everest, really, I’ve only made it to base camp. Next, I need to snag myself an agent—which is next to impossible—and then my agent needs to snag me a publisher.

I’ve read countless articles of the probability of getting one’s first novel published. They are similar to the odds of finding a human finger in the all-white meat of your crispy Chicken McNugget.

Perhaps that’s why it took me over a month just to write the last four pages of the book. I am not afraid of the inevitable rejections, just that they will ALL be rejections.

“Courage take, Bethany,” I tell myself. “You have beaten the odds before. Remember last year as the X-ray tech looked at the image of your pelvis and saw that your IUD had wigged its way out of your Uterus, do-sa-doed through your abdominals and tethered itself to your fallopian tube. Remember how she said that you had better go and purchase a lottery ticket because the odds of having and IUD predicament such as yours was even less likely than winning the jackpot.

(I only thought it appropriate, given my absence from my blog, to mention something highly inappropriate and dedicate the inappropriateness to my mother, who is now blushing… and not with pride).

Anyhow, now I will dedicate myself to the task of finding an agent. And while finding an agent requires many inquiries, it also requires lots of waiting. And as I wait, instead playing Bejeweled Blitz for hours (as I have been), I thought it might be a better use of my time to pick up my blog again.

Hello old friend. I have missed you

Our New Home

2009-05-21T20:46:00.000-07:00

This is the place. Kiana's room.

Dougy Doug's room. (He is working through some asthma problems right now; bless his heart).

The master bath (cubby hole)
The Guest bath.

Our front room. So empty.

MY WHITE KITCHEN!!! DOUBLE OVENS!!!!!

The kitchen is joined by a small family room.

This window looks out onto our backyard and the glorious mountains.

Our new couches and rug.

The breakfast area.

The biggest storage room in the world. No excuse for pitiful food storage anymore.

Our Media Room. (AKA "The Lair")

We love this house so much. We wanted an older home in newer home condition and we found it. It has five bedrooms, three bathrooms, a white kitchen, a gigantic backyard and a "lair." We have been having so much fun decorating and gardening and feel truly blessed to be in our own home... finally!

Having Surgery is Never Fun

2009-05-20T16:19:00.000-07:00

... but this part is alright.

Thanks Mom, Dad, and Ryan!

Divorce Beach

2009-05-20T08:40:00.000-07:00

The most famous spot in Cabo San Lucas is called Lover’s Beach. It is a narrow peninsula, one side facing the Sea of Cortez and the other tracing the Pacific Ocean. Tour guides joke that the Pacific side is called “Divorce Beach” because, while the Cortez side is swimmable, the Pacific’s swift under tow would drown even Michael Phelps—giving the swimmer's spouse an instant divorce.

Ryan and I kayaked to Lover’s beach. We strolled along the coast line on the Cortez side and walked to the other side to get a peak at the Pacific Ocean. It was beautiful—large crashing waves, masculine rocks, steel blue water, but most notably, skull and cross bone signs everywhere warning against swimming.

Nicknamed the “safety patrol’ by my teasing husband, I didn’t so much as dip my toe into the Pacific ocean. Ryan, on the other hand, decided to walk the coastline as the water crashed over his feet. I screamed for him to stop. I begged him to get away from the water. But he didn’t listen. Instead he turned and smiled at me—rubbing his rebellion in my face.

Then the tide came in strong. It knocked Ryan off his feet. I watched in horror as the water pulled Ryan into the ocean. For a brief second, I thought I’d have to return to the U.S. without my husband. Truly.

But Ryan was able to push himself out of his watery grave and scamper up and away from the next wave.

I was furious with him for not listening to me. I was furious that he scared me so bad. I was furious at him for almost making me a widow. I was so mad at him that I literally could not control my next impulse.

I ran up to him and hit him as hard as I could.

“Why did you do that!” I screamed and started bawling. I marched away from him a found a sandy mound to sit on and pout. At first I just felt angry. How selfish of him to put his life in danger like that. How dare he? I wiped the tears out of my eyes, but more came. I cried for over ten minutes, fully expecting Ryan to come over and apologize to me.

But he didn’t. And then I realized that he was really mad at me. Because I had hit him. Hard. And I’d never hit my husband before.

So I felt sheepish and foolish, knowing that I was probably the one who needed to apologize. But I still felt a little entitled to my anger. So I just sat there and continued pouting.

But Ryan still never came—which is unusual for him. He is always the first to try and make amends. Boy, he must be mad. I guess I’d have to be the one to say sorry.

I stood up and brush the sand off of my bikini bottoms. I wandered around the beach until I spotted Ryan on the “lover’s” side. I walked toward him, my head looking at the sand (and had I had pockets, my hands would’ve been jammed deep inside). I looked up and our eyes met.

“I am sorry I hit you.” I said.

We hugged. Ryan opened my hand and placed a scoop of seashells in my palms. The whole time I’d been sulking and mad, he’d spent scouring the beach for a peace offering. It was cute. It was JUST LIKE HIM to do something nice for the wife who just tried to beat him up.

“Are you sorry, too?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“Did it hurt when I hit you?”

“Yes,” he said.

“How bad?” I asked hopefully.

“Real bad,” he smiled and I could tell he was humoring me.

“Good,” I said and we walked hand in hand to our kayak.

Cabo San Lucas

2009-05-10T12:07:00.001-07:00

Up and Running

2009-03-29T18:43:00.000-07:00

The Lee Family Blog is a go. I sent invites to everyone who asked and a few people on my hotmail list. If for some reason you didn't get an invite, and/or still want one, just send me a note and I'll add you on. Thanks friends!

Going Private?

2009-03-24T20:09:00.000-07:00

Heck No! Not this blog. Not ever.

Here's why:

If you have gone private, no matter how much I love you, I only check your blog once and a while. Blogger doesn't tell me when you've written something new, so I JUST DON'T REMEMBER to stop in. I don't want to discourage you from visiting my blog.

I like it when strangers read my blog. It makes me feel famous.

The word "private" makes me feel silly.

BUT....

I understand the need to protect your kids. No one knows better about protecting her cubs than the mama bear herself.

AND...

Sometimes I want to write journal-like blogs, but don't want to flavor this blog as a "journal-like" blog.

So...

In addition to MY blog (a not-at-all private blog) I will be starting a Lee Family Blog and it WILL be private. It'll be lots of pictures of my little cubs (even ones where they are in the tub) and updates and all sorts of Lee stuff that you may or may not find interesting. You are invited in on the fun, if you like. Send me your email address and I'll hook you up.

P.S. My little kiddos might make an occasional appearance on this blog... but probably not pictures of them in the tub.

Dream Walls

2009-03-21T22:28:00.000-07:00

These pictures make me happy. One day I'll have them on my wall.

Query

2009-03-20T18:17:00.000-07:00

I felt proud of myself today. I sent my first query to a literary agent and got rejected for representation. For the first time, I felt like a real author. And I liked it.

One rejection down, several hundred to go...

Chapter 1

2009-03-06T09:52:00.000-08:00

The way I saw it, I had three options.

The most obvious choice, given my age and gender, would be to yell—to make a real big stink right there in the café in front of everyone. Moms can’t stand being screamed at by their daughters in public. They’ll give in to just about anything to make the screaming stop. And if I really wanted to make an impression, I could toss a few four-letter words in the mix… the juicier the word, the better.

My second option was cold-defiance. That’s what Gandhi would do. I could fold my arms at my chest and lace my ankles tightly around the legs of my chair. I’d state point-blank that there was no way I’d be going to summer camp and I’d like to see her try and make me. If she somehow managed to uproot me, I could follow the example of toddler being forced home from the playground and go completely limp.

Or, for my third option, I could cry. Always a classic. I’d ask if she’d somehow stopped loving me or simply wanted to get rid of me for the summer—meanwhile leaking gallons of “What did I do wrong?” tears. I could sniffle and moan, and even pretend to gag a little. That’d get her.

