I can’t talk about camping. It’s too horrible, must be saved for the paper.

It’s Sunday night and frankly, I feel kind of like the desert after a tsunami. What is it about missing a week or two of church that throws me completely for a loop? Not only have I been out of town and at a different ward since July, but with last week’s temple dedication (which I missed) and traveling the week before, I actually forgot what time our meeting was at this morning.

I will add, just for my own personal benefit (and so I don’t sound like a crotchety old heathen) that we do read scriptures and pray every day. But there’s a reason the Lord suggests a little supplemental spiritual infusion.

I find that when I’m sufficiently starved for some good outside insight, getting hit with it kind of knocks my panyhose off. That’s how I felt today. I cried in Relief Society. I cried in Sunday School. I cried when the neighbor told me we have a colony of rats living in the rocks in our backyard.

(Actually, Jason had to take me out to the car so I could have a full-blown rat-induced panic attack. That’s right, ten minutes of high-pitched crying and hyperventilating, and multiple threats that I would never go home again. Only after my rat-killing darling promised bushels of de-con, an exterminator, and a couple of cats was I able to calm down and pull my fingernails out of the upholstery.)

The thing is, I need church. I need it every single week. And it’s not about the social part (although I do love all the older-than-me empty-nesters in our ward), it’s the spiritual refueling I have to have. I know I should feel bad that I don’t have a calling right now. Any good Mormon woman would run to the bishop and remind him that she’s ready, willing, and has something grand to offer. And I am.

Still, today I felt kind of like the old discarded bathtub that used to sit out in the field for our horses to drink from–all dry and rusty.

Don’t worry, I think I got all the salt and sins out of me today. Man, there’s nothing like a good dose of Gospel to get your tear ducts back in working order.

So we’re going camping this afternoon.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re wondering what woman with an ounce of sanity would take three children, ages 6, 4 and an unfortunate 20 months, camping. Frankly, I’ve been asking myself the same question all morning.

Because for mothers, camping is not fun. Camping is dirt and smoke and cooking without a real stove and without running water and without a bathroom that’s close/comfortable/clean and OH MY GOSH WHAT AM I DOING???

The fact of the matter is this. My son wants to go camping. So desperately, in fact, that he’s written a song about it. I taught him one chord on the Ukelale and he’s become a little broken record that wanders around, strumming and singing,

“I want to go camping now, I want to go camping now! Camping Camping Camping Camping, I wanna go camping now! Maybe tomorrow or maybe the next day or maybe the next time, yeah…” and on and on and on.

In fact, at our Valentine family reunion this summer, he delighted the audience with this little diddy. By the end of it, people were looking at Jason and me like we were some kind of deranged prison guards, keeping our poor kid from the woods and all that nature.

And so, the truck is loaded and the kids are prepped and I’m steeling myself for a weekend of miserable toddler supervisation. We’ve got the pen and we’ve got the marshmallows–I’m just hoping she doesn’t find out about the lake.

*Check out this cute camping website…Http://www.picturecamping.com

Sometimes I think I should have had children when I was 14.

Kids are so much better with kids. Who knew that the answer to all my problems was in the hands of a 14-year-old girl and that it would only cost me $5 an hour?

Here’s the thing. The June Bug is kind of a delightful wreck. She wants to be with me 24/7, saying what I say, doing what I do, yelling like I yell. It’s heart-warming for the first 12 minutes of the day. Then I slowly go insane.

This summer, while in Elma, I  hired a babysitter for Rex and June one afternoon (it’s not a good sign when you’re shuffling your feet around the house mumbling explitives and kicking any sippy cups that cross your path). When I grudgingly got back, I found the house clean and quiet. The June Bug? She was upstairs, peacefully watching Care Bears, in her playpen.

According to the sitter, she’d been there for 40 minutes without making a peep. Caged like a puppy and happy as a kitten, it was like a choir of babysitting angels burst into the Hallelujah Chorus.

Ever since then, the girl is playpen trained. I don’t know what it is about the cage that she likes so much, but she’s always happy to climb in and sit with a blanket and a movie so I can shower/clean/nap. I’ve got an old wooden porta-crib from 1940 that’s totally illegal and couldn’t pass a safety test if it’s life depended on it. Works like a charm. She’s happy. I’m happy.

