Committment

September 17, 2008

I have a problem with commitment. 

So here I am, on the fringes of total and complete small county newspaper fame and glory, and I’m suddenly worried that perhaps, just perhaps, the pressure will be too great. I will fold like a piece of 20 pound printer paper. I won’t be able to do the “C” word. 

This wouldn’t be the first time. During my last four years of public school I didn’t do a whole lot of kissing. None, in fact. This was by choice, Elma didn’t have a whole lot to chose from. But as I neared my 18th birthday, I started feeling like maybe I was really missing out on this whole kissing thing. 

I made the mistake of mentioning said dry spell to my nephews, Carson and Micah, who were just a few months older than me and two of my closest friends. They decided what we (we?) needed was a plan. Who knew kissing required so much foreplay I mean forethought? They wanted a short list of possible suspects from me, people I deemed kissable. I could only think of two. To protect the innocent, I will change their names. 

Since one of my possible suspects was no longer attending Elma High School via graduation/college, we really only had one option. We’ll call him Alan Catterbrain. I thought I could probably bring myself to kiss Alan Catterbrain, and my nephews were sure they could get the stars lined up just peachy like. 

So one fateful Friday night, directly following an Elma High School football game, my nephews and their dates met myself and unsuspecting Alan Catterbrain at the Health Club (my sister owned it so we had after hours access) to go hot tubbing. That’s right, hot tubbing. They were leaving nothing to chance. Poor poor Alan. He had no idea what they (we?) had planned for him. 

Let’s face it, I had no idea what we had planned for him. At that time in my life, I was no seductress. I can remember the sheer panic when the boys insisted I drive Poor Alan home, wink wink nod nod. Alan was all for it. So home we went. Panic. Fear. Clear understanding that I was now committed to The Plan. 

Suffice it to say, we hadn’t gotten very far with The Plan when Alan’s phone rang. It was my father. Who else but good old Dad would think to call and break up my little party? Apparently he had used his second sight (I am completely serious here) to track me down because he KNEW I was up to no good. I had a flawless late night track record, the man had trusted me for four years without checking up on me, and the one night I decide to sew a few wild oats, he knows? 

My father proceeded to chew Poor Alan up one side and down the other, making the night’s ambush complete. He finally spit him out with a “And don’t you forget it!” Poor Alan was pretty shook up, but it was nothing compared to me. Can we say pain? Tragedy? Total parent/child humiliation?

The next Monday during 4th period (swing choir) Alan came up and actually had the nerve to put his arm around my waist and attempt to whisper something in my ear. I was so horrified and embarrassed by every aspect of our secret rendezvous (and fearful that someone might find out) that I couldn’t even look at the kid. It took months for me to get over it. 

Needless to say, it wasn’t the first time I kissed and skadaddled. I don’t know how Jason hooked me. I guess when the time to commit is right, you just know. 

Well, here’s hoping.

Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: , , ,

The Salami Way of Thinking

September 16, 2008

After much chatter and speculation, I am about to come clean on the Salami Diet. This is deep, deep stuff. But I feel it is only fair that I share my Skinny Secrets with the world and beyond (in case anyone from another galaxy would like to wear a size 6).

Let me just say something. I have not always been skinny. I mean, I was once, then I got married and I wasn’t. Then I got pregnant, then I got even more not skinny, then I got skinny, then I got pregnant again and skinny again, then I moved and got fat and got pregnant and fatter and had the baby and have been getting skinny ever since. Got it?

Now I can share with you how I have found eternal skinny-ness. There are two parts to the Salami Way of Thinking. First is the eating and second is the mind power.

Part I – How to Eat Salami

The eating is simple. I eat half (sometimes a fourth) of what I used to for meals, and fill in the snack gaps with power foods like salami. Salami is fantastic because it’s high protein and high fat. They say when you hit a diet plateau it’s smart to up the fat intake so your body thinks it’s getting something great. That’s where the salami comes into play. As long as I continue to eat it on a regular basis, my body seems to think we’re not really dieting. See the smartness here? All that fat went right to my brain and tricked it good like. Besides, I don’t feel like I’m dieting. I’m just eating salami and I love it.

Breakfasts consist of either a protein shake that I find repulsive but choke down anyway because it is actually quite filling, or a few bites of whatever my kids are eating. When I say a “few” I mean a “few”. Not two pancakes. I chase brreakfast with a jug of water and promptly forget about food for the next few hours. (You have to work your portions down slowly, by the way. Otherwise your body gets mad.)