As I weighed my options, Mom slowly stirred the straw around her Italian cream soda and braced herself for my counter-attack, in whatever form it might take. Her lips were turned under and her eyes, though alert, looked heavy and troubled. Was she worried about my reaction? Or was the worry deeper?

My parents weren’t stupid or anything. Obviously they noticed that the phone never rang for me and the extent of my social life was tagging along with them on their weekly date night, but could they know how bad it truly was? I mean, I’d tried to put on a brave face for them—especially Mom. Every day I painted my lips a rosy shade of happy and pranced around the house like I didn’t have a care in the world. But in the privacy of my own bedroom, I let it all out. I secretly recorded my misery into the fibers of my blanket as I cried myself to sleep.

They must’ve figured it out. That’s why they were shipping me away for the summer—to bring a little pine-scented sunshine into my dismal little life.

I was too old for camp. I was pretty sure that my bra size would be greater than or equal to that of any camp counselor I could have had—so singing campfire songs with a mouth full of toasted marshmallows seemed ludicrous. But after further considering my alternative summer plans—hanging out (hiding) at the public library, watching MTV, eating peanut butter straight from the jar—I discarded options one, two and three (they weren’t my style anyhow), and came up with a fourth option: acceptance.

“Okay,” I shrugged. “I’ll go.”

Mom’s jaw dropped. “You’ll go?”

“That’s what I said.”

She cleared her throat and straightened her posture. “That could’ve been worse.” She peeled open a pouch of mayonnaise and squeezed it onto her turkey avocado sandwich.

Suddenly, I felt annoyed. My mom just ambushed me with the news that I’d be spending the whole summer with squirrels, Popsicle sticks and sleeping bags. She didn’t even bother asking if I wanted to go. And, brilliant me, I had let her off the hook without a word of protest... almost.

“So, how long have you and Dad been conspiring against me with this? Months? Years? Or is this brilliant camp idea a new development?” I couldn’t resist—I was a slave to my fifteenness.

“For crying out loud, Kaitlin. Your father and I thought camp would be fun and a good way to get you out of the….”

“Mom,” I interrupted, not eager to be reminded of my bleak life as a house-plant, “I’m only joking.” Kind of. “But…uh…this isn’t some youth correctional camp or anything, is it?”

Mom scooped up a barbeque potato chip with a plastic spoon and launched it at my shoulder. “Not unless you consider sassing your mother a federal offence,” she laughed.

“Fat camp?” I countered. Being that I weighed only slightly more than my cocker spaniel, Snuggly, my mother felt it necessary to prolong the violent chip assault. I ducked beneath the table and only surfaced when my mother ran out of ammunition. “So tell me about this place you’re sending me.”

“Well, it’s called Camp Overlook. There will be lots of outdoor activities and learning opportunities, but you’ll probably find the whole set-up a little … alternative.”

“Alternative?” I mouthed, mentally sifting through all of the thirteen hundred reasons why alternative could be a problem.

“More or less. I don’t exactly know what you should expect, but the brochure said that camp will be an enriching and enlightening experience.” A shred of iceberg lettuce dove from her sandwich onto the table. Mom picked up the wayward vegetable and directed it to her mouth.

“So basically, you’re telling me you have no idea what I will be doing at camp?” I paused for dramatic effect. “For all you know, Camp Overlook could be some religious cult camp brainwashing us into worshiping tofu and bran muffins. Or maybe it is a tattoo camp and I might come home with a body scribbled in gang symbols and pictures of buxom young women. Or better yet...”

“Whoa there. Your father and I wouldn’t send you just anywhere. We researched this place and feel really good about it. You’ll love it. Trust me.” Somehow, the expression on her face was not very reassuring. Her eyes drifted hazily to the café’s back window.

I would miss her, too.

“I’m sure I’ll be okay.” I said. Though careful not to sound too enthusiastic, Camp Overlook didn’t sound that bad. I liked the mountains just fine and didn’t mind roughing it once and a while. Maybe a few toasted marshmallows and “Kum Ba Yahs”—or tattoos of bran muffins—would be exactly what the doctor ordered.

I swigged the remains of my raspberry Italian cream soda and eyed Mom’s full plastic cup hopefully. Her trance lifted and she pushed her soda towards me. “So how long will I be there?” I inquired with a slurp.

“Till the end of August. Three whole months of fun. Your dad and I will pick you up in time to register for your junior year.”

The sun filtered through the café’s window and lightly powdered my mother’s face. I was hit by the irony of how beautiful she was and how beautiful I was not. Heredity, bless its heart, was rooting for me. Like Mom, I had long honey-colored hair with natural blond highlights and eyes that opted hazel or green depending on the sun’s mood. Even though my facial features resembled hers, my nose was just a little too round and my skin had just one too many freckles; I barely missed the cutoff.

“We really need to get going on this camp thing, though. I need you to do the laundry, vacuum your room and pack your duffle bags tonight. We have to leave first thing in the morning to get you checked in on time.”

“Tomorrow! We are leaving tomorrow? Holy freakin’ cow—school just let out two days ago! You really did spring this on me.”

“We thought the short notice would give you less time to plan an escape.”

“Ha ha.”

The front entrance to the café swung open and a dark and heavy sensation washed into the room. My first thought was “Dementors,” but the real source of my blackened mood was far worse. A group of girls from my ninth-grade class, led by none other than fabulous Mia Bethers, giggled their way in, smothering any trace of happiness I might have felt the moment before. I tilted my head downward and feigned a sudden interest in a dried ketchup mass under our table. Unfortunately, it wasn’t long before I could hear the girls snickering and whispering my name. My heart pounded and my ears tingled; for me, that’s what inadequacy felt like.

“Isn’t that Mia?” Mom asked. “Golly, she’s all grown up.”

Mia was the captain of the JV dance squad. She was cute, popular, and the leading reason my life as a teenager was a complete disaster. Did I mention that she used to be my best friend?

“Oh yeah,” I nodded, trying to play it cool. “She’s a little different now but still really nice.”

Mom looked hopeful. “You should go say hi to her. You could invite her to dinner tonight. Wouldn’t that be fun? Just like old times.”

“I don’t think so, Mom.”

“Why not? You two used to be so cute together.”

True, when Mia and I were in elementary school, we had sleepovers on the weekends and spent recesses hanging upside-down on the jungle gym. That, however, was before the “incident” and before Mia made it her life’s mission to see to it that no one at school would touch me with a ten-foot pole.

“Come on, Potato Bug? Give it a shot. No pain, no gain—right?” Mom looked at me with so much hope, so much concern. The fact that I had no friends made her sad. I made her sad; I could tell. Her heart might shatter into a billion pieces if I told her no.

“Fine. I’ll say hi to her,” I said and stood up.

My feet felt like blocks of cement as I walked to the service line, where Mia and her stupid friends were waiting to order. One of them gasped as tapped Mia on the shoulder. Mia turned around, a synthetic grin stapled to her face.

“Er… hi, Mia,” I managed.

“Er… hi, Katelin,” she mimicked. She stood there, unhelpfully, and waited for me to say something else.

It took a second. “Um…” was the best I could do.

“Ummm…” Mia repeated, though trying to sound mentally retarded. Her friends cackled.

Then silence.

More heart-pounding and more ear tingling.

“I guess that’s all I had to say,” I said. I turned around and trudged back to our table, humiliated by how I was treated, but more embarrassed that my mother had just witnessed “a day in the life.”

If Mom hadn’t known how bad it was for me before, she certainly did now. Her eyes flickered with disappointment and protectiveness—a look I’d only seen three times before. Once, when she flipped through my junior high yearbook and saw that no one had signed it, again when I came home from school with three wads of gum knotted in my hair, and once more when she saw that someone had written “barf bag” in permanent marker on my white backpack.

