I now bequeath

Valentine is my lovely new blogging friend. Her blog, "Letters from Valentine" is new and fun, and I've enjoyed it very much so far.

This award was given with no rules, so I decided to pass it along to three of my favorite blogging friends.

My mom always tried to teach me that there were more important things about people than a sense of humor, but it didn't stick. All three of the following ladies make me laugh and, just as importantly, they seem to get me when I'm trying to be funny, too.

First, I will introduce you to my friend Diana. She is a blogging friend and a real-life friend. I forget which came first. I met her when she and her family delivered a delicious plate of fudge to my house when I first moved to the neighborhood, but I feel like I really got to know her when I started stalking her blog. It was then that I realized that she was my kind of girl, for sure. Before I was brave enough to leave a comment, I read this post, in which Diana inflicts serious psychological harm on an Iceberg drive-thru employee. I also enjoyed her account of a friendly (or not-so-friendly) race with a fellow neighborhood runner. I was sure the dog in the story (which she pepper-sprayed) was mine, but it wasn't. Which actually wouldn't make sense anyway, since Diana has requested to borrow my dog. Anyway, she's a funny lady and I'm super lucky to live right across the street from her.

Next, I would like you to meet Julie. Julie was in my brother's high school class, so I knew her a little, but I feel like I know her better now thanks to the wonders of technology.

(I think this calls for a soundtrack. And in fact, this song applies to both of the recipients so far. I know Julie better now through blogging than I did when I used to see her at school all the time, and Diana met her one true love, the one who makes her salvivate, online.)

Now, back to Julie. She's always looking out for the rest of us. Like when she told us to say nothing about other people's baby names. Ever. This post also contains valuable advice about staying virtuous as a teenager and other "Jules" of wisdom. Ha ha ha.... I made that up myself. Oh, and here she saves you a whole $5 (or however much a magazine costs) by reviewing an issue of Cosmo and offering her own helpful tips. You know what kind of tips I'm talking about.

And last but never least, my former nemesis, Jen. Jen was my roommate at Ricks College who went from being my buddy to my enemy who kept too much water in the fridge and cut me off from her wardrobe after an especially heated argument in which I accused her of keeping too much water in the fridge. Years later we reconnected on MySpace and buried the hatchet. Now I consider her one of my favorite people and dearest friends. As long as we don't have to share a refrigerator, Jen and I should be just fine. Especially because I wouldn't even fit in her clothes anymore. And she lives about 2,000 miles away.

ANYway...

Jen has aspirations to become Dooce II, and how could I blame her? Who wouldn't love to make $40k a month from their blog? So I'm doing my part to bring Jen fame and fortune by introducing my tens of readers to her.

Jen always has great ideas for home decorating and she might be a little bit addicted to spray paint. And she likes the same TV shows that I like, which is really important.

So Diana, Julie and Jen, I hope you feel honored! :) I'm not giving you any rules. Post the award on your blog or don't. Pass it along or don't. But know that I think you're all awesome.

P.S. You might notice that today is Thursday and I'm not supposed to be online Tuesday and Thursday. But Dave didn't unplug the internet. I could pretend not to be online to save face, or I could just carry on. But my house is clean-ish and I made cookies like a good frau... so that's what matters, right? And my son is learning a lot about teamwork as he watches "Wonderpets" on my lap.

Left to my own

On Tuesday night as my smart, adorable husband was on the brink of sleep, I remembered something.

"Hey hon..." I whispered. "This is a really bad time for me to mention this, but have you heard about that bad computer virus that's supposed to activate tomorrow?"

"Huh? Where did you hear about it?" he asked, sure that I had fallen for an April Fool's joke.

I told him I had heard about it on the radio and read more about it online.

"What's it supposed to do?" he asked, expecting me to have something smart to say, which I didn't. He's a database administrator, so any explanation I would have tried to give would have just sounded stupid.

So with 15 minutes remaining before the clock would turn over to April 1, I ran downstairs to find something smart to say.

Back upstairs: "It could turn our computer into a robot."

Smart, right?

Dave hadn't heard anything about it, and since I'm obviously not to be trusted handling it on my own, we decided we would unplug the internet until he could get some sleep and learn more about it, and make sure our computer was safe.

(Reading more about it today I see that there wasn't a significant risk to us, but ANYway...)

So yesterday I had a whole day with no internet. Dave was thrilled with the idea. Maybe he expected to come home to a spotless house and a wife in a red and white polka-dotted dress holding a casserole.

