You know the thing that really burns me about the Jon and Kate fiasco? Kate. She is kind of pukey. I haven’t really watched the show in the past (because I can’t stand the way she talks to her husband), but in light of their Big Reveal I did a little googling (which is really just virtual ogling).

Who does this lady think she is? Or the bigger question, why would anyone pay her to be alive, let alone drop a $20 for her autograph? When I think of those sweet babies and the circus their life has become it makes me want to drive a van through her front room and snatch those kids out of the lime light. (I would then deliver them to CPS or something, because no way do I want to bring all that home.)

Having children is such a priviledge. She obviously had to work hard to get them (because Mother Nature doesn’t really do that whole six at once thing), where did it all go wrong? The answer to that is simple. Money. Money money money.

It’s amazing how many people are obsessed with having and earning and hoarding money. I was just visiting with a lady the other day about her daughter. The girl and husband are in some dire financial straights, soon they won’t be able to make their Lexus and Mercedes lease payments, and the girl (who has three kids) doesn’t know what she’ll do without her clothing allowance. The worst part? Her parents want to help them. With money. By giving them more.

I gotta say, listening to this made me want to go shop at Savers. The best thing about this whole Dave Ramsey cult following that we’ve joined is the not stressing about how to pay for things. Because we’re so obsessed with spending as little as possible, we always seem to have what we need for “possible”. At the end of the pay period, I skip around the house joyfully if I can scrounge up an unspent $40 in cash to put toward The Mountain. It’s a brilliant mind shift, believe me.

Whoever said money was the root of all evil and contention really knew their stuff. (It might have been God, but I need to check on that.)

My six-year-old has decided to go into business for himself. You know, sometimes his gene pool is so transparent. Check out this week’s column for the story.

(Have I mentioned yet that my T-shirts are for sale at The Quilted Bear in Ogden?)

So the June Bug got hold of a Sharpie the other day.

We all know the dangers of Sharpies, in fact, I think some mother gave them that name, hoping to deter kids from using them because they’re “sharp”, like knives. It was a nice thought, but no banana.

So my little daughter comes up to the kitchen calling my name. She’s been quietly downstairs, playing with her brothers, leaving me peacefully alone. Yes, I should have known. (Actually, I think I did know but decided to chance the results because the “peacefully alone” part was so fantastic.)

I turn my head and what do you think I see? A little raccoon. She had used that Sharpie, not on the walls, or the couch, or her brothers, not on a book or the keyboard or some random important piece of paper, but on her eyes. My daughter had applied (rather successfully) eye liner.

Yes, she looked like a goth who’d been in a bar fight, but she was so proud of herself. You would think she’d learned to tie her shoe while playing the piano, she was so proud of herself. And let’s be honest, I was proud too. My baby…such a girl.

Here’s the part where I tell you that I couldn’t find the camera and I hate myself. Sob.

You know what I love? I love that when one door slams in your face, Heavenly Father always manages to wedge open a window to help cushion the blow–even if it’s only so you can stick your head out and puke from disappointment.

The bad news first. Well, it’s good news that ends badly–for now. I got a big fat rejection this weekend for my brilliant middle reader series, Polly Presley: From Fat to Famous (it’s up on Authonomy.com if you’ve got time and like middle reader torture).

I mean come on, what nine-year-old doesn’t want to read about me at age ten? I was so fantastically obnoxious (please do not point out that some things never change) and chubby and overconfident–it’s a masterpiece and the first of many Polly Presley books. Nine-year-old girls all over the world are going to want to read about fat little Polly trying to get famous (again, no need for the “some things never change” lecture).

So I got a big ‘ole rejection today. It’s a bigger rejection than normal because I actually met this editor a few months back and actually took his advice (which was really good). Then to have him shut me down? Talk about your personal rejection.

(I will say here that I’ve been very prayerful that I find the right agent, at the right time, so I kind of feel like it must be divine intervention. That way I don’t feel too terrible that he’s now rejected me at ages ten and thirty.)

