The Gamble

"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 ....

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

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)

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

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

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

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.)