So I did the same thing I did the other times Mom gave me that look—I acted like I didn’t notice or care that I was a loser/loner of the most putrid variety. I forced a smile. “We probably should go. Like you said, my room really needs to be vacuumed.”

“Right.”

But this time I could tell that she didn’t buy it.

We discarded our trash and left the café, pretending not to notice the taunting eyes and the shameless whispers that followed me out.

Mom dealt with the situation by rambling on in a voice that can only be described as chipper. “Dad might be starting a new contract on this week so it will be just you, me and the open road. We’ll pack all sorts of junk food, listen to funky music and have so much fun together. Girl time.”

“Can’t wait,” I said, already imagining the hours of Wilson Phillips and Eric Clapton cassettes I’d have to endure on our trip to Colorado.

Had I known that the car ride to Camp Overlook would ultimately lead to my disappearance, however, Mom’s sorry taste in music would never have crossed my mind.

Teaser

2009-03-05T18:21:00.001-08:00

Remember how I once said something about writing a book? I think that was years ago, right?

Well, I am still working on it. It is such a process! I only have three or four hours a week to write (technically, I could have much more but there are obstacles—AKA LOST, Grey’s Anatomy, AI, and thank heavens all that Bachelor nonsense is over), so my pace has been slow.

But there is an end in sight and I am getting increasingly excited about the end product. I’ve grown attached to my main characters and am eager to write their happy ending (or not so happy ending for some of them). I am also eager to get published. I am trying not to get my hopes up (getting published is so hard), but I’m afraid they’re already sky high.

Calling myself an “author” would be sooooo cool.

I thought I’d give you a little taste of what I’ve been doing. Tomorrow I will post my first chapter. There, you will meet Kaitlin, the heroine of the story. I love her. She has layers.

When you read, keep in mind that this book is intended for teenage girls. Also keep in mind that this is my first book so don’t judge me too harshly. I fully intend to become a more skilled writer over time.

Bedtime Rituals

2009-03-01T16:36:00.000-08:00

After Ryan and I have had a good fifteen minutes of snuggling (rather, I’ve wrapped my arms and legs around his body, and he lies there—very still and very politely—until I have reached my daily cuddle-quota and made a sizable puddle of drool on his pillow), we both roll over to face opposite sides of the bed. We call this “assuming the sleeping position.”

Once the “sleeping position” has been initiated, there is to be no talking and no touching—only sleeping. We take “sleeping position” etiquette extremely seriously in our marriage.

The problem is this: I don’t really want to go to sleep—not at all. I’m tired… real tired… but my time of awakeness without my children also being awake is so scarce and so precious. There are so many things I’d like to be doing rather than sleeping. Writing, for example. Reading books. Eating carne asada. Going hiking. Sneaking celebrity gossip on the Internet. Grooming.

But I am too tired for any of that.

So I find myself thinking. I mentally reword the paragraphs in my book. I furnish and refurnish all of the rooms in my new house. I scheme on ways to get the most out of my coupons for my next grocery trip.

And then I’m all worked up (coupons get me that way). I am too excited to go to sleep. I’m not even tired anymore. Why the heck can’t I fall asleep?

So, I roll out of bed and walk to the medicine cabinet. I punch a Unisom out of the tin-foil packet and pour myself a glass of water. I get back in bed.

I fight agaist falling asleep, but rather worship my zzzz's once I’m there. I groan as, five seconds later, the morning light filters through the window tells me to “look alive.” I am not an early bird. I've never had any interest in "getting the worm."

I rub the mascara-leftovers out of my eyes and walk drowsily into the kitchen. Ryan is there making a peanut butter sandwich to pack for lunch. He looks sexy in his work clothes, but tired.

“Hi babe.” I wrap my arms around him and nuzzle my nose into his neck. “Did you sleep okay?”

He chuckles a little and shakes his head. “I did not,” he admits.

“Why?"

“There was an encroachment,” he says. Okay, so he doesn’t use the exact word “encroachment” because that is a word that I would use, but he says something similar and I know exactly what he means.

Somewhere, between my sleeping pill at twelve and Ryan’s alarm clock at six, I did the unthinkable. I violated a key “sleeping position” rule.

I snuggled with Ryan in my sleep.

I have very bad manners when I am on drugs.

And the Winner is...

2009-03-01T07:41:00.000-08:00

Tada! Our new home! We made an offer on Wednesday and it was accepted the next evening. We have been back to the house twice since then to show our families. Both times, we left feeling more excited than before.

We learned that the property has mature fruit trees, an herb garden, a very convenient Gold's Gym, and quick highway access (all of which we hadn't realized at the time of purchase).

I love this house because it needs no immediate work, but with time, we can do projects that will make it even more special--like a garage and pretty landscaping. Furniture will come with time, and it will be a fun challenge pinching our pennies to make it happen.

Thanks for being a part of this experience with us! We move in in two months and hope you will come to visit!

When Did Life Get So Expensive?

2009-02-25T08:57:00.000-08:00

How do people do it??? Everyone, I mean. You. Me. Them. How do we get by from day to day? It makes no sense.

This home-buying experience has been a very enlightening one. Ryan and I have spent hours at the calculator crunching numbers and working out percentages, figuring out what we can afford and what we can’t.

Through this process, we have realized just how crazy expensive getting a home is… at least a functional home that is in a safe neighborhood. We feel really blessed with a great job, a decent income and good money-saving/staying-out-of debt skills, but buying a home will really stretch us.

Maybe I am just nervous. Today Ryan is visiting with the bank. I am nervous that we won’t get approved for a loan. I am nervous that we will.

If we get this house, we will be very tight for at least two years. House Poor I believe is the term. Since Ryan and I have always lived below our means, living at our means is terrifying.

But now is the time to buy… right? Interest rates and house prices are at their lowest. Even if we save for another year, the higher prices might not compensate for the extra down payment.

So my question is, how do people do it? How do people afford to get houses and still have extra to go to movies and wear cute clothes and go on dates?

How do people who have more modest incomes even make it to the end of the month?

In Love

2009-02-23T20:04:00.000-08:00

I'm a fickle fickle girl, for I have fallen in love with yet another house. This on might just be the one.

It doesn't look like much from the outside, but join me inside if you will.

This is the front room, but I like to think of it as the "Christmas tree" room.

This is a small room attached to kitchen. I think it would make a lovely library/sitting area.

A WHITE kitchen! Double ovens! Gorgeous tile flooring! All it needs is some granite counter tops and a subway tile back splash and I would flippin' marry this kitchen.

Yes, the back splash could use a little love.

The color orange has been scientifically proven to stimulate appetite.

The master. Small, but so bright and happy.

The master bath.

Bedroom #2.

Bedroom #3.

The cute-as-heck bathroom.

The basement family room.

I love this house. It is almost 3,000 feet and has five glorious bedrooms. The back yard is just the right size. It has the older home charm, without the Sugar House price tag. It is in Cottonwood Heights.

Another Option

2009-02-20T16:04:00.000-08:00

This house is by far the least expensive. It is in Sandy, so not as good of a location as Sugar House(but still pretty good), and WAY better of a location than Daybreak (which I've learned is NOT a smart location to buy).

I really love this house. It is the right size for our little family and still has a little wiggle room. Isn't the yard fantastic? Can you say "veggie garden?"

While I loved the kitchen in the Sugar House house, it is not my exact style. The kitchen here is a blank slate. I can paint the cabinets white and subway tile the walls. I can do all that for dirt cheap, too.

This house definitely doesn't have the character of an old home, though. These houses are EVERYWHERE in Salt Lake, so it doesn't feel special. Also, Ryan dislikes split level homes. I am impartial.

We're going to the open house tomorrow. What do you think?