As for the window. This weekend I got another email from an editor at The Standard Examiner, northern Utah’s main paper. It’s a huge paper, one of the biggest circulations in the state. Anyway, they want my column! They’re going to start publishing me weekly in their online “Currents” section starting the first week of July!!

So at the end of the weekend, it all kind of evened out. But let me tell you, if you’re thinking about trying to break into this industry, you should probably get yourself an industrial strength skin to go with your query letters because it can be painful. And joyful. (But really, mostly painful.)

I have a new DVR addiction.

We all know I’m fanatical about watching So You Think You Can Dance, as we all should be, but my sis-in-laws have gotten me started on Oxygen’s Tori and Dean, Home Sweet Hollywood.

Oh my gosh. I love this show. The funny thing is, I’ve always thought that Tori Spelling was possibly the worst actress network television has ever employed, ever. Seriously, have you seen the girl try to deliver a line? It’s actually painful to watch.

But in real life? I love her. Yes, she’s freaky skinny (do not ask me how), and sometimes she and Dean get a little to “I wuv you” even for me, but all in all, I actually like this family.

Maybe what I really like is watching them idealize their family time (two small children, ages 18 months and five months). It’s  kind of hysterical. Like when Dean and the nanny (Heaven forbid the kids outnumber you) planned a family outing to the aquarium, he was so excited to show the kids all the fish. Because come on, we all know 18 month old kids are at a prime age to make lasting memories. Of course, the entire thing was a bust because babies couldn’t care less whether or not the balooga whale likes tuna, but hey, they made a memory. Woo hoo!

We’ve all done this. I still do this. I regularly think up these theoretically fantastic excursions that routinely bomb. (Like the time I took the kids to the farmer’s market and let them get their faces painted–no one told me they would actually turn into wild animals.)

So it’s Transportation Week at our house right now. We were going to ride the Front Runner into Salt Lake today and have lunch, then ride it home. Then I watched Tori and Dean and remembered what it’s like to take three small children anywhere, especially when one of them is three (or six or eighteen months).

And so, we instead transported ourselves to the local McDonald’s Drive-Thru where I instructed them on the fine art of getting food “to go”. Because that’s an important form of transportation, right? Food to go? They were so happy, I was so happy. We made it home in one piece.

Sometimes I think we should be a reailty tv show. We’d call it, “How to raise kids without feeding them vegetables”. CPS would love us.

My little sis-in-law is getting married next week so we threw her a bachelorette party. Since I’m saving the meat of the story for the paper, I thought I’d treat you to photos instead. Enjoy!

These are most of her past, present, and future sisters, plus the moms.

We might have swung by Kristina's favorite naughty Mormon store on our way to the party...

I have no idea where this picture was taken. (These are our best naughty Mormon expressions.)

Hubba hubba.

I think I need to get myself one of these.

Final rounds of the "Speed" tournament. And the winner is...

The bride! Hayley whoops her new mom-in-law's trash and takes home the prize (Jake).

Yes, there was leg wrestling.

And toenail painting.

This wasn’t all, we played oldies but goodies–Taboo, Apples to Apples…less competitive games that you don’t have to think about. Notice how all the cameras conveniently disappeared when it came time to get into the hot tub? Funny how that works.

Either way, it was a rocking party with the best girls in the world. Congrats Hayley, love ya, babe. The rest of the story will come out in the paper later this month, so stay tuned.

Have you ever noticed that you can say just about anything you want about a person as long as you tag it with, “Bless her heart”? I met a really horrid lady, bless her heart, in Costco last week. Check out this week’s column for the whole story.

Okay, so my technologically advanced girlfriend’s husband, Mike, insisted that I fix my blog site so it has “feed”. To be honest, I have no idea what people actually to do with “feed”, other than throw it out to cattle in the winter, but that is the rhyme behind my new front page. (Note the little “feed” sticker up there to your left? That’s the one.)

See, I’m not really fru fru-ey on the blogging front. In real life, I would happily wear sequins and heels every single day just to drive car pool, but my blog is my bling-free environment. Not because I’m really all that interested in simplifying my life, but because virtual bling is way over my head. Exhibit A: the missing side bar. I don’t even have my column link figured out yet (how did I do that last time? Oh. Right. Alison Wonderland did it for me while I was napping. Good, good blog friend.)