Salami at 10:00. Or a handful of Wassabi Clean Out The System nuts, or a piece of California Roll with brown rice (piece? slice?). I just make sure to limit my calorie intake and still eat something that has a punch of flavor and protein. And fat. Gotta have the fat.

Lunch is usually a salad or something comparable, whatever I have time for. Just don’t think too much about it. Another snack, a lean cuisine for dinner (or a salad or soup), and a few sugar free candies thrown in throughout the day when I need something sweet. In case you’re wondering, I don’t hit the carbs very often. Think 80/20. Carbs and sugars only 20% of the time. Never after 3 pm.

Oh yeah, Diet Coke. Not everyday, but now and then. Or caffeine free Diet Dr. Pepper.

Part II – Salami Mind Power

Your brain has three parts (according to my sister Jenny). The first is our conscious brain, the second is our subconscious brain. You’ve all heard about the importance of using your conscious brain to tell your subconscious brain what you want it to hear, right? Like saying to yourself, “I am skinny and hot. I am a size seven. I am a zombie talking in front of the mirror like an idiot”.

The problem with this is that most people don’t access the third part of their brain: Mr. Emotion Man. If you don’t throw a real honest to goodness positive emotion into the equation, nothing happens. So, when I decided that I was tired of being periodically fat, I started to access this third chunk of brain power. I’ve been doing this for eight months now. How? I NEVER talk about how much weight I want to lose or how fat I am. I NEVER talk about my weight stalling. Heck, I try not to talk about my weight at all unless it’s to say something like, “Well, I just love it when I weigh 130 pounds, yep, I’m so happy there.” Then I change the subject. Or I say something like, “It’s so easy to be skinny, my body just wants to be 130, what can I do?” In fact, 130 is the only number I ever use in casual conversation.

While these phrases started out as figments of my conscious imagination, they have successfully worked and tricked my body into total body belief. December 3, 2007 I weighed 196 (the day before Junie came). This morning I was 132. Go ahead, tell me the Salami Diet doesn’t work.

The last thing you have to know is this: You have to pretend you’re an actress. You must stop at every mirror in your house regularly and say out loud, “Man, I look so hot today! I can’t believe how skinny I’m getting!” Suck in, tuck your pelvis under (as my sister Koni would say) and stroll over to the fridge for some salami. Do this repeatedly all day.

In a few weeks you won’t have to do it anymore, your body will be a believer. Have a friend who doesn’t care that you call and brag about how skinny you are (thanks Tricia). Even if it isn’t true, you must attach that excitement to the words. The happy, joyful, I love my body excitement. Only then will your subconscious mind believe.

And then you’ll get skinny.

And that, my friends, is the Salami Way of Thinking.

Filed Under: dieting, salami diet, skinny

I HAVE ARRIVED.

September 15, 2008

I AM A COLUMNIST!

That’s right, you are now reading the words of a soon to be well-known weekly newspaper columnist. Well-known is a relative term here. I don’t actually mean hordes of readers are going to flock to the The Vidette simply to read my stuff, I mean that the few people who actually read it will get to know me really well.

I actually do have some credentials here, a journalism degree isn’t easy to come by. Oh who am I kidding. I went with Journalism because instead of those English Majors who had to write 16 page papers, we only had to write 16 inches. It was VERY EASY to come by. I just never thought I’d actually use it.

But here I am, using using using. Throwing that diploma and my short list of published articles in every editor’s face in hopes that he or she (as it turned out to be) would just publish me already.

Let me tell you, this has been a long hard process. I don’t care how big or small a paper is, editors get dozens of queries a week from hopeful columnists. Anyone who’s ever freelanced or tried to get published knows that as my friend Brandon Mull (popular author of the Fablehaven series) once told me, this industry is designed to keep people out.

(Brandon Mull isn’t actually a personal friend, more like a personal friend of an acquaintance of mine that I got permission to email when I had writing questions and couldn’t find an answer anywhere else on the internet. He’s written back to me both times, however, so I feel that I can safely drop his name whenever humanly possible to make myself look cool.)

Anyway. I have been planning to take the newspaper industry by storm for the past nine months, and in fact only started blogging to see if I could actually write a column and if anyone would ever want to read it. So if you are reading this, YOU ROCK.

And if you live in Washington, specifically the Grays Harbor County area, more specifically East County (serving Montesano, Elma and McCleary), then please subscribe to The Vidette TODAY. No really, myself and My Editor would both wholeheartedly appreciate it. Oh my gosh. I HAVE AN EDITOR.