Now that I’ve taken the time to write, I think I’ll go take the time to shower. A nice, long, hot shower. With no one banging on the door. I think I hear the angels…

I’m feeling a shade of blue, one of the lackluster shades. Technically, I like to consider my usual mood a nice cheery turquoise, but today I am flat, like the pancake.

I’ve done some quick self-evaluation, and it doesn’t seem to be the book I just finished (a new vampire/werewolf series that I’m quite enjoying–Patricia Briggs’ Mercy Thompson novels. The covers are trashy, but the books are quite clean and mindlessly entertaining).

It doesn’t seem to be the laundry because I just spent the afternoon catching up on it and I’m still shuffling my feet around the house like some kind of toilet scrubbing zombie.

In fact, I don’t think my house (or the piles of work that go with it) is influencing my mood one way or the other. The dishes make me apathetic, and I don’t even have the umph to get out my fall flora and fauna and give the place a makeover.

I think there’s only one thing left for me to do: Yoga. I need yoga. I need it now and I need it badly. If I don’t escape into Downward Dog soon, I’m probably going to crawl under the porch and die.

It’s a good thing I was too lazy to shower today because it would have been a wasted effort (come to think of it, a little deodorant would have gone a long way today). A few more hours and I can relax into the sweet peace of a borrowed mat in the company of all those other stinky yoga lovers.

I am now going to break into my Smore’s stash and eat the last candy bar. Wow, just the thought of that makes me feel loads better.

I love you I love you I love you!!! All those fantastical ideas from yesterday are churning through my brain like a Dr. Pepper in a garbage disposal. Thanks to that jump start, I just wrote my first highly opinionated piece.

I  must say, it’s not often that my deadlines give me anxiety, but this is a new one, and therefore kind of terrifying. I think I just needed to prove to myself that I could be me and opinionated at the same time. Cause we know I’m never, ever opinionated about anything. I’m kind of gentle, like the hyena. Seriously though, I just needed to get it out this first time, from here on out it’ll be cake.

Unfortunately, I can’t really tell you what my stancy story is about (although it might be supermodels and bloggers), but I can tell you that had it not been for your supportive suggestions/list of future articles, I never would have been able to do it. So thank you! Bless you, every one.

Oh yeah, jump over and check out this week’s column. It’s just another chapter in the Very Embarrassing Moments booklet I keep by the side of my bed. MUWA!

I just got bumped up to one of The Standard Examiner’s Top of Utah Voices columnists.

Exciting, yes? Unfortunately, along with the paycheck comes some serious pressure. Not only do I have to continue my weekly tirade, but I need an additional monthly column that’s at least 100 words longer, and “takes a stance”.

Takes a stance? On what? I’m suddenly worried that I have to have an opinion, and what if I can’t think of one? Is it bad that I’m kind of shallow, and my best opinions seem to pertain to late night television and toilet training? The only topic I can seem to come up with at the moment is fruit. Fruit is good. More people should eat it. The end.

And the very title, “Top of Utah Voices”, does that mean that we live at the top of Utah, like the north part? Or does it mean I’m supposed to spout off louder than anyone else, in a King of the Hill kind of way?

So here’s where I beg and plead. I need some topics that could be funny but also stancey. Please, anything you’ve got I will happily consider.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go have some fruit and pray a little. Again.

I feel bad for couples who are never apart.

Here’s the thing, before Jason ditched me for his four and a half month training last year, the longest we’d ever been apart was just a few days. Even then, it had only happened a handful of times.

But since that time, he’s had to fly yonder for work related week long jaunts on a semi-regular basis. Plus, the kids and I did another summer training program up in Washington this year (it’s called, Memorize the Names and Faces of All 152 Valentine Cousins and How They’re Related To You in Four Weeks or Less), thus leaving Daddy high and dry for nearly three weeks.

The result? THAT MAN IS CRAZY ABOUT ME.

I’m dead serious. You wouldn’t believe what a little time away does for your self-esteem. All those things he never notices at home? The clean underwear, the homemade meals crafted with oh so much love, tenderness and MSG, that new lipstick…suddenly, they’re all he wants to talk about. It’s kind of the best self-esteem boost in the world.

And the best part is, the longer you’re apart, the longer these Mad About You symptoms last. It’s like going on a marriage diet. The diet part bites, but the results are fabuloso. Absence makes the heart beat twice as fast, the pulse race like a teenage boy, and the gratitude tribute worthy of a saint.