So if you can all bear with me, I will shortly get my act together and try to put up something colorful and enlightening up to taunt and tease you. In the meantime, I’ll try to pepper my entries with plenty of spelling errors and almost-bad words like “crap” just to keep you coming back for more.

I hope you’re feeding into this, it’s the best I can do.

ps – And the photo at the top? Now that’s my eye.

So my husband and I rarely watch television together anymore. I remember when we were first married, movie night was a lovely mix of action and romance. We’d rotate between Meg Ryan and Arnold Schwarzenegger (pre-politics era). They were the good old days when my darling appreciated funny, kissy movies .

Oh how times change.

Don’t ask me why, but over the past few years, every time I bring a romantic comedy home, he kisses my cheek, tells me to enjoy the show, and heads to the internet to see if BYU’s Cougar Board has updated itself in the last ten seconds. He’s very sweet and polite about the whole thing.

I hate it.

(Can I add that this sometimes feels like a personal rejection? That by rejecting romantic comedy, he’s rejecting me since I’m kind of romantic comedy live and in person. I should tell him that sometime…next argument, for sure.)

Anyway, there are only three shows (aside from the random action flick) that we watch together: 24, The Office, and House Hunters International. There, I said it. We’re totally addicted to House Hunters. We tape it every single night and watch reruns religiously.

We tell ourselves we’re just doing research, since our next move will be overseas (1-2 years). But who are we kidding? We’re addicted to the suspense. Which will they choose, #1 with the roomy kitchen, #2 with the big back yard, or #3 with the classic Siberian charm? We sometimes pause it right before the big reveal to go over the pros and cons, then bash them relentlessly when they fail to choose wisely.

My favorite aspect of the show is how every single buyer wants “space to entertain”. You’d think the entire world was full of dinner parties the way people talk. They’re convinced that the only reason they’re anti-social is because they don’t have enough room. Trust me, each and every one of them is completely deluded. None of them are having rolicking parties just because they purchased something with a “great room”.

I know this from experience. When we bought our first duplex in grad school, we entertained religiously, always having parties and game nights. It was cramped but it was fun.

Then we had kids.

The End.

So if you’re not social, don’t blame it on your house. Blame it on those blasted kids that constantly mess up your great room with things like jam covered bar stools, and permanent marker on your newly painted white built-ins. And the whole, “If you build it” bit? They will come, all right–“they” being loads and loads of neighbor kids who want to bring their sticky fingers over to play at your big, roomy, “party” house.

Hey, it’s a life.

My husband is going on *Treck. Alone. Without me.

Yee-haw!

I’ll be honest, the thought of tromping around the prairie for three days and three nights without the convenience of lipstick or a bath, all the while chaperoning a few hundred horny teenagers without any manufactured entertainment to ocupy their little addled minds, kind of makes me woozy.

And the thing is, I know people who would kill to go on Trek. Apparently getting picked as a ward Ma and Pa is considered a high-currency calling around here. My girlfriend will spend this next week in mourning due to her husband’s newly booted broken leg. (They were supposed to be a Ma and Pa, then he fractured his leg. He wanted to wait until after Trek to get the boot. His doc said that would be fine, as long as he was okay with having a “real” pioneer experience. Tricia offered to just put him down if it got too bad, but he decided to stay home in the end.)

So my good, sweet, overworked husband has been slaving away collecting tin cans and suspenders for his journey into the unknown. To be honest, Trek is kind of like EFY in pioneer garb, minus the ra-ra cheers and plus 50 miles of walking. Again, have I mentioned that I don’t have to go?

Personally, I can feel the Spirit just fine from my living room, without the mosquitos and the rain ponchos. Hey, I wasn’t saved for the latter days for nothing.

*Trek is a three day excursion where the Mormon youth head into the wilderness, dressed in pioneer clothes, and pull handcarts over a really long distance. It’s designed to help them appreciate how good they’ve got it, while creating lasting friendships and gaining a better understanding of the Gospel and the sacrifices so many have made to make it available for us. Also for torture.