My five year old is kind of a liar.

Today he told my girlfriend, “When I grow up, I’m going to marry a girl and have two tramplines!” Because obviously the best way to measure your success is by the number of trampolines peppering the backyard.

Yesterday she took him to the car wash.

“I’ve never been to the car wash before!”

“Yes he has,” I said over the phone.

“Harrison, your mom says you’ve been to the car wash plenty of times. What are you talking about?”

“Oh. Well, actually, I think I’ve been there…five times. No ten. No, maybe it was more like…thirty. No, a hundred. Yeah, a hundred times.”

And today when his teacher got him in trouble for back talking? “It’s not my fault! I just have a really big imagination!” She thinks I need to write a chilren’s book SERIES about Harry going to school.

That’s her nice way of saying he’s got character.

Categories: Uncategorized

Ty Burrell

I met someone famous. Kind of. Okay, I stared down someone famous. Just click my face to read this week’s column before it’s gone.

Okay, so after like 12 dedicated seasons, I finally decided not to watch The Bachelor this time. I mean, come on, the guy has a kid. It’s one thing for a single jerk to mack on 25 women, but a guy with a kid? Tsk tsk.

However, my avoiding TB wasn’t enough to keep me away from Camille’s rockin’ Bachelor party last night (plus I have my sister Jen, who filled my head with enough opinions for the whole cast and crew so I wouldn’t be an idiot when I got there).

Can I just say that the only thing worse than a jerk being a jerk is a nice guy being a jerk?

In case you didn’t watch (or didn’t care), he picked Melissa. He proposed to Melissa. He told Melissa he wanted to spend the rest of his life with Melissa. He let his son love Melissa (so wrong).

Melissa suffers from a long history of being dumped. Her self-esteem with guys is shakey, she’s kind of needy (but totally hot in a Jessica Simpson/Mandy Moore kind of way), and her family wouldn’t even go on the show to meet the guy because THEY’RE SMART.

Six weeks after the (faked) proposal, Jason get’s Melissa on camera, on national television, and dumps her. Not just the old “This isn’t really working out” dumping that can and should be done in a private place like a car or a living room or a dentist office, but the kind of dumping that the Papperazzi get together and eat popcorn over. Right smack in front of the cameras and millions of viewers.

She didn’t even see it coming. He didn’t even tell her ahead of time. IT WAS COOKED.

Then, in the space of a commercial break, he puts the old ex in the limo and brings out the other girl, the ditched girl, the girl he dumped at the final rose.

I gotta tell you, we were about wetting our pants over at Camille’s. There was so much hope that maybe she’d get smart and smell a rat, and at first she looked like she might be skeptical enough to doubt his wavering sincerity, but in the end, she sucombed to his stupid watery eyes and rode away in her limo to paradise.

The only consolation? She’ll get to see exactly how he dumped the other girl, and exactly what the other girl said. The ex-fiance didn’t mince words when it came to telling him exactly how horrible and stupid and jerky he was. I’ll be at this point she’s thinking she got out by the skin of her teeth.

What is it about dieting that makes me crave bread pudding?

I’ve had a few lax weeks, enjoying the finer P’s in life (pancakes, pizza, pasta), and the scale is telling me about it (three pounds, yikes). So this past week I’ve carefully cut out those insulin-resistant inducing treats and traded them in for some good old salad, salami, and smoked salmon (okay, I don’t really eat smoked salmon, but I would if I could afford it. And I like the iliteration).

But yesterday was Fast Sunday, which meant that by nine am I was STARVING for carbs. Beautiful fluffy, empty carbs. Carbs that love you so much, they’ll hang around for a while to keep you company. They don’t really turn into fat, no siree, they turn into comfort cells that snuggle you when you’re down. I needed those carbs.

It just so happens that I’ve been conveniently saving the backside of my last few loaves of homemade bread, knowing that they’d come in handy for “something”.

Yeah, something like bread pudding. With homemade sweet bread. And whole milk. And butter. Oh Heavenly days, I’m such a sinner.