Bethanyisms (P*nile Implants)

2009-02-17T12:56:00.000-08:00

Since I have not written a decent blog in who knows how long, I owe you big. I will pay up in the form of a “Bethanyism”. The story happened over four years ago, but it embarrasses me so badly (even still) that I’ve been hesitant to write it. Like I said, I owe you big. So here it goes:

I was a little nervous to give the presentation—not really because I was afraid of getting a bad grade, or even that I was afraid of public speaking. The main reason that I was nervous was that SHE was also in the class. SHE was the wife of my former ex-boyfriend.

I was a ridiculously happy newlywed, but the fact the SHE was in the class unsettled me. I felt like I needed to prove myself to her. I needed to show her that, although she may have ended up with HIM, I was the cooler, prettier, smarter, and better-in-every-way girl. I needed her to see that all the “crazy ex-girlfriend” stories HE had no doubt told her about me were simply untrue.

The presentation started off well. My topic was male-stereotypes in the media. I talked about how men were pigeonholed on TV and then I showed a funny commercial illustrating my point. Everyone laughed at the clip and seemed interested enough in my research.

That’s when I made the mistake.

In retrospect, I realized that using such a word was very bad judgment on my part. But I didn’t think twice about it before giving the presentation. I had been taught (by well-meaning parents) to be proud of my body and not to shy away from the anatomical names of human body parts. I could say things like urethra and cervix just as unabashedly as I could recite the pledge of allegiance.

So, after talking about how men were stereotyped by the media, I listed the ways men were impacted by those negative messages. I talked about how men felt the need to dumb themselves down to fit in with “the guys.” I talked about how men felt badly if they didn’t make a six-figure income. I talked about how men even turned to surgical procedures to look the way the media told them they were supposed to look. These procedures included liposuction, pec implants, and… (drumroll please)… p*nile implants.

Yes, I said it. I said “p*nile.”
(although I dare not do write it now in fear of attracting all sorts of internet pervs to my blog).

The class gasped. They could not believe I said what I said. A few people started chuckling.

It took me a minute to figure out what I’d said to cause such a reaction.

Then I realized that they were laughing because I said “p*nile”.

And then I realized that I should never have used such a repulsive, vulgar, and weird word.

Then I felt like I was repulsive, vulgar, and weird. I was ashamed.

I quickly tried to correct my mistake. I waved my hands in front of my face and said “I know it sounds crazy, but it is a really BIG problem.”

Then the class roared with laughter. ROARED.

My face had never felt so hot in my life. I finished my presentation and quickly sat back down in my seat. I wanted to cry. I had embarrassed myself in from of forty of my peers and worst of all, in front of HER. SHE would no doubt go home and have a good chuckle with HIM about that "crazy ex-girlfriend."

And that wasn't even the last time I looked like a total fool in that class…

... but I'll tell you that story when I really really owe you.

Or, for a similar price, we could get this...

2009-02-16T14:35:00.000-08:00

This home is 4,000 square feet in a development called Daybreak, on the west edge of South Jordan. It is only $6,000 more than the home in Highland Park. Ryan's daily commute would be about 30 minutes.

Concerns: Too too big. Mass housing development (quality of home questionable). Kind of in the middle of nowhere. Too good to be true?

Bonuses: Big (room to grow). In good shape. Pretty. Big yard. New.

Thoughts????

Home Sweet Home

2009-02-07T16:54:00.000-08:00

Guess how many hours I’ve spent on Utahhomes.com this week. Go ahead, guess.

Wrong (hint: more)

Guess again.

Bzzz. (more)

Yes, it’s true. Ryan and I are back in the market for a place to call our own. We’ve thought a lot about where we want to live. Our favorite area is the Sugarhouse area, specifically a place just on the outskirts called Highland Park. The houses are all older, and cozier, and unfortunately, more expensive. But, oh they are fun.

This is our favorite house we've visited so far. Its only a couple blocks away from my grandma's house. Wouldn't that be great!
I like how the house has been kept up-to-date, but still maintains the craftsman bungalo feel. A glorious backyard!

The kitchen is surprisingly big. Not a white kitchen (boo) but Still bright and cheery.

A big dining room! Hard to find in these little houses, but a MUST.

Front room. The hardwood floors are lovely.

So, you see how darling this house is? The problems are as follows: Only 2.5 bedrooms. The bedroom downstairs is more like a walk-in closet. The basement is also a little awkward (really low ceiling, very little storage, a weird-looking bathroom). The house is VERY small. 1650 square feet including the little basement.

Something to consider, we could get twice as much house for our dollar if we lived in other parts of Salt Lake (especially the West side of the I-15). Unfortunately, so many of those homes are tract homes with less character.

What would you do? Where would you live?

Happy Birthday Sierra!

2008-12-12T09:21:00.000-08:00

Yes, this sister belongs to me and she turns 20 years old on this very day. And I rejoice.

Happy Holidays

2008-12-10T15:48:00.000-08:00

To those of you who used to check my blog daily, but don’t anymore because I am LAME at posting, and if I do post, it's usually just a bunch of pictures, and let’s face it, pictures are sometimes kind of LAME, and my guess is, if you were checking my blog daily, then it wasn’t for my pictures, but for my thoughts and insights, and the countless times I immortalized my LAMEness through the written word...

I am sorry, but I am too busy writing a book to a good blogger.

I had to choose, and I promise, choosing was tedious. I felt guilty and stressed about it for weeks. And I miss it so. But choosing the book was the right decision… for now.

So, lame...I know, but here’s some pictures of how I am celebrating the holiday season:

Eating lots of this stuff... but with hot fudge drizzled over the top.

Kissing the Koala.

Hanging out with my best buddies! I love these people!

Wearing sensationally cute sweaters.

Seeing the lights at Temple Square.
Trying desperately to get Doug to smile for pictures.

Succeeding.

Having people tell me how cute my kids are.

Agreeing.

Drinking hot apple cider... really hot apple cider.

Decorating my house.

Enjoying Christmas in HD.

Doug's Best Buddies

2008-11-30T14:01:00.003-08:00

Family Photo Shoot

2008-11-24T14:24:00.000-08:00

Thanks Maddie for these wonderful pictures!

Someone Was Up Way Past her Bed Time

2008-11-22T10:04:00.000-08:00

Have you seen Twilight yet? I have. Probably before you. But I won't rub it in.

Lucky for me, Candis, even though I am on Team Jacob, let me crash her super-cool vampire party on Thursday night. We ate mushroom ravioli and coke (just like Bella on she and Edward's first date), watched Twilight trailers, made Twilight tee-shirts and then went to the midnight showing of the movie. It was all incredibly dorky and right up my alley.

Did I mention that I was there with one of my best best friends in the whole world, Katie. She and I even got to chill with Jacob and Edward before the show. Edward wanted to ditch Bella for me but I told him that I was happily married and to get his pervert fangs off of me.

So, don't hate me, but I only 75% liked the books. I had moments of extreme giddiness while reading, like when Edward saved Bella from the sliding car (mmmm), but all in all, I kept thinking that Edward was a little possessive--even to the point of abusive.

And don't get me started on the last book. The cover should have looked more like this:

StephMey never said the anatomically-correct words, but boy-howdy did you ever get a clear picture of what was going on with those little bodies of theirs. It was a romance novel. Fine for me, but I was a little embarrassed about the twelve year-old-girls reading it. And imprinting on babies.... hmmm... a little icky.

But we're not here to talk about the book. The movie.

Here's the things I liked:

-The make-out scene. One of the best I've ever seen. I loved it. So did the forty-year-old woman sitting next to me. She went into heat every time Edward came on screen. There was panting, the curling of toes, and even moans. I felt very uncomfortable being next to her.

-I love the Cullen's house. I wanted it for my own.

-Bella did an excellent job. She was EXACTLY how I saw her in my head. That has never happened to me before.

