So I went to Women’s Conference at our Stake Center this weekend. I wore pants.

Now, I think it’s a shame to let perfectly adorable wool trousers sit around unused. Yes, I know we wear dresses and skirts to church on Sundays, but shouldn’t there be a place in Heaven for trousers? Beautiful, wool lined trousers that are totally cute and preppy? Where’s the love, people?

So my girlfriend picked me up for the meeting. 

“Whoa, pants,” she says, looking darling in her stretchy dress.

“Yeah, I was in the mood,” I reply in an I-don’t-care-what-anyone-thinks-even-though-I-totally-do tone.

“Doesn’t that make you a little nervous?” 

This is when I pretend that women wear slacks to church EVERYDAY. “No, why should it?”

“I don’t know, my folks were always big on dresses only in the chapel,” she says casually.

“That is ridiculous!” I then launch into a million reasons why I can and should wear this particular pair of pants everywhere I go, especially Women’s Conference. 

“Hey, I think they’re cute,” my poor attacked friend replies. “You should have told me, I would have worn pants with you,” true, good wonderful friend. 

As we entered the Cultural Hall (i.e. GYM-like calling it the Cultural Hall is going to make me more cultured when I can SEE the basketball hoops and hear the click click of my heels echo throughout the entire universe?) the only women present were Old. Er. Not the kind of girls who would dare to wear trousers anywhere.

As the dinner wore on I found myself becoming increasingly concerned with my skirtless state. Were people whispering about me? That lady over there, did she just point? At me? (Okay, I was holding Junie and the lady was smiling and waving, but for all I could tell she was really covering up a nasty comment about my pants.)

At the end of the meal we made our way to a table of Women from my ward. The ward RS president and counselors, to be exact. In order to avoid the elephant pants that were gaining increased notoriety as I traveled across the gym floor, I decided to call a spade a spade.

“I guess I forgot I live in Utah now with these slacks, but doesn’t it seem like we never have an excuse to wear cute pants?” 

“No, they’re fine!” says a darling nameless woman seated at the table. “I mean, you’re not planning on sitting in the chapel anyway, right?” 

Gulp. “No! Of course not!” Sweat. Rolling. “I mean, Junie is just crazy crazy crazy these days! I’ll totally be in the foyer.” Nod, smile. Out goes the causeless rebel, Retreat! Retreat! Run home and get a skirt!

That’s when an older, wiser and more realistic sister piped up. “You go on in, we don’t care what you’re wearing.” I think she might have shot a glare at the previous commentator. My pulse slowed and I smiled across the table. 

When it comes right down to it, I knew exactly what I was doing putting on those pants. I knew there would be older sisters who couldn’t help themselves from casting a little judgement here and there toward my impropriety. Sisters who don’t know me, don’t know my heart but only see pants. 

But you know what? That’s not the norm. Realistically speaking, women weren’t snickering about me or pointing fingers at anything but my darling daughter. And I can guarantee Jesus loves me just as much (rebellious heart and all) as the next sister, so what do I have to worry about anyway?

Hey, maybe next year I’ll wear dressy shorts. Oh yeah, that will go over well.

This morning I did Tai Chi. It was a 24 minute routine. I lasted the first three and a half before my chi ran into a brick wall called boredom.

Tai Chi is all about breathing. I woke up with some serious allergies going on (happy birthday to me next week, this is a new thing) and thought a little Tai Chi might clear my head. They’re big on breathing in new chi and breathing out old stagnant chi. Apparently I breathed in a little too much allergen-clad chi because three minutes into it my allergies were so bad that all that chi was clogging my thinking.

But that wasn’t the worst part, all that breathing and staring and slow motion and chiing and more breathing nearly sent me right back up to bed. If the allergens didn’t kill me, the monotony would have. 

It reminded me of the time one of my sisters bought one of those weight loss gimics where you sit in a chair and burn a few hundred calories by panting. I’m serious. he he whoooo he he whoooo for 40 minutes a day and you too could lose up to four pounds a year. The thing is, if Kathy Smith is boring, try breathing with a tape. Hold on I’ll try it…

Wow, what a great cat nap. Was I saying something?

The fact of the matter is this. I don’t run because I hate being alone. I don’t pant because it brings back memories of back labor. I don’t to Tai Chi because when it comes right down to it, I’m neither cultured nor cool enough to enjoy it. What do I really want to do for exercise? Paula Abdul’s 1996 Cardio Dance (which I picked up at a garage sale for a quarter. A QUARTER.) Now that, my friend, is good old-fashioned entertaining exercise.

Today I get paid to poke fun at my life in print. If you live in Washington and are interested in reading Regarding Annie, “Confessions of a Carb Loving Baker”, check out The Vidette or click here for a subscription.