Our new renters moved in on Thursday. They live in our basement MIL appartment, it’s a great space and they’ve been really excited.

I doubt they’re feeling so excited right about now.

It’s like someone turned on the overdrive volume switch around here. I swear, I’ve never seen Harrison melt down so many times in a single day, and it’s now been going on for 48 hours. And Rex…that kid has the loudest voice on Planet Earth. They could do a documentary about his voice.

Do you know how hard it is to use my Quiet Voice (which isn’t very quiet) when my kids are holding a blow torch to the last few threads of my rope? I can tell you right now, these people think we’re 1. the worst parents with 2. the worst children. They have one baby, nine months.

THEY HAVE NO IDEA.

The worst part (aside from me having the flu and feeling like crap)? Today was our Big Budget Meeting. That means that Jason and I (who hardly ever fight about money) had to sit down this morning and hammer out seven pages (SEVEN PAGES) of expenses. Do you have any idea what that does to a marriage, especially when there are three screaming children constantly interrupting the already heated budget meeting?

I would rather flush my piddly amount of cash down the toilet than relive this mornings frustration and chaos. And I’m seriously doubting the smarts behind our whole “fourth child” plan. What are we thinking?

The good news is that Jason just left with all three kids to spend the day down with his family, thus giving me a few hours to recoup and sleep this off.

Do you think it’s possible to sleep off three kids?

I’m going to spend ten minutes on the computer, and then I must get my lazy February Funk rear in gear and do something productive. I’ve been pushing the laundry piles around my house and–IF THAT BABY TURNS OFF THE MOVIE ONE MORE TIME I’M GOING TO SCREAM–puttering around after my very messy children all week (and re-tiling the basement and scouring the apartment). Somehow I feel flat. Maybe it’s the lack of caffeine (I’m giving it up for Lent. When does Lent start?) and carbs, but I’ve got to find a little motivation.

SHE DID IT AGAIN. Why? Why must she torment Rex and me by constantly turning off the DVD player? Do you know how irritating it is to restart a DVD after a power failure? I kind of want to shoot myself in the knee so I’ll have an excuse to remain seated.

And what’s the deal with kids, anyway? I’ve been trying to do more than co-exist with them these last two weeks, like, actually go out of my way to parent here and there (but not too much, I don’t want them to get too used to it in case I die). I’ve been horribly aware that they’re going to grow up and make all their own choices, and if I miss this chance to teach them how to do that then they’re in trouble.

I think sometimes as moms our kids seem more like laundry piles than future fantastic adults. Always dirty or dirtier, usually in the way of whatever big people stuff we’re working on, impossible to ignore because they just keep growing.

I’ve got to be better. Yell less, hug more, look them in the eyes when they’re talking to me, and pray (a lot) harder about this whole parenting gig. It’s short and I have this feeling my salvation is going to be partially determined by how well I do my part.

Yikes.

I’ve been suffering from mood swings and I haven’t been able to figure out why. I’m not a moody person, what’s happening to me?

Yesterday morning I left for pilates at 5:30 am, groggy and tired. In a rash attempt to rouse my sleepy self, I did the unthinkable and grabbed a Diet Dr. Pepper on my way to the gym.

Now, in my mind, I don’t drink pop. Sure, we’ve got a 24 pack of Diet Dr. Pepper and a 12 pack of Diet Cherry Coke in the garage fridge, but that’s only for company. And Jason. And emergencies (like 11:30 am or 2:45 pm or dinner time). I don’t drink pop, no way.

When I got home from the gym, I felt so chipper. I happily prepared breakfast and spent the next two hours cleaning and doing laundry. I was so seriously on the ball, it was most impressive.

Then my energy started to fade, kind of like old jeans that aren’t cool faded, but lame. By 1:30 pm I was cranky. That’s right, rotten, barky, and mood-e. Why? I asked myself, why why why?

By 2:30 I was stomping around, glaring at the whites and cursing the baby for ruining another 100 piece puzzle (where does she find them?).

