Breast cancer. We all know or love someone who has been touched by the pink plague. In my family, it’s been our mom. She’s only a few weeks out from her surgery and we still haven’t heard the final verdict on chemo, but her experience has rocked our entire world.

Last week I heard about an old friend from grad school days. She’s my age (30), has five children, and back in the day gave me the best haircut I’ve ever had (Jason still begs me to recreate it–impossible without Shelly).

She found out on January 15th that she has stage 3 breastcancer. In the last month, her entire world has been flipped on its rear, and she’s already knee deep in her chemo treatments. (That means she’s still got a ways to go.)

And Shelly is absolutely awesome.

She keeps a blog, writing about her experience as she goes, and I am amazed at the deep well of strength this woman has. She isn’t asking “why me?”, she’s asking, “what can I learn here?” I doubt I would be so insightful.

I’d be too busy working manipulative phrases like, “Well honey, I guess I’ll do the dishes tonight, it probably won’t kill me…oh wait,” and “I could really use some Cafe Rio,” and “You’ll have to speak in sacrament for me, I’m too weak to stand at the pulpit.”

But not Shelly.

Shelly is strong and beautiful and optimistic. She’s more than a survivor, she’s an achiever. She is taking this experience and looking at her life through new rose-colored lenses.

And that’s what our trials are about. Maybe the rest of us won’t have to go through cancer treatments, or experience the heartbreak of losing our hair and our physical strength, but we’ll all be challenged over and over. I just hope that when mine come, I can be like Shelly and look up.

Because of the women I love who are struggling with breast cancer, and per Shelly’s suggestion, I’ve signed myself up for the Army of Women. They’re one of the many groups fighting breast cancer, and I want to be part of that fight.

So if you have a second and a desire to do more than wear a pink hat, sign yourself up. And take a moment to check out Shelly’s journey. Let’s shower her with words of love and support.

How hard would it be to choose a good song to sing on American Idol? I mean seriously, The Police? That poor gorgeous girl who sang “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic”with her winking and frightening facial gyrations was so bad, we almost fast-forwarded through it to spare her the pain of embarrassing herself in one more household.

And then when her mother bombarded her with hugs and kisses and pats on the head, it was so painful, I kept waiting for Ryan Secrest to break into a chorus of “So You Had A Bad Day” right then and there.

I still haven’t seen the last few contestants so my jury’s still out on Tatiana. The rumor mill says she can sing, but in my book, that alone is no recipe for success. Although paired with over-the-top theatrics and complete oblivious obnoxiousness has been known to do the trick (I can personally vouch for this method).

And why can’t I be the special agent in the family? I would be way better than the idiot red-headed lady on 24. She is really starting to irritate me. So what if she held a bad man’s wife and child at gunpoint to get some information out of him? No one was hurt, they got the info and saved the president’s husband. Yay!

But for some reason, this gun toting pansy is the queen of the Ethical Crisis, little miss, “How can you live with yourself, Jack?” Hello, it works, people. I would love a job where all I did was scare people into confessions.

Actually, now that I think about it, I guess that kind of is my job. Just imagine what kind of a stay-at-homer Jack Bauer would be.

“Daddy, you won’t really make me stay home from the birthday party if I don’t clean my room, will you?”

“With all due respect, Cindy, ask around.”

Twenty inches. When I hear twenty inches, I think of a cute picture frame, or a girl with fantastically long hair. But today, twenty inches is the bane of my existence, the very essence of Hell itself. My house has been bombarded with twenty inches of steadily falling snow AND IT’S STILL COMING.

Now I’ll be honest, in the three winter’s we’ve lived here, I have never lifted a shovel. Not because I’m a whimp, no sir. I was raised on a farm, I bucked hay and fed cows, and what do I have to show for it? A permanently broken back. That’s right, all that farm work really set me up for life.

And do you think Utards have ever heard of snow days? Of course not. This morning, it took us 40 minutes to get out of our driveway because we were so busy shoveling and pushing out the four dozen idiots who tried going up/down our hill with two-wheel drive. Even my Sequoia, with the best tires money can buy, couldn’t plow itself out this afternoon.

So what did I do? I took that ?#$% shovel and put my shoulder to the wheel. Ho-Ly crap. An hour later, I had barely shoveled out a path big enough for my car to plow through, and what did I have to show for it? Three inches of newly fallen snow.

So now if you’ll excuse me, I can feel my Loratab kicking in and I think I’d better go collapse. So much for picking up Jason from work today. The snow might not keep me down, but the pain killers certainly will.

You know what’s good? M&M’s in a cup. There is nothing like a big drink of M&M’s to cure the apathetic heart.

