Seriously, had.

A few days ago the washer went out in our rental appartment so I got on the local classifieds and found one. It was advertised as nearly new, just one year old, being sold to make room for a nicer model.

We went to pick it up and upon a quick exam, it looked good. I then made mistake #1. We paid cash. The guy wasn’t there, but his cousin took the money and helped load it into the truck. I would have asked to see it in action, but it was conveniently moved to the driveway for “easy access”. Mistake #2.

We got it home, hooked it up, and bam. The thing is smokin’ all over the spin cycle.

So I tried calling the seller today and what do you think I got? That’s right, no number. He’s not there anymore. The cellular customer that I have called is permenantly unavailable and probably out with his cousin (aka dealer), blowing my hundred bucks on pot.

Little does he know that he’s messed with the wrong lady. That’s right, I’m going to send my own personal SWAT team after him to get my cash back. He won’t know what hit him.

(I don’t know if Jason is actually allowed to use his superhuman powers to return appliances, but I’m darn well going to try and make him.)

I’m having anxiety about something and I can’t figure out what it is. It’s like forgetting something important on a long vacation, but not being able to pin down what until you open your suitcase. This is a “left my makeup on the counter” moment and I’m ready to pull my hair out.

This could be any number of things. It could pertain to the ward Christmas party that I am simmering about, worrying that we don’t have enough time to pull this production together.

It could pertain to that huge dinner I had last night and the fact that I’m avoiding the scale like the scale today, for fear of all the water weight I’m probably hefting around today (it IS water, right?).

Or it could pertain to the fact that I have a parent/teacher conference for Harrison this afternoon, and quite frankly, I’m considering wearing dark glasses and a wig.

I think I just realized what it is. I haven’t shown my face anywhere near his school in a month. To be honest, I was hoping I wouldn’t have to ever go there again. I’ve actually had my girlfriend check him in and out for me just so I could hide in the car. In fact, I even tried to cancel the conference, thanks to a visit to Granny yesterday. I thought I was in the clear until I realized that his appointment was scheduled for TODAY.

Plus his teacher is really insistent that we do this thing. Something about celebrating his progress. I think I’m actually more nervous for his parent/teacher conference than I ever was for my own (of which I was usually quite terrified. I wasn’t the quietest child.).

When do we get to move again? Because come on, the best way to handle a problem comes down to one simple word: run.

So my November TOUV column came out yesterday and I’m sharing the link. I know, you’re probably just dying to hear about who I’ve offended this month. Who could it be, the community public works department? Librarians? How about grocery stores in general?

While these were all top contendors for my Let Me Yell In Public column, I ended up finding something that I’m darn right passionate about. And considering the fact that you’re a mother, you probably are too.

Here’s the link.

Do you ever feel like Christmas is just an obnoxious excuse to buy pointless stuff for people who don’t really need it? I get the whole Santa thing, I’m a big fan of his and think there’s nothing wrong with an appropriate showing under the tree. But I’m talking about all the non-believer gifts we exchange. The lotions, the potions, the CD’s and the jewelry, it’s like an excuse to clutter up your vanity table with useless crap that sits around collecting dust until you get a chance to regift it.

A few years ago, myself and the girls in my husband’s family decided to opt out of the traditional gift exchange, and instead, decided to make each other hand crafted gifts. It doesn’t matter if it cost five minutes or five hours, our goal is to keep it cheap and original.

And I must say, this has been one of the most delightful traditions I’ve ever participated in. You wouldn’t believe the stuff some of these girls have come up with. Last year one of my SIL’s made the most darling birthday banner for everyone (there are six of us total). I don’t even want to think about how many hours she spent on it, but I appreciate every second.

Another one of my SIL’s took place mats and made book covers for our Relief Society manuals. She tied them with gorgeous raw silk ribbon, and her $7 gift looked like a million bucks. We’ve had calendar blocks and  jewelry hangers, note cards and homemade heating pads. I’m currently slaving away at my own creation for this year’s exchange and I can’t wait to pass them out. (I can’t tell you what they are right now because some of my girls might read this.)

SO. If you have a hand crafted holiday gift idea, please please pass it along.

(Besides, I have a new craft room that I’m planning to unveil at the end of the week and it’s just begging for projects.)

You know how something horrible happens and you swear you’re not going to blog about it because it’s just too ugly? See, whenever I do that it’s like the little devil writer in me says, “Oh yeah? Well fine! We’ll write a column about it then LOTS of people can read it.” I hate that writer, she’s so stupid.

So this week’s column is my new dirty little secret. It’s not going to sound that bad to you, and you might even wonder why I’m so hesitant to publish it (obviously not that hesitant), so I’ll tell you. I hate the way it sounds out loud. It sounds like possibly the ugliest thing in the world, and I really try to avoid ugly when I can. In fact, I’ve refused to let Jason even call it by name. We’re now referring to it as my “condition”.

So that’s it. Go ahead, read all about it if you must.

So I’m redoing my craft room (thanks to a little inspiration from Tanya’s post over at The Keepings and a lot of inspiration from my favorite interior design blog by this girl here). I would post pictures right now, but we’re not quite there.

Because of a stupid picture.

The thing is, Jason and I agree on just about everything as far as house and home goes. We don’t argue about color palats, furniture choices, lamps, throw pillows (with the exception of this hot pink one I love–he thinks is pukey), or bed spreads. To put it in english, he provides the cash, I do just about whatever I want to the house.