Disconnected from the outside world, I took the opportunity to finally take care of something that's been on my to-do list for a good 15 years. I finally learned how to play FreeCell.

(This was after a few games of Minesweeper because, as you know, "Those mines aren't going to sweep themselves.")

When I won my first FreeCell game and it asked if I wanted to play again, with big eyes I said to my computer, "Um... yeah." Because my brain really liked it.

I knew I needed to catch up on housework, but I feared the precedent it would set. I knew Dave would think all he needed to do to have a good housefrau was unplug the internet every day before work.

But I decided to be a good frau and work on the house the rest of the day. And I really did get a lot done! And I learned that maybe I really do spend too much time on the computer, because I had so much free time when it was disconnected. Imagine all the things I could do! I could bake cookies and cakes for friends like my friend Jennika! I could go jogging like my friend Diana! (Baby steps. We'll start with walking.) I could teach scrapbooking classes like my friend Crystal! (After I learn to scrapbook, which I'm not really in the mood for.)

We decided that because I am not good at moderating myself and I actually enjoy doing those domestic things that good fräuleins do, that we would disconnect the internet every Tuesday and Thursday. Except for today, of course, because we just did it yesterday and two days in a row would probably send me into shock.

And, if you were wondering, I do not know where to plug in the internet cord (am I being too technical with terms like "internet cord"?), and I don't want to learn.

You're gettin' old, Frau! Ha HA!

That's what Dave said to me this morning as I medicated a lingering headache, brought on by a loud concert last night.

But am I even allowed to grow out of my teeny bopper stage before I'm fitted for support hoes and a cane?

You see, I spent Friday night in the midst of fellow David Archuleta fans at his concert in Salt Lake City. The crowd was probably 90 percent female, and 85 percent shrieking female. My ears are still ringing exactly 24 hours since the close of the show. And Dave thought I was mad at him last night because I kept yelling.

Anyone who has read my blog for a while knows that I'm a big fan, and president of the David Archuleta Fan Club for Married Girls Who are Too Old to Have a Crush but Still Might Be a Little Obsessed.

Make that "Former President." I think I've been demoted because my concert buddy sister-in-law might be a bigger fan. I know. You didn't know that was possible because you know that I chased him down last year during his hometown visit, packing my 1-year-old. But so did she. And her husband (my brother) is an honorary member of the club, since he gets juicy text messages from Brother Archuleta frequently.

Back to the concert. It was a lot of fun. David Archuleta is a great performer and seems so confident on stage now. He was full of energy and I couldn't believe he could keep singing song after song with all that bouncin' around like a Tigger (Sorry... We've been watching a lot of Tigger lately). If it were me (and it wasn't, because American Idol rejected me) I would have needed a minute to catch my breath in between songs, but we already established that I'm getting old.

It was a fun girls night! Thanks to our men for going out of their way to get us to the concert and keep the munchkins for the night.

Here we are. I'm the one with the Lisa Loeb glasses and she's the one with the Taylor Swift hair.

Maybe this is the Excedrin talking

My mom was here for an overnight visit Sunday and Monday. I mentioned to her that I had found an old pin of hers that had her highest bowling score from back in the day engraved on it. For some reason it was in one of my jewelry boxes.

Her score was 187. She told me she got that score when she was on diet pills (this would have been in the 70s or 80s, I believe).

"Boy, did those things work," she said.

She told me the pills made her stronger and more focused. Basically a super-version of her regular self.

But after a while she wasn't feeling so well and she decided to stop taking the diet pills, at which point her bowling team wondered what happened to their star player.

I've already told you about my desire to lose weight, so I won't bore you with that again, except to say that the thought briefly crossed my mind that maybe I ought to give diet pills a try.

And then I remembered that I can't even take Excedrin without getting giddy and jumpy and wanting to start a ballroom dancing club. Seriously. This has happened twice.

I used to be a newspaper reporter. On two separate occasions at two different newspapers I was dealing with a migraine that I had to get rid of to keep working into the late-night hours. So both times I went to a nearby drugstore and bought Excedrin. And both times I found myself in an exceptionally good mood and hardly able to sit still. And both times I couldn't wait to get my work done so I could get started on forming my own ballroom dance club. And the second time this happened was when I made the connection:

Maybe this is the Excedrin talking.

I was a ballroom dancer before ballroom dancing was cool. (It's cool now, right?) I started when I was 11 and I was pretty serious about it throughout my teenage years. Along with my brother and my other dance partner, Martin, I would compete several times a year and perform anywhere we were invited. We competed at the national championships at BYU every year, and Martin and I even placed 4th in the waltz and quickstep at the nationals in 1995. That was my biggest dancing accomplishment, I think.