-Forks was beautiful.

-I finally agreed about the casting of Edward in the prom scene. It was ROMANTIC and lovely.

The things I hated and wanted dead:

-Was is just me or did the movie seem a little Lifetime Original made-for-TV movie? Low budget. It could have been incredible if more money would have gone into the special-effects.

-The music. Gag me.

-Cullens who? Little to no development of extremely crucial and interesting characters. Also, they were not all that beautiful. In real-life, yes, but in the movie they were pasty and weird and I didn't like them at all.

So I give the movie a C.

What do you give it? What did you love? Hate? Want dead?

I'm Living Proof

2008-11-17T13:58:00.000-08:00

I am living proof that a person can change.

Today there was a spider in my house.

I did not scream or jump. I did not cry and make Ryan come home from work to dispose of it. Nor did I pull our the vacuum cleaner, like I usually do if Ryan cannot be summoned.

Instead, I watched as the spider crawled into my laundry hamper and thought to myself "Hmmm, I bet he and I will probably meet up again."

And I felt a little proud of myself.

Two. He's Two.

2008-11-14T19:09:00.000-08:00

I made the cub a sandwich.

The sandwich was the low-brow of all sandwiches.

The outer core of the sandwich was constructed from what one usually feeds the ducks. Wonderbread.

And on the sandwich was placed things I once swore I would never feed my child. Bologna. Kraft singles.

I would have even added a squeeze of miracle whip, but there are just some lines one does not cross.

...and STILL he did not eat.

But he did flush Thomas the Train down the potty.

How I wish...

2008-11-07T14:36:00.000-08:00

Why can’t we be more loving? Accepting of others. Tolerant.

I am sad about the hatred that Proposition eight has caused. Towards Mormons. Towards homosexuals. Towards people.

I support Proposition Eight, not because I hate gay people or because I don’t want them to be happy. I support Proposition Eight because I believe that Heavenly Father’s plan for us includes a man and a wife and children. He made our bodies biologically complimentary for that purpose. He made different (subtle and sometimes no so subtle) temperaments between genders to strengthen and uplift one another. A legal union between a man and woman is so deeply sacred and wonderful and I believe correct.

That being said, I believe that homosexuals are children of God just like I am. That they are of equal worth as me, that they are equally loved by God. I don’t agree that the physical act of homosexuality is okay, but I cannot cast a stone when I myself am wrought with weaknesses and imperfections. I do feel deeply for those who find themselves with same-gender attraction. What a difficult path. What difficult decisions. I can understand the desire to be accepted by the world. To be loved by a partner for always and forever. Everyone wants that.

I cringe at the bigotry I see on both ends of the stick. Why is it all of the sudden Mormons vs. Gays? Why can’t some people support the traditional institution of marriage without speaking unkindly of God’s beloved children? Why can’t the world understand that even though The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints can’t support gay marriage we are not trying to be bigots, we are just staying true to our religious beliefs?

Oh, it is so wildly complicated and I doubt any understanding or agreement will ever be reached. I just hope that we can be nicer to each other, that we can serve each other, and that instead of judging one another, we can look at ourselves and become our best persons possible. That’s what I hope.

Halloween Looks Better in Red Lipstick

2008-11-02T15:47:00.000-08:00

Cooookie Monster!
Little Red Riding Hood.

My skeleton love.

The Nana Fairy.
A vixen.

Our family on the best Halloween yet.

Trick-or-treat.

What the #@*$! (What Doug says when someone gives him chicken broth instead of candy.)
What is "delayed gratification?"
Ohhhh! I love Halloween!

Pants on Fire

2008-10-27T18:37:00.000-07:00

Need a good laugh. Check this girl out.

Corn Bellies

2008-10-15T12:07:00.000-07:00

This year, Thanksgiving Point had a corn maze the shape of David Archuletta. How could we not go? Ryan took the day off work and we packed the cubs for a day of festive fun.

Outside the maze was a fun little festival with TONS of great Halloween activities for the cubs.

There was this giant trampoline dome. The cub was in heaven.

He fell down a lot, but that's how he rolls.

The Koala loved jumping too!

The cow ride.

The "lawsuit waiting to happen" slide. It was fast.

Faster than we had anticipated.

Besides sore bums, we all survived.

The Koala.

Farmer Doug.
Farmer Dad.

Mammories

2008-10-13T15:00:00.000-07:00

Since it’s been a while since I’ve written a really inappropriate post, or any post, and since for the first time in a month BOTH of my kids are taking a nap at the exact same time, I thought I’d write a little about my boobs—mainly that they’re FREE!!!!

It all came about suddenly, really. I was sitting there, nursing Kiana and out of nowhere I thought “Wow, I really don’t like this anymore. In fact, I don’t like it at all. I want to be done nursing this very instant.”

And so it was.

I pulled the Koala from my chest and went to the grocery store to buy some formula. And I haven’t looked back.

I enjoyed some aspects of nursing and feel proud of myself for hanging in there for nine months. The things I will NOT miss:

-The second I start lactating, my boobs are no longer breasts, but freakish misshapen MAMMORIES. They are gigantic factories of nutrition. Nothing sexy about that.

The following picture was taken one month after birthing Doug. I think it illustates my point nicely and also reminds me of the song "Do Your Ears Hang Low".
-The nursing lounge at church. I am sure it is clean in there, but is it really clean in there? How can I be sure? Also, there are always those awkward moments of being alone with a fellow breast-feeder that I don’t know well. I feel obligated to chat with them and tell them how cute their baby is, even though I can’t really see their baby because it is attached to their boob. So the situation forces me to lie. And lying is especially bad if done at church. And especially especially bad if the lie takes place while I am supposed to be paying attention to sacrament meeting over the speakers, but can’t because I am too busy lying about how cute the baby is, the one I can’t see.

-Nursing bras SUCK! After purchasing ten different bras, not ONE of them fit properly. So I’ve had a bra-wedgie for nine months.

-Then there is the leakage at inopportune moments. Lots of stories there. Too many to share.

Nursing wasn’t all bad though. There are some things I was very fond of:

-The nursing lounge at church. Nursing is a get-out-of-jail free card (JK… sort of). Last Mother’s Day, during the THIRD talk about the Priesthood (on MOTHER’S DAY), I slipped into the nursing lounge to gossip…er nurse… with the other ladies in the ward about how “not motherish” sacrament meeting was going. Many other fun moments were spent not paying attention to Sacrament meeting in that room. But that is bad.

-Nursing is the best diet ever.

-There were hundreds of tender moments shared with my little cubs while nourishing their little bodies. I felt magic watching them grow and knowing that it all stemmed from the food my body created so effortlessly. I got cuddles for free too, and who doesn’t like a free cuddle?

I celebrated my nine months of nursing success by tossing out my old nursing bras and buying some incredibly cute and incredibly comfy regular bras from GAP Body. I’m free. Now my boobs are mine, all mine!

Almost.

Thanks for Making my Birthday so Great!

2008-10-02T16:22:00.001-07:00

At the Zoo

2008-10-02T16:11:00.000-07:00

Giraffe mommies put their toddlers in time out too.

As I Eat a Slice of Apple Pie...

2008-09-28T20:50:00.000-07:00

Ryan is in a small town far far away. I am here, me and the cubs. And I miss him terribly.

I miss him because he has kissed me awake every morning of every day since we have been married and has never missed a day ever except when he is out of town on business, like now.

I miss him because he laughs at the jokes I make even when I didn’t realize I had made a joke until I hear him laughing.

I miss him because as good as a mom as I am, I am not a very good dad and no one is as fun as the Papa Bear.

I miss him because he bakes me apple pies all by himself.

I miss him because he is so smart and he takes such good care of us.

And I hope he reads this as he is in a small town far far away and knows that I am his woman.