With the exception of one, stupid wall, and one stupid picture. This picture.

He loves BYU athletics. At work, he gets framed photos of LaVelle Edwards and Steve Young put up way before he even thinks about his wife and kids. I’m okay with that, it’s his hobby and out of the office passion, and I’ve come to accept that part of him.

But do I have to accept this very unattractive, expensively framed picture? Here I am, killing myself off to create a craftroom/office haven, and what is the very first thing you look at when you step into the room?

You guessed it. Steve and Company.

And the worst part? There’s no way it’s coming down. It’s THE ONLY piece of decor in the entire house that he feels passionate about, the only thing he’s ever requested, and I already let him hang it once. (That was a big mistake on my part. I thought the office would forever remain a dumping ground for the unwanted furniture in my life. How was I supposed to know I’d wake up and want to decorate it one day?)

The way I see it, I only have three options. First, do the entire room in BYU colors and paraphanalia. Unfortunately (and despite the fact that I love being BYU alum), that idea just made me throw up in my mouth.

Second, I could let him hang this photo in our bedroom (the only other not-yet-decorated room in the house). But that might inspire him to start keeping score, so it’s probably not the best place either.

It looks like I’ve only got one viable option: leave the blasted picture right where it is and pretend like I can’t see it every time I walk into the room. That’s right, BYU football wins again.

Do yourself a favor, never let your man buy wall art.

I went to the grocery store today and got two looks.

Now, normally this would be a thrilling thing. Normally, two looks would get me through until my next birthday. But unfortunately they weren’t “that” kind of look, (you know, the look you hope to get when you actually fix your hair for the first time in a month?) they were the other kind. Not really a look, more like a horrified stare. Why? Because my friends, I have a zit.

This is not one of those easy to hide little monthly bumps that periodically visits my chin, this baby is Mt. St. Helens, circa 1978. And it’s right next to my nose, the focal point of my face. It’s so big, I think it actually has five heads, and they’re all staying just below blast off range. The skin is stretched so tight I think I might actually get stretch marks.

And as for the looks, there’s a double take, then there’s a double zit take. With the double zit take, the gazer kind of squints one eye and tilts his head to get a better look at the crater in the center of your face. Then he quickly looks away and pretends like he wasn’t just staring down the view from Kilamanjaro.

It’s easy to catch them, because they’re so busy staring at your zit they don’t usually realize you’re looking at their eyes.

It almost made me wish I’d worn a padded push-up bra just to distract the greater public from my pimple. (Frankly, pimple is far too kind a word for this bad boy.)

And so, out of complete and total desperation, I decided five minutes ago to pull out the Windex. That’s right, I’m going to try a Big Fat Greek Trick and put some amonia on this baby.

I’ll keep you posted. And no, I’m not attaching a photo.

Over two hundred years ago, a group of colonists did the impardonable: they told the mother ship to take their tea and shove it.

When England slapped a tea tax on the colonists in 1773, it was the tea leaf that broke the camel’s back.  Tired of being bossed around and lorded over, the American colonists dug in their heels and refused the cheap government tea.

A group of 200 some Boston colonists, dressed in American indian costumes that were no doubt inspired by their wives (hey, you can’t tell me some woman didn’t influence them somewhere), converged on the floating tea shipment, and proceeded to dump three shiploads of tea into the harbor.

This charade was none other then the catalyst that sparked the American Revolution. And why did those early American’s make such a fuss over a bunch of otherwise affordable tea? Because they believed in a simple truth: No taxation without representation. And they were willing to die for it.

And so, on this election day, I think we owe it to those early colonists to not just raise our diet cokes or lattes or mugs of herbal tea in a salute to freedom, but we’d better high tail it to the nearest voting booth and cast a ballot.

So go vote. (They’re watching you.)

Forgive me, I don’t have any pictures on my camera from last night’s Halloween party because we forgot to take the camera. But do not fear, I’m having another go at it tonight and will be sure to make Jason snap lots of photos. Besides, I only had five minutes to throw my makeup on and it looked pretty sloppy. One thing about Kat’s makeup, it’s never sloppy. I looked a little more like Kat in Drag than anything.

But the party!! Oh, the party was a smashing success. Seriously, it went off almost without a hitch (we were a little late getting the food out, but there was so much other stuff that it didn’t matter. Besides, the fire alarm only got pulled once).

And let me tell you, from now on, I will rent a Bounce Slide for every single ward function we have, sacrament included (if the Bishop will let me), because the four and under crowd played on that thing for hours. My two youngest were so exhausted that they fell into bed without a peep and didn’t move a muscle until morning.

And the spook ally’s! The youth had spook ally’s all over the church, and after we’d carnivaled in the gym for a good hour + , eaten and announced the costume contest results, we dismissed all the kids to the spook ally’s. It was so good my six year old was actually in tears.

And what do you think I did last night after finally collapsing in bed? I laid awake for an hour ruminating about the ward Christmas party. (It’s going to be a dinner theater production and I’m going to arrange babysitting for the little kids and a movie for the slightly older little kids, and we’re going to have…)

Some people might call this behavior excessive or just plain crazy, but in our church we prefer the word magnify. Like magnifiscent. Which is what the Christmas party will be. I think He deserves it.