Then I had a great idea. I know what I need, I said to myself, I need a Diet Dr. Pepper! Yes! That will make me feel so happy! It’s sweet and fizzy and yummy and–

No. No no no no. I can’t be an addict. I don’t even drink pop. Much. I’d better try one right now, just to see if it actually makes a difference. Not because I need one or anything…

And it was kind of like sick, caffienated magic. In a matter of frantically guzzled moments, I went from Mr. Wheeler to Mr. Walker.

Must. Break. Addiction…

I had a horrific dental experience. If you didn’t get the chance to read about it, click here for my weekly column before it’s gone (Friday).

I’m off to scour our appartment before our new unsuspecting renters move in. If they only knew about the herd of elephants we keep upstairs…

Pouting is so much cuter with pig tails. This is what happens when the June Bug doesn’t get her way. 

And what’s with heading to the fridge for comfort? Crazy that she already knows where to go when life gets you down. Nothing like a bottle of chocolate milk or a wedge of Salami (which she loves) to soften the blow.

This girl is seriously determined. When she wants up and I don’t comply, she’s taken to biting my inner thigh. This is particularly bad during yoga when I’m wedged into Downward Dog, or working in the kitchen with hot oil or knives. I will be impressed if she makes it to fifteen months. 

And as far as speaking goes, most of her communication is gibberish–but do not be deceived. Women can say a lot with one or two words. “Fine” is a good example. Amazing how one little word can cover so much ground.

She can say “chocolate” and “Jesus” though, so I guess she’s got the two most important covered.

(We’re currently working on the many intricacies of “fine”.)

Good things come to those who try to save money.

Let me tell you what followed that fantastical post by my main man.

My darling girlfriend Tricia took our three kids on Friday afternoon and told us not to return for 24 hours. Jason then surprised me with a couple’s massage. Sounds great, right? But ten minutes into our date, bad news struck. One of the massage therapists broke her ankle and they had to reschedule. Nice romantic start.

But this cloud’s silver lining came in the form of a rescheduled massage (this Friday), and they’re giving it to us half price. That’s right, we’re getting two 50 minute massages for $39.00. Beat that, baby.

We headed out to dinner, and Jason treated me to 12 beautifully bloody ounces of prime rib (mmm), then informed me that we were going to a comedy club in Ogden. Yay!

This club is known for being pretty clean, so we hurried off to buy our tickets. Unfortunately for us, the comedian they had was a national funny man big-wig, so they wouldn’t take our twofer one coupon. Plus, they told us we’d have to spend a minimum $10 per person on food and beverages. After 12 ounches of dinner? Talk about unappetizing.

I felt kind of sick paying the money, and so before handing over the cash, I asked the girl if the comedian was clean. “Not this guy,” she says. “He’s pretty much ‘R’ rated.”

I snatched my cash back, smiled at Jason, and we tra-la-la’ed the heck out of there. Can you believe our good luck? Now next Friday will include a massage, plus a get one free coupon to the comedy club, where we will spend $10 a person on dinner instead of going to some over-priced steak house! To top it off, next Friday is the ten year anniversary of our first date.

I ask you, could any date have gone better? My magical date was multiplying and reproducing under my very own rose-colored glasses.

The next morning, we awoke to sounds of–nothing. That’s right, our house was calm. Quiet. Peaceful. No blood curdling 5 am bottle call from the June Bug, no 6 am “Mommy, Can I play the Wii? Mommy, I want lunch! Pancakes, Mommy, pancakes! I need to go pee-pee! I want candy! MAMA MAMA MAMA MAMA!” It was bliss.

At 9:15 am Jason and I headed out for his last big date surprise. I dressed comfortably and confidently, sure that I had his secret all figured out. We were going to the shooting range, of course. I know his tricks, he can’t fool me.

Imagine my surprise when we pulled up in from of the Orson Gygi Culinary Arts Center for an authentic Chinese cooking class.

Three hours of Jason in an apron. Let me tell you, he’s never looked better.