Four in the Bed

2008-09-22T15:32:00.000-07:00

My days as of late have gone a little like the kid song “Roll Over.” Remember that song:

There were four in the bed and the little one said roll over, roll over. So they all rolled over and one fell out. He gave a little scream and he gave a little shout.

The “little one” represents the changes in my life since I moved from Grapevine. First change—the glorious hour of exercise a day. Then there is the social life, which has tripled with so many friends and family members so close (An enthusiastic loner by nature, I spend as much time overwhelmed by my social interactions as I do enjoying them. It is important to add, however, that these people are the reason Ryan and I move back here in the first place and are well worth it.). Last, the cubs. Their nap requirements are dwindling… as is my sanity.

So naturally, things are falling out of bed. First to hit the floor, obviously, is my writing. How I love words, manipulating them to do what I want, swinging them around to evoke emotions, pairing them in ways that make others laugh, agree, and sometimes blush. I miss writing so.

Also, it seems that I’ve lost any time for reading. Books, blogs, and yes my friends, even my scriptures have been neglected. I’ve haven’t even signed up for my new library card yet, whereas before I’d visit the library weekly, always leaving with five or more pounds of loot.

These are very important pieces of me that have been pushed to the side by other very important pieces of me.

Rather that pick and choose, I’ve decided to add an extra hour to the day. Being that the sun was not very keen on the idea of slowing her routine, however, I’ll just have to do it myself… gosh dang it. I’ll add another hour by waking up early every day, before the kids, before my hubby and before that cheeky sun.

Ryan laughed when I told him my plan because he has no recollection of me EVER getting out of bed before him. I am not what you’d call a “morning person.” I've never wanted to “get the worm.” But do I really need nine hours of sleep a day?

I can do it. Holy hummus, I can do it.

An Hour of Freedom

2008-09-15T12:39:00.001-07:00

My body aches and I am loving it. I earned the pain. I paid good money to feel this miserable.

Gold's Gym and I have reunited once again and even though the three year membership cost Ryan and I a pretty penny, oooohhhhh it is worth it.

An hour a day of exercises. An hour a day of free babysitting. An hour a day in my comfy stretchy underpants (oh how I've missed you). An hour a day of sanity.

The Person Who Invented Blue Ice Cream was a Genius

2008-09-09T20:28:00.000-07:00

The Gamble

2008-09-09T08:12:00.000-07:00

"You like THAT," Ryan asked, with his eyebrows raised and finger pointed at my recent purchase.

I nodded.

"Why?" he asked, trying his darndest to understand.

I did an expressive dance to illustrate why and just how much I loved the decorative pillow.

"If you like it THAT much... sigh... then there is no other way. Let's keep it."

I jumped and clapped. I may have sang a special happy song. I mean, I had bought the pillow on a gamble. I saw it and I loved it. It was all I could ever want in a decorative pillow and more.

But I also knew that Ryan and his mismatched chromosomes would never "get it." Maybe he'd even hate it. And perhaps he does hate it. But at least he's being a good sport about it--which is generous considering I put my foot down (with an accompanied vomit sound) on more than a few of his decorating ideas.

And so I give you a glimpse of what is to come of our front room--the decorative pillow being the inspiration:

Oscar the ....

2008-09-08T19:12:00.000-07:00

Though I cannot see his face, I know what it looks like. Red. Wet. Liquid boogers are oozing down his lips and smearing across his door--his mouth squished dramatically against the wooden surface so he can be sure I hear his piercing screams.

And this is me. Typing. Ignoring. Not dealing. Clicking away the tense feeling that has been in my chest since I woke up this morning. The one that has no basis, cause or reason.

This feeling caused me to flat-iron my hair this morning, then put it in a ponytail, then take it out and flat-iron it again, then the ponytail, and so on.

This tense feeling distracted me from tipping my waitress when I went to lunch with some girlfriends at noon (don't worry all you former servers; I called Firehouse Pizza as soon as I realized my mistake and made arrangements for restitution).

This tense feeling caused me to watch a full hour of Gossip Girl, which, I realize, probably made matters worse.

All the while, this tense feeling has made me really short with my kids... all day.

Now I am ignoring my son, who is throwing a tantrum. And while I believe "ignoring" is the best tool for handling a toddler who is throwing a tantrum, that is not why I am doing it. It is because that slimy boogery door is the only thing separating me from giving my little cub the royal spanking of his life. And, aside from "running into the street without holding Mommy's hand" incidents, I don't subscribe to spankings.

So I am typing. And then I'll go to bed. And tomorrow I will not be grouchy anymore.

Back in Business

2008-09-05T12:38:00.000-07:00

The moving boxes are unpacked. Our clothing, though somewhat wrinkly and smelling of cardboard shavings, now hang in the closet. The dishes are coordinated by color and size and stacked neatly in the cupboard. The Comcast Fairy even sprinkled our condo with cable, phone and Internet dust.

All this happened after great anticipation. I was itching for a vacation from my vacation. I needed order, routine and a space to call mine. I needed to do chores for Pete's sake.

Yet, as I sat down and clicked on the Internet explorer icon for the first time in several weeks, the hand of obligation took hold of my lower esophagus and started to squeeze. Now I have no excuse: no excuse for not writing a chapter of my book, no excuse for not meeting my social obligations, no excuse for missing my daily scripture study, no excuse for why my pants are slightly tighter around my waist then they were last month.

Real life begins once again. And while I feel the heavy burden of responsibility, I know that the only way to relieve my stress is to go and do.

And so a new beginning.

If I Was a Wealthy Man (uh... Woman)

2008-09-04T12:23:00.001-07:00

Do you think it is wrong to want nice things?

A few weeks ago my mom, Kristy and I went to to Denver Parade of Homes. I brought Ryan to see it later that day. I bought another $10 ticket two days later so I could take pictures.

Because I really want this house.

And I feel a little guilty for wanting it because it is really nice. Several million dollars nice. 8,000 square feet nice. Excess, wasteful, covetous, inefficient, showoffy, "We are the Jones's" nice.

And I want it.

Here's why:

Upon entering, this is what you see.

The beautiful front room.

The vaulted ceilings and beams.

The fireplace.

The ceiling in the dining room.

The turret.

The white kitchen.

The cutest breakfast nook I ever did see.

The family room.

White couches.

Note the ceiling in the kitchen.

Note the flooring everywhere else.

Is that ceiling tiles on the bathroom wall. Brilliant.

The built-in in the den.

The den.

The master bedroom.

The master bath. Oh the shower.

The counter space.

The baths I could take here.

The fireplaces facing the tub.

Oh look, the master suite has an upstairs.

So this is a little much, but there is a glass floor that overlooks the wine cellar. In our case that floor would be showcasing our food storage. Classy.

The three square windows was a theme throughout the house. I love it.

Another beautiful room.

Gorgeous counters.

To the basement.

The Kitchenette.

The "Man room."

The glorious back yard.

The steaks that could be grilled here...

The arbor!!!

The water feature.

The fireplace.

Another view.

This was in a different house, but I thought it was the cutest little girl's room in the world.

The bath.

The wonderland.

Almost Famous

2008-08-22T22:15:00.000-07:00

Oh, I'm sorry. Did you think you were my best friend? Well, you're not. Not anymore at least. Hope you don't mind, but I am demoting you to back-up auxiliary friend. Your replacement:

CHELSEA HIGHTOWER from SO YOU THINK YOU CAN DANCE.

I call her Chels. But only I can call her that because she's MY best friend. Yup, we're peas and carrots, me and Chels.

...okay, so I lied. Chelsea didn't know me before tonight. In fact, she may even be currently filing a restraining order against me.

Earlier today I heard that she (along with Gev and Matt) would be performing at the Scera Shell in Provo. I immediately bought tickets. Then, right before the show, I saw her. And since I've had a crush on her since day one of SYTYCD, I had to get my picture with her.