We’ve been back together for a week now, and even so, he still seems to think I’m all tens. That’s really saying something, considering the fact that he came home from work yesterday to find the fridge empty, the house covered in half-unpacked suitcases, and four weeks of mail sloshed across every available work surface. And still…

He leaves tonight for a weekend bike trip with the scouts. Man, I’m going to look sooo good after 24 hours with those stinky kids.

Okay, so an old buddy contacted me the other day and asked if I’d be willing to come and sing some old classic rock tunes at his family’s annual palooza this Friday.

Would I be willing? To get up in front of a group of people with a microphone? To sing my guts out with a live band? I might have screamed like a little girl, but for the record, I said yes and we’ll just say there was no arm twisting involved.

It’s been awhile since I dusted off my spiked heels for a crowd, but after spending the last few days in the car belting along with the Pat Benatar and Joan Jett (much to June’s total delight), I’ve realized something. Life as a rock star would be so much easier.

Seriously, imagine a life of road trips that doesn’t include wet wipes or goldfish crackers. With a bus full of responsible adults, there’s no need for potty breaks, McDonald Playland breaks, or I Have To Pee By The Side Of The Road breaks. People don’t say things like, “He’s touching me!” or “Are We There Yet?” The journey is actually enjoyable. It’s filled with jam sessions and napping.

We might have jam sessions, but they also involve peanut butter, and our napping is usually done by people under the age of six who are having an allergic reaction to riding in the car and are therefore helped along with Benedryl*.

I’ll be honest, getting pumped up for a gig is difficult when you just speared a brownie with your stilettos, or found children’s liquid Motrin stuck in your bangs, but somehow I’ll manage.

And hey, I’ve been waiting to sing My Boyfriend’s Back in front of an audience since I was seven years old.

*I don’t really do this. Usually.

I am not ugly. Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing knock-down drag-out about my looks, but when I’m done up with all my store-bought beauty products, I can hold my own. Usually.

So the other day my sister Jen and I stopped by to visit with our father while he was out and about. He was conducting business with an old friend, an elderly gent, easily in his late seventies.

I’m a friendly girl. Stick me in a room with thirty strangers, and I’ll have them all Koom-By-Ya-ing in twenty minutes.

My sister? Not the same kind of friendly. More like, sit-you-down-and-help-you-fix-your-life-in-one-intense-conversation friendly. And when it comes to meeting new people, she’s been known to clam up completely.

So I’m standing there with my clammy sister, who’s totally oblivious to the nice manners we were raised with, and our dad introduces us to his friend.

“Hi!” I say with a big smile, “I’m Annie.” Jen gazes off into the rafters, subconsciously avoiding eye contact.

“Well, hello,” he responds to me, with a whopping level two on the enthusiasm scale.

Okay, I think, I’m sure it’s not me. He probably can’t hear me that well anyway. Forging ahead, I keep my smile in place and turn slightly to my left in an attempt to introduce my dud of a sister. Following my gaze, he glances over and gets a good look at her.

“Oh!” he says, as shock and awe pass through him, along with a long-forgotten wave of testosterone. Lighting up like a Christmas tree, he reverently takes Her Magesty by the hand. “Well…aren’t you just…beautiful!”

Now I admit, it wasn’t my best day. I wasn’t what you’d consider dressed to impress, but it’s not like I’d had a visit with the ugly stick either. Then there’s the fact that with the exception of our opposite hair colors, my sister and I LOOK EXACTLY ALIKE.

Let me tell you, it’s amazing how quickly she can focus. In .2 seconds she was all eye lashes and teeth, battering away at him with her wolf-like beauty.

He wiped the drool off his chin and casually glanced back to me. I think I startled him out of his love-sick trance with my homely gaze.

“Uh…” he says, “You’re both…pretty.”

Wow. Don’t I feel special.

So yesterday my sister-in-law, Robin, turned 53. You wouldn’t know it, she doesn’t look a day over 32.

She’s all sorts of trouble these days, after recently realizing that she’s milk and gluten intolerant. Have you ever tried to bake a cake for someone who can’t eat basic cake ingredients? Let me tell you, it’s a labor of love.

So, like a good little sister, I raided her cupboard of all things non-gluten and started to bake her a cake.

“Whatcha doin’?” Harrison asks me, walking into the kitchen.

“I’m baking Aunt Robin a birthday cake. She’s turning 53!”

“Ohhh,” he says with this angelic look on his face, “Is she going to Heaven now?”

Holy birthday cake, but I love that boy.