Because Valentine’s Day is nothing trivial. If it weren’t for Cupid, husbands wouldn’t make the annual dash into Costco for a dozen roses, or be lining the aisles of Walgreen’s the night before, loading their carts with stupid bears and Whitman’s chocolates.

And say what you want about commercialization and wasted money, waking up to two dozen orange roses (kissed with pink) is kind of wonderful. And if you act like you don’t care, then he won’t care. Because he’s a man.

Yes, Valentine’s Day is no thermometer for a good marriage, and yes there are 364 other days each year that should include some  kind of wooing (even if comes in the form of someone else loading the dishwasher without being asked, which is totally hot), but none of those things negate the need for one day, each year, where your man is required by law to show you the love.

In the past ten years, I’ve seen some pretty impressive stuff from Jason on Valentine’s Day. My anniversary and birthday are in the same week, so we decided ten years ago that we would celebrate our marriage on Valentine’s Day instead (although this year, we’re celebrating next weekend because of scheduling conflicts).

The point is, women need to be adored. At some point each year (hopefully more than once) we need to feel words like cherish, treasure, prize, value, appreciate, and revere are actually a part of our romantic relationship. Without them, we revert to life as a short order cook who does a lot of laundry and doesn’t get paid very well.

I know plenty of women who think Valentine’s Day is a family day, but I am here to disagree. This is a day for lovers. It’s a day to remind us that what has become a settled relationship and a family, started out as a hot romance with passion and tenderness and that thrill that came every time the phone rang and you wondered if it was Him.

May your Valentine’s Day be filled with stolen looks and intimate moments. May you take the time to gaze into your lover’s eyes, no matter how wrinkled and sleep-deprived they’ve become, and see the man who stole your heart and gave you his name.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go watch my hot secret agent husband shovel snow. He’s so hot, he probably won’t even need a shovel. It’ll just melt into puddles all around him. Kind of like me.

I think curry should be a condiment.

Seriously, I just added curry chicken to my poppyseed/cherry/blue cheese salad and Jimminy Cricket (the kids are watching Pinochio) was it tasty. Oh, and Jen? Most people get a runny nose when they eat curry, you’re not alone. I prefer mine with a box of tissues. But I can’t think of anything that wouldn’t be better with curry.

Speaking of spice, check out my column this week for a little salty advice in honor of Valentine’s Day.

Tatiana del Toro. Do not try and tell me that that girl is not a plant. Please don’t misunderstand, I’m all for self-planted individuals on American Idol (like Norman Gentle whom I LOVE), but Tatiana? She’s about as over the top as a brazier that’s three sizes too small.  (This is the spot where I’d really like to rant about her flesh-toned dress and serious need for a girdle last night, but I shall keep that opinion to myself.)

I finally got around to watching The Biggest Loser yesterday. Can you believe that good people still exist on reality television? The teams had to vote someone off, and one of the guys up for elimination has a three-week-old baby boy at home–he also has three older children.

When most of Bob’s team disobeyed his voting instructions (to send the other guy home) and shock of all shocks, did the right thing, I nearly wept for the guy’s wife. Flying solo with three kids and a newborn? That would probably send me three sheets deep into the twinkie box, balancing out the household weight loss/weight gain scales. And I have to admit, when the Pink Team tried to justify voting for the other guy (despite the dad begging to be sent home so he could be with his family), it kind of ruined them for me. No longer a fan of pink.

Okay, I’m off to help Harry make his Valentine’s for the kindergarten party tomorrow. This is what happens when you wait until the last minute and the only Valentine’s left at Walmart are Winnie the Poo. So not cool.

Let’s face it, I’m harboring a junkie. I might as well come clean now, my 14-month-old is completely addicted to her bottle, and I am the greatest enabler the world has ever seen.

I know that I should wean her to a sippy cup, but each morning at 5:30 when I shove the bottle in her gaping, screeching mouth, I think to myself, “Oh, it’s not that big of a deal, I’ll take the bottle away  tomorrow…” then I wander back to bed for another half hour of blessed silence. But tomorrow never comes, and at the moment, I am having visions of my daughter as an eighth-grader, sneaking sips of whole milk between classes.

This morning she experienced her first taste of withdrawl. Oh holy goodness, it was bad. We were due at the surgical center at 6:45 am for tubes (Not a big deal. The seven minute procedure will save me $40 a month in co-pays and antibiotics. That’s like three pairs of cute shoes (or five pairs of duds)).

Under strict instructions from the doctor, she was to have no food or liquid after midnight last night. I’m thinking, no problem. We’ll keep her up late, let her sleep until 6:30, and I’ll lovingly bundle her up and take her in. She won’t even miss her bottle.