Even though I felt a little afraid, I leaped from my seat and plowed down the aisle--knocking a little girl's popcorn all over the ground--but not looking back lest I miss my opportunity (Ryan stopped and apologized for me and offered to buy the girl a new popcorn). I waited amongst a throng of fans and finally pushed myself to the front. I grabbed Chelsea by her itsy-bitsy waist and grinned wildly at the camera. Ryan took a picture. Then, I preceded to tell her that I loved her and that she was my favorite and that she should be my best friend and that she should be my babies' godmother.

She said thanks.

Ryan and I went back to our seats and I asked Ryan if he thought I did a good job and if he thought Chelsea liked me. He just smiled.

Here's also a picture of me and Matt. I feel so happy.

And this is GEV!!!! Notice how his torso seems to be a little backwards. He's THAT good.

And this is the love of my life, Ryan. I will repay him for taking me to this dance show by watching three UFC tournaments with him and drinking lots of Dr. Pepper.. Thanks Babe!

Ventricle Garden

2008-08-20T12:46:00.000-07:00

My in-laws think we are living with them because our condo isn’t ready yet. Well nope. The real reason we are living with them is as follows:

Tomatoes
Corn on the cob
Bell peppers
Chili peppers
Cucumbers
Potatoes
And Pumpkins

hic

We are just using Ryan’s parents for their garden, and oh baby, you should see it. WHEW WEEEEE! The tomato bushes are dripping with gorgeous plump fruit, the corn on the cob tastes like buttery candy, and the peppers… well, you know how I feel about those bad boys.

I’m in heaven.

Armed with plastic bowls and evil intentions, Doug and I have been taking daily tours of the garden. Our mouthes water as we rip the fresh juicy offspring from its mother-bush and plop it into the shadowy tupperware of doom. Those little veggies don’t stand a chance against the likes of us. (Correction. My Mouth waters. Doug's mouth does not react to anything that is not deep-fried and dipped in ketchup.)

We prance giddily through the vines and wisps I prompt Doug to say “vegetable garden” over and over. I laugh every time because he pronounces it “ventricle garden.” I told Sierra about Doug’s pronunciation earlier this morning while visiting her at her new apartment. She colored slightly and asked “Isn’t a ventricle…er… part of male… erm… anatomy?”

No Sierra, no.

Anywho, I have been backstroking in homemade salsa, fresh salads and tender white corn all month long. And not paying rent. And it’s been fantastic.

Oh, and to the Lee’s: We do love your garden, but we don’t love you for that reason alone. Your homemade whole wheat bread also kicks butt.

The Promised Otter Pop Story

2008-08-18T13:37:00.000-07:00

I placed the Sally Hansen Hot Wax in the microwave and pressed the start button. As the smell of perfumed wax flooded the kitchen, I moved to the bedroom to continue the daunting task of filling yet another gigantic cardboard box with junk.

Beep Beep Beep.

I taped the box closed and went back into the kitchen. The wax was ready.

(Oh go ahead, ask. I know you’re dying to know what part of myself I was going to wax. Well, take your pick, my friend. I’m basically a human chia pet.)

I opened the microwave door and reached in… and OH MY HECK ... the wax leaped forth and bit my hand.

“Ahhhh!” I screamed and ran to the sink. The cold water from the faucet felt more like molten lava against my compromised skin. The scent of the hot wax was soon replaced by the odor of melted flesh and thick putrid regret.

“I can’t believe I did that. I can’t believe I did that,” I repeated as I peeled the hardened wax, and with it my skin, off of my trembling hand. “And today of all days.”

It was the last day for me to pack before the cubs and I would take a flight to Utah. Ryan and I had to finish packing, do the laundry, fill the suitcases, deep-clean the house, and feed the cubs. How on earth was this all to be accomplished with third-degree(ish) burns all over my right hand?

And how was I going to explain my charred flesh to inquiring minds? “This old thing? It’s just a scar I received while trying to rid myself of unsightly facial hair.” I think NOT.

And most importantly, how was I going to do my hair with my vital "round-brushing" hand in such a sorry condition?

Enter the Otter Pops. A whole freezer full of them.

I’d hold an Otter Pop while sweeping the floor and rotate in a fresh Otter Pop for pairing the clean socks. Etc. Etc. Etc.

And in case you were wondering, it is entirely possible to change a stinky bum with one hand concurrently caressing a soupy grape Popsicle.

Thirteen sweet hours. That’s how long I cleaved to an Otter Pop.

I woke up the next day feeling significantly better (and craving trout, strangely.)

Checkin' In

2008-07-31T14:37:00.001-07:00

Hello friends! I'm in the process of moving. That's where I've been and, oh, how I've missed you!

My blogs will be few and far between for the next few days, but please stand by. I'll be back with many interesting tales to tell.

Like:

Why I held an Otter Pop for 13 hours straight.
Why I knocked on the neighbor's door bawling like a baby.
Why pennys are more funny than quarters.

And then some...

Let it Be Known...

2008-07-25T06:57:00.000-07:00

I do NOT approve America. I do not approve.

I was so upset when Will was eliminated that I threw the remote control at the TV. Then a toy car. Then s hanger. Then I tried to throw Ryan at the TV, but he was too big.

I loved watching that guy dance and I will never forgive America for voting him off. Never.

On a side note, if you are thinking of buying SYTYCD Tour tickets, don't bother. You can't afford them.

Our Little Mutant

2008-07-23T14:32:00.000-07:00

We're thinking that one day she'll grow into that little bum crack of hers. Till then, no low-rise jeans for her.

How I love bums.

Such Sweet Sorrow

2008-07-23T07:24:00.000-07:00

Remember when I first moved to Grapevine and I was totally overwhelmed about making new friends?

Well I did it.

I made truly lovely friends. They are kind, smart, interesting, and most importantly HILARIOUS. They are the leading reason why I'll miss Grapevine so very much. They threw me a little going away bash yesterday and I felt so loved. Thank you ladies for making this last year so memorable!

The is my friend Breanna. I love her! She is my sister in the gospel and my sister in So You Think You Can Dance. I wish we lived by each other for always. Doug's bff is her sweet boy, Michael . #2 is on the way.

This is Tristen and Megan. Tristen is so smart and lighthearted. I have so much in common with Megan, except she has WAY better social skills. She always knows the right thing to say and it is almost always hilarious.

Here we got me, Jennica, Megan and Tara. We were at Tara's house and it is fabulous. Look at the fireplace below. Sigh. And I will always remember Jennica's pee story, which inspired me to record my own.

Anna and Breanna. Anna is so open and willing to make you a part of her life. She makes me feel liked.

Meggie and Cherie. Also hilarious and beautiful women. I will miss them.

Not pictured: Christina, Karen, Krista, Stephani, Crystal, Michelle, and Hallie. I will miss you ladies!

I'm Dreaming of a White Kitchen

2008-07-17T11:05:00.000-07:00

A new house is still a year away. Sigh. But a girl can dream, right?

Let's begin with kitchens. In my heart of hearts, I truly believe that my food can only be truly delicious if cooked in a white kitchen, with stainless steel appliances and a hardwood floor. It is the only way. After surfing the web, I have compiled a list of my favorite white kitchens.

Join me:

Kitchen #1. The brown paint against the white walls is beautiful! Tile back splash might be a little too traditional for my taste... but I still like it.

Kitchen #2: Very modern. Would I dare? Maybe.

Kitchen #3: Natural light is a must!!! Lots and lots. (did you notice the flooring?)

Kitchen #4: Wow. This Kitchen is REALLY white. Maybe too white. But look at those floors! The most beautiful dark hardwood floors in the world. I love them so much that I would lick them.