Now a decade later, some of the dancers we competed against are gracing the "Dancing with the Stars" stage. It's fun to see them doing so well and having that opportunity. They wouldn't remember us, but they were the standouts back then, so we remember them.

Our dance teacher was an awesome teacher and a shady businesswoman. My parents had finally had enough of her financial dishonesty and decided to take their business elsewhere. Which meant that if we wanted to keep taking lessons, we had to make a big drive every time.

First we went to Nancy. She was about a three-hour drive away and we saw her every couple weeks. She liked to pick on me. She once pointed out to me and the rest of the class that my legs were not very pretty. Thanks a ton, Nancy!

That didn't last long. After that my mom set up lessons with a few different teachers in the Provo area (about a 4-hour drive from home every other week). The most exciting part of that was taking private lessons from Rick Robinson, who was a legend to us. He was one of those dancers who was so captivating that even if there were 99 other dancers on the floor, you couldn't take your eyes off him. And now we were under his tutelage. He taught us the best routines we had ever danced, and they are still the routines we feel like dancing when we hear a good cha-cha beat.

I say "we" because often when my little brother, Joel, hears a good cha-cha beat he'll reach out his hand to me and indicate it's time to dance. Even if we're at the grocery store or somewhere equally as inappropriate for putting on a dance recital. And I have a feeling if I weren't so shy about it, he'd actually dance the whole routine with me, right there.

I don't remember how long the Provo lessons lasted, but it became too expensive and time-consuming to keep making the big trip. We were still performing locally, but we weren't learning anything new and we weren't competing so much anymore. I did try to start a ballroom club at my high school, but ballroom wasn't cool yet so it fizzled.

Then I went to Ricks College. I had been out of the dancing scene for a year or two, but I was excited to get back into it there. I danced on the summer team and then the fall semester started and it was time for auditions. For some reason I wasn't sure if I was actually going to try out or not, but at the last minute I threw on a skirt and headed up to the MC.

Auditions were a disaster. The whole thing lasted for about an hour, and they picked all the new members from what they saw in that short time period. I had three chances to dance, and each time they had the men choose their partners, so I had no control over who I danced with for my audition. They had about 10 couples dance at a time, for about 90 seconds at a time.

My first partner had just learned the basic cha-cha step that night, so we danced the basic cha-cha over and over and over and over. The next guy had been in a social dance class during the summer term, so he knew a little, but not a lot. And the last guy was on the team, but hadn't taken lessons. So he knew all their group routines, but none of the basics and he was trying to lead me in all kinds of crazy things I had never learned. So I never really got to show anything that I knew, and subsequently I did not make the team. As a further blow to my ego, my best friend, who had danced other types of dance all her life but who only knew the few ballroom steps that I had taught her, made the team. I was happy for her, but so sad for me. This was also the week that I didn't make it into the choir I had hoped to be in. Just an all-around bummer.

Joel and I did participate in one more competition, at Ricks, where we placed 6th or something in the novice category (is that right, Joel?). Eventually I was encouraged to try out for the "Winter" team, and so I did. This time I made it, but it was around the same time that I really got into journalism and was working for KRIC-FM. I had to leave dance practice early every time to make it to my on-air shift, so after a few weeks I decided to leave the team and focus on my radio job, which I really loved. I was top dog there, or at least I felt like it... and it was a good feeling.

After a couple more hometown performances my career in ballroom came to an end. I didn't know it then, though. I'm glad that our last performance was one of our best. Joel and I choreographed a really fun swing number for a benefit show my mom put on in our hometown. I didn't know then that it would be the last time I would perform in front of an audience, and I wish so much that I had a recording of it.

It's something I really miss. I also really miss singing with a group (and I don't mean church choir... I love participating in the church choir, but that's not what I'm talking about). I've tried off and on to rally others to participate in both ballroom clubs and singing groups, but no one is ever as excited about it as I am. Maybe someday I'll take enough Excedrin or diet pills to get something going for real.

Me = big baby

I recently discovered The Creative Junkie. She makes me laugh. But today she made me cry by posting the following videos. They're not sad at all, and they're not even trying to pull at my heartstrings... are they? But seeing all these strangers sharing such a joyful moment makes me feel all kinds of tear-inducing emotions.






And the making of:

I just thought to myself, "Oh fun! I could do my taxes today!"

Is it weird that I love filling out forms? I used to even think that I might enjoy a career in data entry.