This is just the beginning. Soon, small weekly newspapers across the country will carry a humorous column about an often overdramatic blond girl and her three or four children and Poor Husband. I will be epidemic! Wait, that might be the wrong word, but it actually fits there so I’ll just go with it.

(PS – You’ll have to wait until after publication to get my weekly article. She’s not going to publish it on her website because then why would anyone buy her paper? See? I’m a MAJOR DRAW. I knew being Miss Grays Harbor 1997 would finally pay off.)

Filed Under: column

Number One and Number Two

September 15, 2008

We have liftoff.

For those of you who don’t really know Rex, he’s not really the most enthusiastic pre-potty trained three-year-old. He’s been known to reply, “I HATE CANDY!” and “No candy, NO CANDY!” when it’s coupled with toilet talk of any kind. I’ve tried potty training him more times than I care to admit. I’ve gotten to the point where the very though of Rex and toilets gives me the kind of anxiety attack that lands my own self on the toilet. But I’m so sick of changing his disgusting diapers. I have two children in size four diapers. That is so wrong.

But today he turned over a new turd. I mean leaf. Did I just say turd? Maybe that’s because my little dumpling actually dropped one of them in his very own toilet all by himself. No adult supervision, no “Need to poo poo yet? I’ve got candy!”, no “Want to sit on your potty chair for a while? I’ve got candy!”, no “Want Mommy to give you an enema? I’ve got candy!” He was flying solo, alone upstairs, while I pretended to know how to play soccer with Harrison in the back yard. I finally started to worry about the two unsupervised kidlets inside so we called it quits and went indoors. What did Harrison find upstairs? Little brother had done the big one AND the big two on his potty all by himself.

Last time I unsuccessfully potty-trained Rex I learned something important. If I make any kind of a big deal about his toilet successes, he will not repeat them. So this time, despite the fact that I was practically wetting my own pants with surprised delight and celebration, I bit my tongue, gave him a gruff, “Good job, son” and handed the kid his blasted candy.

So yay Rexy. Mommy is quietly proud of you. I will not squeal with delight, call Grandma Diane, or even mention your new found skill in front of you. BUT ON MY BLOG I AM FREAKING OUT! YAAAAYY REXY! GO REXY! EVERYBODY SAY “WA_HOO” FOR REXY!

I’ll let you know how tomorrow goes.

Filed Under: potty-training, Rex

Movin’ To The Country, Gonna Eat A Lot of Peaches

September 12, 2008

Yesterday I canned the world’s most expensive free peaches. My neighbor dropped off a bunch of peaches from his tree earlier in the week and my girlfriend Tricia and I spent the afternoon making peach jam (as soon as she left I spoon fed myself an entire jar, no bread necessary). We were so impressed with our domesticity that we decided to can peaches as well.

Her neighbor had a laden tree just waiting for two overambitious stay-at-homers to come along so it could woo them into its peachy clutches. We had such lofty goals. I could picture an entire pantry full of glistening free peaches, all lovingly canned from my own two hands. I thought to myself, my mother cans peaches every year, I know all about canning peaches. I’ve seen her do it a hundred times. No sweat.

Wrong. There was sweat. After an hour of running around town wasting gas while trying to find jar lids (two stores were out), we started The Process. We had all four gas burners blasting as we boiled the syrup, singed the fuzzy coats off and prepared a bath for our bathing beauties.

Have you ever sliced a peach in half and noticed how nicely it split apart? Not these green monsters. We’d dig our nails into them and pry with all our might. Then we’d take the pairing knives and whack chunks off to throw into those bottomless pits otherwise known as quart jars.

Four hours of hard back aching labor and what did we have to show? 12 jars of peaches. Let me break down just how expensive these “free” peaches were.

Two laborers at $20 an hour (our worth) = $160
Lids = $10
Gas Money To Find Lids = $10

Total cost = $180
Wholesale price of finished jars = $15 a jar

I have so much respect for Walmart. If it wasn’t for Walmart and their cheap peaches, I would probably be dead by the time I’m 40. No wonder pioneer women didn’t live long, if I had to work that hard for all my food plus make clothes plus launder clothes plus nurse babies while making and laundering clothes and canning peaches *big breath*…

I would be glad to die.

Since Tricia hasn’t opened her jars from last year yet, she graciously gave me these lovely hacked up beauties to take home and dress my shelves. I’ve decided that with 12 jars, we will take out one jar each month and gaze at it. Maybe I’ll use it as a center piece.