Kitchen #5: Tile floors. Pooh. But, while I've never considered myself an "orange" girl, I'm digging these walls. Reminds me of autumn time... the best time of the year. With a different back splash and dark hardwood floors, this kitchen would be unstoppable.

Kitchen #6: Very Nautical. I like everything about this kitchen, even the Navy fridge. Do you think it is too cold-looking?

Kitchen #7: I love the subway tile back splash. It is my tile of choice. Modern meets traditional.

Kitchen #8: So bright and cheerful!

My favorite kitchen would be #6... or #2 or #5. They all have lovely things about them.

Which do you like? If you could have a dream kitchen, what would it look like? Or better yet, post some pictures on your blog! Yes, do that! Post pictures!

What Happens When One Refuses to Take Their Nap and Then Watches PBS

2008-07-15T15:10:00.000-07:00

Fever

2008-07-14T09:32:00.000-07:00

I got the fever. Bad. It’s all I can think about.

I am watching THAT channel again. You know the channel, the one where all of the shows are a little gooey. Young couples. New additions. Celebrations. Big changes.

I get teary-eyed as I watch that channel. I dream in pinks and blues, greens and purples.

I know it hasn’t been long since the last one, but I feel like I’m ready. Ryan is ready too.
Especially when he watches the channel.

La La La Laaaaa! (That's how love would sound if it had a sound)

2008-07-10T19:54:00.001-07:00

My hubby did gooooood for our anniversary. He took me to a fancy-shmancy Brazilian Steakhouse, where a beautiful bouquet of flowers was waiting (for me), and where we ate until there was meat leaking out of our tear-ducts.

I gave Ryan a bottle of Acqua Di Gio. Ryan gave me a watch and a card (courtesy of Chris Harrison) inviting me to the fantasy suite. I accepted.

But we both decided to take a rain-check on the fantasy suite because... there was meat leaking out of our tear-ducts.

But maybe that was too much information. Sorry Mom.

This picture was taken before the meat. I do not intend to post the "after" shot being that I looked like a milk dud with appendages.

And They All Rejoiced.... yaaaaaay.

2008-07-09T12:28:00.001-07:00

Today is a day to celebrate!

Four years ago today, my beloved spouse and I got hitched for time and all eternity... and we are STILL not even sick of each other. In fact, we are crazy about each other! I love that sexy, smart, considerate, handsome and extremely buff man of mine (and the papa bear to my little cubs).

Ryan makes me feel like I am the co-star of a romantic comedy. And every day has a happy ending. And the world smiles upon us.

Also, today is a day to celebrate because Ryan was offered a SUPER-COOL job. And it is not just ANY job, but THE job. And I am proud of him and happy for us! And sad that we are moving, but happy to be moving somewhere closer to people who are genetically required to love us (and babysit our offspring).

Because it's Cheaper than a Divorce...

2008-07-08T07:26:00.000-07:00

All we had to do was go without TV for a year. In return, my mom promised Jared and me one crisp hundred dollar bill each. Any seven-year-old would’ve sold their soul for that kind of loot.

It took a whole year to earn that hundred dollar bill and exactly one hour to spend it. Jared and I went halfsies on a Nintendo. We sold that very same Nintendo two years later at a garage sale for twenty bucks.

I have a lot of sad feelings about this series of exchanges. First of all, my mom totally took advantage of us. A HUNDRED DOLLARS! The sacrifices I had to make: the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Kids Incorporated, the Love Boat… Oh the opportunity cost! I should have asked for triple… AT LEAST.

Second, why on earth did we sell that beloved Nintendo? Hours of fun, laughter and hatred spawned from that plastic gray box. No doubt, my cut of the garage sale proceeds were invested in my ten pound gum collection, which, in a weak moment, was disposed of in two feverish hours of serial chewing.

So as you know, Ryan and I are a superb match and get along capitally. This is not to say that we are similar types of people. We are very different.

My idea of art is Degas, Monet, Klimt. Ryan’s idea of art is a picture of the beach that has rotating light bulbs behind it, so it looks like you are watching the beach on TV.

A sport Ryan enjoys is tackle football. My favorite sport is flat-ironing my hair.

My idea of entertainment is Gilmore Girls. Ryan watches ultimate fighting.

We both enjoy outdoor activities like hiking and exploring, but in the summer, when it’s so freakin’ hot, Ryan and I must get creative with activities we can enjoy together. Usually we make compromises. I’ll watch UFC with him if he gives me a half-hour back rub. He’ll play Nertz with me if I agree to never make him play Scrabble ever again.

Lest this post gets unreasonably long, let me get to the point. When Ryan and I found an old-school Nintendo for sale at the mall, we jumped on it. Both of us felt nostalgic about the hours we’d spent with Super Mario, Luigi, and Donkey Kong. While the $50 price tag raised our eyebrows, we figured that the Nintendo was an investment in our marriage.

We played Mario and Tetris until our eyes blurred and our thumbs felt numb. I won sometimes, Ryan won sometimes. We laughed, we cried, we called each other names like “Stupid Luigi Face” and “Flower Power Hoarder” but even after all the bickering we had a renewed sense of giddiness for one another. He became the Sexy Plumber, Mario, and I become his Sassy Princess. I’ll leave the rest to your imagination…

And while I still harbor angry feelings about my mom duping me out of TV for a year, I guess I can’t be THAT mad. I went to my friend’s house and watched her TV every chance I got.

How We Like to Celebrate

2008-07-06T09:38:00.000-07:00

Independence week, as you will see, was especially fun for the Lee cubs.

We sat on Bean Bags

We wore extra cute hats.

We made extra cute faces.

We got all thugged-out.

We wore our swimsuits and then got all wet.

We played with real live helicopters.

We wore festive outfits.

We sat on grass and watched airplanes do really cool stunts without crashing at all.

Sometimes the planes made sparks.

Sometimes we got sloshed.

We really enjoyed watching fireworks with our daddy.

We made a good-looking group.

We got really exhausted!

From the Dinner-maker

2008-06-30T07:49:00.000-07:00

I am in the midst of my annual identity crisis. If you are a stay at home mommy, you might experience the occasional identity crisis too.

What good am I? What do I have to offer the world? Why is there yogurt all over my couch?

Usually these questions come when excellent things happen with my hubby and his job. I feel so proud of myself. I catch myself saying things like “we got a promotion” or “we got four job offers this week.” Then I have to step back and realize that, although I might be the brains behind this whole operation (wink), it was actually Ryan and his super amazingness (not to mention the help of Heavenly Father, who always seems to have our back) who “got the promotion” or “got four job offers this week.”

And then I think things like, oh no, I am just the dinner-maker. And while dinner-making is important, my chicken fajitas are not going to put our cubs through college or boost my resume'.

And then I think things like, oh no, I am turning into a human accessory. I am here to wipe bums and then stand next to my husband looking cute while he excels in his career.

Ryan, who is basically the best thing since Chicken Express, would never make me feel this way. He supports me and inspires me and treats me like a goddess (whenever he is not teasing me mercilessly). No, it is me who makes me feel this way.

I hope it does not sound like I am minimizing my job as a mommy. Or that I am sad. I am not sad. I am actually very happy and blessed like it's nobody's business. I love supporting my family. It brings me joy and I am good at it.

I just want to feel like I am valued outside the home too, that if heaven forbid something horrible happened, I’d be able to step up to the plate confidently and do what has to be done. Also, my cubs are not going to be cubs forever. Then what?

So, while it seems that I may be neglecting my blog lately, what I am really doing is working through my crisis. I’ve been pressing forward with my book. I’ve been reading books on grammar. I’ve been trying to excel at my current job. I’ve been packing (more on that later). All of these things seem to bring me a sense of accomplishment.

And one day I am going to figure out what I want to be when I grow up. And I am going to be great at it, you’ll see. Till then, I am going to continue learning and growing, and hopefully I’ll happen upon myself along the journey.