But so far, this tax return is not looking so refund-y. Good thing this year is the year I'm going to get rich off of one of my good ideas. I just know it! And with all that money coming in, we won't even need a tax return.

And you know how I know this is the year? I was at Hobby Lobby yesterday (which is my favorite store in the whole wide world) picking up things for my latest awesome idea. When the guy at the checkout asked me what I was doing, I told him my plans and he said, "You have a creative mind. You should start a business."

I would have given him a $20 tip if I could have.

At the risk of you stealing my idea, and then my $$billions$$, I will share my project with you. But believe me, if I see these on Etsy I'm hunting you down!

They are mirrors for hanging on the wall, with pretty fabric around the edges. These ones are going in my living room, but I could make them in any kind of fabric for any kind of room and any kind of taste.

Seriously. Don't steal my idea. I'm not even going to tell you how to make them unless you'll hook me up with a patent attorney for my other awesome idea that I will never leak on the internet.

I'm going to post a poll on the side. Go vote.

Feb. 14, 2009

In any relationship that matters, there are ups and downs. Good days and bad days. Sometimes things seem perfect, and other times you're both just trying to keep it together. But when the storms have been weathered, you both come out more convinced than ever that you belong together.

I speak, of course, of my relationship with my hairstylist.

I didn't see it coming Thursday. She had always done exactly what I wanted. But as I sat in her chair Thursday night as her next appointment waited in the wings, all I could do was give her my best fake smile and answer "yeah," when she asked "Is that what you had in mind?"

I thought I would get home, take another look and realize that it wasn't so bad. I'd be able to work with it, I knew it.

But I wanted to cry when I looked at that woman in the mirror who just couldn't be me. I knew it must have been a simple miscommunication, but how did it go this wrong?

So I discussed my options with Dave, who was grieving as much over the money I had spent as I was grieving for the loss of my pretty hair.

(If I haven't told you before, I'm just a teensy bit obsessive about my hair. Ask my mom. She was forced to perfect my ponytail with no lumps and 1/4 cup of styling gel when I was in 7th grade.)

As we saw it I had two options:

1. I could buy a box of dark brown hair dye and cover it all up. This would possibly lead to the demise of the stylist/client relationship, and possibly even the husband/wife relationship because "You paid for highlights, so you're going to have highlights." Sound reasoning, for sure.

2. I could face my desperate fear of any kind of confrontation, call her, and ask her to fix it.

Then when Dave went to another room I came up with option #3, all on my own. And I texted her. This was my slightly more comfortable, much more passive way to get to work on solving the problem. Dave thought it was totally weird of me and likened it unto breaking up with boyfriends via e-mail, which I am twice guilty of. If Facebook would have been around back then I might have just used a status update to end a relationship.

"Emily is... really sorry. It's not you, it's me. Can we still be friends?"

Anyway, my stylist and I texted back and forth for the next 18 hours or so. Talking would have been much more efficient than typing my explanations out on a cell phone, but again, talking is scary.

I was nervous it would be awkward to go back, but I was going to do what it took to keep a good thing going. I scratched several stylists off the list before I found her, so I wasn't about to give up. And I'm so glad I didn't. She fixed it, I love it, and the client/stylist relationship is in tact. Now I know we have what it takes to make this a long-term arrangement.

-------------------------------------

SPEAKING of good husbands (Everyone is speaking of good husbands today), mine is pretty rad. He spent his day perched treacherously atop a ladder, painting our living room.

As I was small-talking with a Sephora employee today, he asked if I had any plans for Valentine's Day. I told him I left my husband home to paint. He didn't think that was very romantic of me.

When I told Dave about the conversation, Dave asked, "Was he a black man?"

"Yes, how did you know?"

I must have put on my best black man voice without even knowing it.

Anyway, here is where I mention that I LOVE my Valentine, my husband of nearly 8 years. He deserves all 8 pairs of Costco dress socks I wrapped up for him, and SO much more!

Happy Valentine's Day!

From Me to You!

A British Nanny has stolen his heart.

I never thought it would happen to me, but my husband is in love with another woman. Her name is Mary Poppins.

I really can't blame him. I mean, she is practically perfect in every way.

His obsession is getting serious. He bought the movie soundtrack "for our son" for Christmas and now it's playing non-stop in his car. Yes, even when there's no toddler in the back seat.

A couple weeks ago, Dave took his car in for service and he realized he left the Mary Poppins soundtrack playing when he dropped the car off... by himself. I've got to wonder what they thought when they turned on the car to hear "It's a Jolly Holiday" or something equally as jovial.