I’ll tell you one thing, they’re way too valuable to eat.

Filed Under: canning, domesticity

September 11th

September 11, 2008

I woke up this morning and looked out the window. There was an American flag posted on my lawn. This is a nice service the Boy Scouts do for our neighborhood on holidays. But why would there be a flag on my lawn today, I thought, glancing at the calendar. September 11th.

I remember exactly where I was on that morning. We were living in Moscow, ID (Pacific Time) and Jason had left at 5 am to golf. My phone rang around six with a frantic, “Turn on your TV”, so I ran upstairs and flipped it on. I sat there dazed and glued to my television. I watched as those towers fell, one by one. I watched as our country came to the sick realization that we were under attack. Our land, our homes, our businesses and safety, violated.

How could I, in little Moscow, Idaho feel so much fear? I couldn’t bring myself to get ready for work as I sat there, staring, listening, watching. I knew Jason was only golfing, but I felt desperate for him to come home and be safe with me.

I worked at a psychology office at the time, and you won’t believe what something like this does to people with severe anxiety. I remember one lady in particular coming in. We cried together. It sounds so silly now, but the day felt so dark and the loss was so great. It wasn’t just the loss of life, it was the loss of our safety. Our beautiful country, home of the brave and the free, molested.

I have since heard miraculous stories of friends who escaped the tragedy of the Pentagon by moments, and families who still mourn the loss of their loved ones. As our nation turned to God, he heard our rusty prayers and sent miracles. But how soon we forget.

Today I honor those men and women who serve our country in this war of terrorism. I don’t care what you think about the war, I feel pride in a country willing to try and root out the evil behind these atrocious acts. I honor families who sacrifice loved ones, women like Julie Newell, with six small boys and a wonderful husband who isn’t afraid to fight for our country. Julie and Garth, you amaze me.

The war is half a world away, but there is a war. We should remember it every day. We should pray not only for the end of the war, but for victory. We must be victorious. Generations to come will be affected by the outcome of our success or failure. This isn’t about bringing our soldiers home so we’re not lonely, or bringing them home because wars hurt people, this is about securing our country a safe harbor in the terrifying seas ahead.

Until you’ve lived outside this great nation, until you’ve seen just how good we have it, you can’t fully appreciate what those men and women are sacrificing their lives to protect. They aren’t just trying to keep another 9/11 from happening, they’re ensuring that our children can fearlessly ride busses to school, teenagers can hang out at malls and mother’s can safely push their strollers around parks. Do not think for one moment that the evil behind 9/11 would spare our children. It would not.

I am humbled to be an American. With a husband who has chosen a career of service in the United States Air Force, I am honored to join the ranks of men and women who sacrifice loved ones to serve this great country. God Bless America. May that phrase echo throughout the Heavens for centuries to come.

Filed Under: patriotic

Liar Liar Pants On Fire

September 10, 2008

I’m not so good at disciplining Rex (3). It’s not a matter of wrong intentions, it’s more like he doesn’t care. Harrison, as a five-year-old, gets stuck in the corner on a regular basis (because he’s sassy). But now and then Rex really does have it coming.

So yesterday Harrison came upstairs crying because Rex had caused him bodily harm. I wasn’t paying much attention to Harry and kind of mumbled the standard, “Oh, I’m sorry honey blah blah blah”. Then Harrison looks me in right in the glazed over eye and says, “Well, aren’t you gonna give him a time-out?”

Snap. Oh. Right. I’m supposed to give him a time out. “Uh, sure honey,” I respond half-heartedly, trying to surface long enough to play Mommy. But Rex was downstairs and I was upstairs, I didn’t really want to…

“Rexy!” Harrison yells in a cheerful sing-song voice. “Come up and see Mommy! She’s got CANDY!”

Candy? I have candy? Wait wait wait. Is my son really using candy to lure his baby brother into a web of time-out?

“It’s so yummy, come see Mommy!”

Horror, shock, where did he learn this?

“Candy?” Rexy calls out in his chirpy three-year-old voice, “I love candy!” He bounds upstairs and into my reluctant arms.

There was so much wrong with this situation that I didn’t even know where to start parenting. I’m supposed to let Harrison LIE in order to find personal justice? I don’t think so. But then again, I wasn’t jumping out of my chair to discipline his naughty little brother and a little part of me kind of respects his forwardness.

So, Rex got a time-out and Harrison got the lecture about lying. It goes something like this.