Harrison (5) needs a stage. The kid could have told me he was Hamlet this morning and I probably would have believed him. 

Last night he slept the last half of the evening in my bed (a bad habit my children have developed in the absence of their father–I’m lonely and like to snuggle so I can’t blame it entirely on them) and I noticed he was coughing quite a bit. #’s two and three both had colds this last week so it was inevitable that Harrison would catch the cough. 

So this morning he wanted to stay home from school. This is our first “My kid is sick and I’m letting him stay home” day. These days make me nervous. I don’t want him thinking a little cough here and there can get you out of coloring, no siree buddy boy, kindergarten is crucial to a person’s academic development. I should know, my sister Jenny practically skipped her entire kindergarten year and look how she turned out?

Anyway, I agree he can stay home. At 8:15 the neighbor kids knock on the door. They wait for the bus at my house on Tuesdays and Thursdays because their mom has class. I usher them in and Harrison runs (runs) into the front room, throws himself on the couch in front of them and starts hacking up a lung, rolling around on the couch like a slug recently exposed to salt. At first I thought perhaps he’d gotten into some asbestos or something when I wasn’t looking, his cough took such a rapid turn for the worse.

That’s when I realized it. He’s exactly like me. He needs a portable stage. 

Of course, there are few things more obnoxious than seeing our own “traits” manifested in our children. I think my eyes got stuck at one point I rolled them so much during the bus wait. For fifteen minutes he moaned, he groaned, he rolled around hacking and hacking and hacking. His throat wasn’t sore before but I’ll bet it is now. 

The second his friends left for the bus he hopped up, sauntered into the kitchen and said, “What’s for breakfast? I’m hungry.” 

Here’s your Oscar kid, now siddown.

The Cut and the Mug

Here it is, short. I love short, I am best short, but somewhere deep down I want it long.

You know your hair is thin when your hair girl keeps saying things like, “It’s okay, don’t worry…Wow, it just keeps coming out. But uh, don’t worry, it’s going to be just fine…Oh gosh, um, no problem. I’m just going to do a clump test just in case…Have you been eating a lot of salami lately?”

This is also the pic we chose for the column (my mom took it). Notice the shadow against the side of my head? Yeah. That’s to make my hair look thicker. 

And this was the only picture where I was really smiling. Not the fake kind of smiling we all do when placed in front of a camera, but a real smile brought on by a three-year-old who says things like, “You’re not a loser, Mommy!” Thanks, buddy.

In an attempt to escape the evening mayhem that takes place at my house, I’ve turned to desperate measures. That’s right, I signed up for a free parenting class.

I could lie and tell you I did this because I want to be a better person/mommy, or because I think it might help me win PTA President 2012, but those would be non-truths (and we all know liars go to the Devil). The truth is simple: I must get out of this place. I am suffocating here.

As I write this, a little voice is piercing my brain with “Mommy, we’ve got to read books now…” and what I want to say is, “Go ask your father.” But since we are still seventy-some odd days from that option, I continue to zone. Out. Crap that voice is persistent. And cute. Okay, I still love the little buggers.

But I have to admit, the first class actually did more for me than I thought it would. I settled down with my caffeine-free diet Dr. Pepper and prepared to think about things like bleach and green grass, but instead found myself roped in with the very first, “Have you ever found yourself reacting with anger, manipulation, yelling, guilt, spanking, or other ill behaviors?” Since I had used all of those techniques that very afternoon, I was curious to know if other options might actually exist.

Turns out I got more from this escape/escapade than an hour of adult only conversation. It has been five days since our first class and I have successfully cut my anger down by at least 75%. No no, don’t clap, really, stop.

Okay go ahead.

Have you ever gotten up in the morning, looked in the mirror, and wondered if an evil leprechaun cast a spell on your hair? Two mornings ago I wondered that. This morning, I think the leprechaun might have actually moved in and bedded down somewhere up there.

I need a haircut so badly it hurts. No really, trying to fix my hair is actually painful. For the past week and a half I have painfully resorted to (I can hardly say it) hot rollers. That’s right, pulled the old set out of hair balls and dusted it off to keep me from killing myself while in the throes of Bad Hair Life. Hot rollers are painful. They require hand/eye coordination and the ability to grin and bear the tugging, jabbing and stabbing involved with the procurement of Decent Hair.

The thing is, I don’t only need a haircut, I’m at the tail end of The Great Hair Exodus that comes with the birth of a child. June is nearly ten months old. That means for the past six months my hair has been jumping off my head in mass suicide attempts, leaving me with what can only amount to a third of it’s previous population.

Now granted, new hair is bursting out all over. This sounds good, and in a year I’ll be glad, but at the moment new hair means that no matter how I fix it, I have an inch and a half high halo of fuzzy, sometimes curly baby hair that won’t cooperate.