She woke up at 5:00 am screaming her soon-to-be-tubed head off. S-c-r-e-a-m-i-n-g. Do you have any idea how loud I can be? She’s louder. She was like a heroine addict who just found out they are no longer making needles or heroine. It was horrible. I finally buckled her in the car half an hour early, just to give the rest of the family some peace and quiet.

And when she came out of surgery, did she want her “Mama”? Of course not. The first word she uttered when she saw me was, “Baba!”, and she reached for my purse. Seriously.

We are so in for it.

With Valentine’s Day right around the corner, I felt it was only appropriate that I put up a “How To Have A Good Valentine’s Day Without Even Trying” post.

But let’s face it, it’s a crock. If you want to enjoy Valentine’s Day, you have to say something. Out loud. LOUDLY.

Because men? They’re not so smart when it comes to romance. I’m reading this great book on relationships right now (casually seeking ways to convince my husband that romance still matters to me–he’s a little slow this time of year, but I can see the wheels are starting to turn again) and apparently, once men get married, their brain starts to disintegrate until the only skill they have left is how to use the remote.

This is a tragedy, but there is hope (and I’m not referring to their inability to share the remote).

So, if you’ve got some kind of Valentine’s Day expectations and you know he’s not going to fulfill them, make plans NOW.

I recommend telling him today that if he’s willing to take the first shift and plan the romantic part, you’ll take the second shift and plan the, how should we say, “bedtime” part.

Just tell him you’ll match his efforts, that should get his attention.

Okay, evil father-loving aliens swooped in and possessed my children’s bodies this weekend. Seriously. Is it too much to ask for bad behavior while I was gone? Is it bad that I maybe kind of prayed that the kids would be rotten so Jason could see what my life is usually like?

But were they? No. My girlfriends and I even went as far as to concoct force-Jason-to-stay-home-with-the-kids pre-scheduled activities, thereby keeping him and the children from running off to his relative’s house for child care support. 

But even with two full days flying solo, he still managed to take ALL THREE KIDS to the mall and find himself a new pair of shoes. They called to let me know how much fun they were having. Stupid fun kids.

Because let’s be honest, he wasn’t supposed to have fun. This weekend was supposed to be a “See how amazing my wife is” weekend, not a “Wow, you have the best job in the world!” weekend. How am I ever going to play the empathy card if he doesn’t feel sorry for me? And what’s up with my children going all angelic in my absence? 

And me? I’ve been home for twelve hours and apparently my lap is hot property. Since the power’s out at my house (Utah welcomed me home with seventy-three feet of snow last night–I’m over at my girlfriend’s) I don’t have anything better to do. 

Such is life. 

Is it bad that I wasn’t ready to come home?

So I’m home celebrating my daddy’s big old birthday. (Okay, I’m really here to shop with my mom and sisters, but he doesn’t need to know that, right?)

Today my father turns 75. That’s three fourths of a hundred years, it’s a big accomplishment. Go Daddy! We’re so proud he’s still kicking.

(He’s a perfect example of why you should have children later in life. They keep you young. In fact, I’m convinced that if it weren’t for my very existence, he would probably be dead by now.)

Being home with my mom and sisters has been kind of amazing. There are six girls in my family, and five of us (plus some) made it to dinner on Thursday night. We were like a sqawking gaggle of really funny geese. I think the people at the surrounding tables wished they could sit with us.

Three of us spent the night with our mom at a hotel. That’s a lot of estrogen in one room, let me tell you.

During the course of our conversation, we (I forced them) made a monumental decision: we are each going to be burried with a book. Why, you ask? Because no matter where we go, or what we do, we’ve always got a book with us. Need to get the oil changed? No problem, I’ve got a book. Want to run into the sporting goods store? Go for it! Get a cavity filled? Hey, why not have them do a root canal? No skin off my teeth, I’ve got a book. 

We’ve even decided, as a group, (I forced them) to have the same six words etched on our tombstones: “Don’t worry, she’s got a book”. It’s brilliant! (Excpet Jen who’s not so sure–but she’ll be dead so she doesn’t really have a choice.)

And what book, you ask, did we almost instantly and unanimously choose? Not the Bible, or the Book Of Mormon (although we decided to throw that it, just for good measure), but…

Jane Eyre. Only the greatest book ever. In fact, when I suggested it, my sisters said, in unison, “I could live with that.” Then Jen added, “I could die with that.”

I am also requesting to be burried with a copy of the BBC movie version, in case there’s a VCR around.

I love having sisters.