“Harrison? Where do liars go?”
“To the Devil,” he mumbles.
“That’s right. And you can’t take Mommy or Daddy or your blankie with you to the Devil. Is that what you want?”
“No.”
“Then apologize to your brother and next time, tell the truth.”

Aren’t I a good Mommy?

Filed Under: discipline, Harrison. Rex, liar

And the Winner Is…

September 9, 2008

Congratulations Godmother Kelly!

I don’t know if it was her fantastic sales pitch or the fact that deep down I feel she’s the most qualified doll owner to name my newly acquired, but KELLY is the winner!!!

Anika Tessie. Sounds fantastic. Tess is probably going to be the middle name of my next daughter, so I love Tessie. I don’t care if they’re close, it’s all in the family.

Thank you ALL for your fantastic contributions to the Cabbage Patch Kid Name Contest. The stories were heart warming and heart breaking, may you all be blessed with real babies to snuggle and name. Or grand babies. Or Godchildren. Whatever suits your fancy.

Filed Under: Uncategorized

Out of the Patch

September 9, 2008

On Saturday I bought my daughter her first Cabbage Patch Kid.

I swung by a garage sale (a serious addiction of mine) and started rummaging through the toys. There, under a kite, was an original 1980 cabbage patch doll. Beautiful yellow (yarn) hair, same outfit she was born in, even the original diaper. I snatched her up like a piece of chocolate cheesecake and hurried to the register. She cost me ten bucks, worth every penny.

As I drove home my mind wandered back to my own cabbage patch doll. Bridgette. According to my mom, she was the last one on the shelf (remember how hard they were to find?) and we were lucky to get her. I know I should have been in love with her and I TRIED to be in love with her, but she wasn’t my kid.

She had short blond loopy hair and dressed like a boy. My best friend Kendra’s doll had long yellow hair and was all girl. Oh, how I coveted that doll. I’d try to kiss and coo over Bridette, but my heart wasn’t in it. I could never really get over the disappointment of that short blond hair, may she rest in peace up in my parent’s attic.

But this doll, this doll, is everything I ever wanted in a Cabbage Patch Kid. I brought her home, washed her clothes, cleaned her face and snuggled down to take a nice big wiff of her head. She’s still got it, that sweet Cabbage Patch smell. Amazing how they never seem to lose it.

But I have one monumental problem. I don’t know her name. We all know how important the official name is, and there is no way for me to backtrack and find it now. So I am taking matters into my own hands. I must name this child.

So I need your help. I am having a Cabbage Patch Kid naming contest. The winner will be granted Godmotherhood. Let’s hear them. Girl. Yellow hair. Baby clothes.

Well?

Filed Under: Uncategorized

The Cart

September 7, 2008

Yesterday I took the entire town to Walmart. Now, Walmart on a Saturday in Utah isn’t such a pleasant experience. There are usually no “big” carts to be had (since there are 49 million Young Mothers With Three Kids) and no close parking spots. Why I thought my family could handle this field trip is beyond me. I guess I was feeling a little reckless.

Rex hit the roof as soon as I started to unfasten his seat belt. I pulled him out and looked around frantically, all I needed was a cart that could hold three kids so I could keep the chaos contained.

I looked at the outdoor cart stall and there it sat: bright blue plastic glistening in the hot September sun, just waiting to save me. But of course, it was the furthest cart in. I would have to pull two entire rows of carts out of the stalls in order to reach it.

My heart sank as I headed toward that evasive cart. June Bug in one arm, Rex hysterically kicking in the other arm, Harrison trying to peel some gum off the middle of the road–there was just no way. I thought of my available limbs. My feet, I’d have to use my feet to pull the carts apart.

At that precise moment an angel in a white (of course white) Ford Explorer stepped in front of me and started shuffling through the carts. She was an older angel, the kind who probably earned her sainthood with three or four or seven kids of her own. She made quick work of those carts and presented me with my prize. Blue. Shiny. Harnesses. Heaven.

What could I say? How could I tell her in one sentence that my husband is on the other side of the country and I’m really lonely and I didn’t think I could do it today and then she came along and saved us all from certain and immediate tears and blubbering? I was trying to think of words and trying not to cry all over my beautiful blue cart when she hopped in her car and drove away. I’m telling you, there are blessings EVERYWHERE.

I think she might have been one of the Three Nephites, I’m not sure.

Filed Under: Uncategorized
«Previous Page
Next Page»

To the Top