But I should clarify. I don't think he's actually crushing on Mary Poppins. I think he's relating to George Banks. In fact, if anyone wants to do a production of "Mary Poppins" in northern Utah, they'd be crazy not to cast Dave as George Banks. He's got every lyric memorized and he sings along with great gusto. And he leads his subjects: servants, children, wife, with a firm but gentle hand. Just like George.

All teasing aside, I'm a lucky girl. Dave is the kind of guy who hates most media and won't even watch a PG-13 movie if it's questionable. Which means he fully embraces wholesome, family-oriented entertainment. And when I say "embraces," I mean it. And the reason he likes this one so much is because of its message that raising children is more important than raising money. Or, as Bert explains in a reverse-psychology kind of way at the end:

"You've got to grind, grind, grind at that grindstone,
Though childhood slips like sand through a sieve.
And all too soon they've up and grown,
And then they've flown,
And it's to late for you to give..."

But "Poppins!" (as the movie is known in our house) has become a family obsession, you could say. A couple months ago I heard our 2-year-old son in the kitchen chanting "Step in time, step in time." I peeked around the corner and saw him dancing along with his own accompaniment. And now he loves to sing "Let's Go Fly a Kite."

And then there's me. I totally want Mary Poppins and Bert to hook up. They need to make a sequel. Oh, and you know that part where Mary's reflection sings like an opera diva in "A Spoonful of Sugar?" I sing along there - And nail it! But really, if I were to try out for this local production I'm suggesting, I think I would want to play Mrs. Banks. I've got that whole "Sisters Suffragette" thing down.

This has been my humble submission for Sue's Very Funny Friday.

These pants aren't gonna fit today.

Today has been one of those days. Let's just say I'm thankful for stretchy pants and 800mg Motrins that were prescribed for my sprained ankle a few weeks ago.

It's also been a day of introspection, as stretchy-pants-and-Motrin days tend to be.

We'd like to have another baby. But babies don't come to us easily, which means that I spend about half of my life wondering if I am pregnant and the other half split between bemoaning the fact that I'm not pregnant and trying to get pregnant.

Which leaves little time for physical fitness, don't you agree? I don't want to start a fitness program if I am pregnant (which I never am, BTW. Well, I was once.) I'm not in the mood to start a fitness program in the week that I'm confirmed un-pregnant, and there are more important things on the agenda in the week that I'm trying to become pregnant. And so it goes.

But something's got to give.

This morning as I was "checking my stuff," I read a blog post from my cousin's wife, Roxanne, who is inspirational in countless ways. Seriously. You should meet her. On her blog she announced she was preparing for two marathons this summer and asked if anyone would like to join her. I commented that I have dreams of being a marathon runner, but I am so far from being able to do it. She came to my blog and left a comment (because she's nice like that) that she was sure I could be ready for a 5k in time, and that if I was serious, she would help me get there.

So I'm taking her up on it. In fact, I immediately went looking for my running shoes.

Not in the coat closet. Not in my bedroom closet. This is a bad sign. Has it really been that long?

I search the garage which is full of boxes we haven't yet unpacked from our move. There's one running shoe. I'm gonna need two. The search continues. I find my bathroom scale. Do I dare? I dare. It's bad news.

I find a pair of shoes that will do. I pack my son on my hip and with a "Curious George" DVD in hand, we head downstairs.

I plug in the treadmill, awakening it from a very long coma. It works! I try to adjust the incline. And now the treadmill doesn't work anymore. I cuss at it. (Not a real swear word. Those aren't allowed. Just something that would make Dave ask me "What are you cussing about?" To which I would respond, "I'm not cussing! Why the heck do you always have to ask me that?!")

So I give up on the treadmill and give the elliptical a reason to exist for 10 minutes. So I did something at least. Something that will get me just a little bit closer to being the hottie that I'm supposed to be.

I have a 10-year high school reunion coming up. I don't want to be fat for that. Dave doesn't understand why I care. He doesn't understand why I would want to go to my reunion in the first place (we had very different high school experiences), and he especially doesn't understand why I would care about impressing anybody.

But here's the thing. I don't care about impressing anyone. The huge popularity of this blog (check out my 9 followers!) and my smokin' hot husband are all I need to impress anyone.

It's just that... I'd rather not know that everyone's first thought at seeing me is "She's gained weight." I'd like to spare my own feelings from knowing that shame a couple hundred times in one night. Am I too self conscious? Maybe. Do I care too much what other people think? Definitely.

So no more banana cookies for breakfast. And when I'm finally lookin' fly, I'm going to try to be a JCPenney model.