Today it is in a clip. I haven’t washed it since Thursday (that’s right, FIVE DAYS) and don’t intend to do anything but keep it hidden up, back, or under a hat (possibly under a paper bag) until tomorrow, when my darling wonderful Lezlie Girl will work her magic and make me presentable.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go ferret out that leprechaun before he convinces any more neighborhoods to evacuate.

My nephew got married this weekend, hence my blogging vacation (48 lonely hours). With my ninth wedding anniversary just days away (a lonely ninth) I gotta hand it to everyone in today’s non-committal world who actually takes the plunge.

Friday night at the wedding dinner we went around offering advice and consolation. One of the givers chose not to offer any advice, because she said no one ever takes it anyway. She’s got a point. I know plenty of experienced spouses offered sage wisdom the night of our wedding, and I can’t remember a word of it. Stupid, stupid newlywed.

So here are a few Highly Suggested But Rarely Practiced fighting fair tips that can make the first year (or the ninth) rock. If you happen to be one of those couples who never fights (I hear you’re out there somewhere…probably floating around in the cosmos all lovey-dovey like) good luck with that. Otherwise, please take my random tidbits with a handful of sea salt.

1. DO go to bed angry. Whoever suggested couples should mend their fences before turning off the light did not have my (WONDERFUL) marriage. We logged so many all-nighter’s our first year because someone told us you’re not supposed to go to bed angry. We finally realized that sleep and sunrise are the two best cures for a stalemate. So if you hate him, sleep on it. He’s usually cuter in the morning.

2. Dr. Phil always says, “Do you want to be happy, or do you want to be right?” Seriously. Is it worth ramrodding your rightness down your spouse’s throat just for the personal satisfaction of waving the “I Told You So” flag around for an afternoon? Like that really makes things better? The best line I ever learned in our second year of marriage (to be delivered without sarcasm), is “Well honey, you might be right.” Smile. Kiss. Turn around and roll eyes. This brings much peace.

3. Sometimes it helps to throw things. I haven’t had to utilize this technique for a number of years, and there are those who belong to the school of thought that there is something evil in over-handing a pillow or screwdriver across the room, but I have found moments where this little trick calms me right down. And I don’t recommend throwing screwdrivers. Think soft, pliable, preferably made from plastic.

4. Kendra suggested giving your spouse the benefit of the doubt. In other words, he (or she) might say something that feels callous and unkind, but in reality they just communicate differently. Probably not best to jump to the conclusion that they’re out to slam you because of semantics.

5. Hold tight to your rose-colored glasses.

6. Don’t be afraid to take a time-out. If you’re about to hurl something unkind your spouse’s way (words or screwdrivers), pay attention to the panic button and evacuate asap. Large quantities of oxygen sucked in before responding tends to slow the Caddy Remark Steamroller down.

7. Don’t just take space, be willing to give space. Let the man sit in his cave and chill out, he’s usually much better afterwards.

8. If at all possible, take an I’m sorry and run with it. Our first year of marriage we spent way too much time ping-ponging “I’m sorry’s” across the board waiting for the other player to drop his paddle and accept. If you get an apology, take it. It might be another two days before they try again.

I would kill to have Jason around right now to practice fighting and making up with. If you have a spouse who’s present and accounted for, lucky you. So go kiss him already.

That’s right, this is the Big Day where I am finally in print. My first article is The Animal Fair (a sample I sent last week which she wanted to use) so you’re welcome to find the link and read it on my blog. BUT.

Starting next week, I will not post my column on my blog. That’s right, what goes in print, stays in print. Of course, if you’re really that desperate I mean interested in reading my column, you can get a subscription to The Vidette here. If you live in Grays Harbor, you should have one anyway, it’s a great county paper. 

Next week’s article will be titled, “Confessions of a Carbaholic”.

I have to whine just a little more about this new blog. Notice the rather strange photo up top? Yeah, that’s my mouth. That’s what happens when you get a new blog with wordpress and have no idea how to make pictures fit. It cuts a slice out and slaps it up there in an unrecognizable form. I tried to tell myself that maybe it was a little modern and cool that way, but even I didn’t buy that one. Not loving the new blog yet.

In other news, I’ve been thinking lately about something a kid from high school once said to me. I was having a tough day and Ben Dougherty gave me this piece of advice. He said,

“If you really need a good laugh, put on socks and tennis shoes and stand in front of the mirror naked. It’ll get you every time.”

So far I haven’t been that desperate, but I’ll admit there were a few moments this week when I seriously thought about it.

ps – check out this link to see the latest fad in European restaurants. Mother’s Milk. I wonder where I sign up?