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.

Apparently, despite my non-Facebook friendly post, the entire Facebook planet wants to know 25 random things about me. I’m having a hard time believing it. Why would someone want to waste three minutes of their time reading about my life? Oh wait. Forget I said that.

It’s February. The world around is dead and still dying, and my children are not exempt from this. In order to survive, they are sucking all the light and life and marrow and humor and sunshine I have selfishly accumulated and stored inside me over the past eleven months.

In order to ensure that they survive until spring, I have decided to vacate the premises and get out of Dodge. That’s right, I’m going to Elma. Because life is so much better there.

What could they possibly be doing, you ask, that would warrant such an extreme action? June cries and pinches and hangs on my legs/arms/bathrobe (which I seem to wear more and more often these days) all the time. In her defense, she is cutting three molars. Molars are terrible things and I don’t know why they were even invented. She needs some ibuprofen (although it won’t cure sassiness).

Rex refuses to wear any of the fourteen pairs of undies I bought him and instead has an affinity for boxer-briefs. We own two pair. That means I have to be sure to incorporate one of the two into every single load of laundry. Then fish them out. Oh yeah, having him potty trained is way less work.

Harrison is so bored and whiney and (June is screaming her head off as I write this because I refuse to hold her) cooped up he’s ready to run away and join a multi-level marketing scheme. I don’t know what to do with (now I’m holding her and she’s yelling at me for letting her cry) him.

I leave tomorrow morning. Hallelujah.

And in case you were wondering, Jason is stepping in as Mr. Mom until Sunday. This will be so good for him.

*This post is dedicated to my friend Kiren, who is dealing with her own set of life sucking leeches.

Let me tell you about the day after the Super Bowl. Personally, I wouldn’t pay a stale rice cake to watch the game, but I’d hand over a hefty $20 for a ticket to good Super Bowl food.

On Sunday we got together with a crowd from Jason’s office. Most of these people are strangers to me, but the food they brought certainly wasn’t. Let’s just say I wasn’t disapointed. For three hours, I parked myself next to the bean dip and wings and managed to avoid watching a single play. It was the best fast breaker I’ve ever experienced in my life. You should always fast before Super Bowl Sunday, it makes everything taste so much better.

But yesterday? Yesterday I thought I was going die. I was h-u-n-g-r-y all day long. It was like I had a hollow leg (and arm and chest cavity and brain). And so, I turned to my favorite treat in the entire world, my never-get-sick-of-it salad (I should say our salad, because my girlfriend Tricia is just as addicted as I am). I call it the Stinky Sweet Salad, and as long as you incorporate the two main ingredients, you’re headed for salad perfection. They are:

Blue cheese, and poppy seed dressing.

Things I like to add to this include: pecans, walnuts, almonds, dried cherries, dried cranberries, chicken, corn, the kitchen sink–it doesn’t really matter. The stinky sweetness of it all is one of the most satisfying tastes in the world. Yesterday I sauteed some spinach leaves for a few minutes and had it warm, and HOLY HANNAH was it tasty.

I also throw it into wraps for Jason on occasion, he’s just as addicted as I am.

So if you’re looking to change things up, step away from the leftover chips and salsa and try this salad. I guarantee you’ll lick the bowl.

So Jason and I have a new calling. We’re the Valiant 9 primary teachers at church. I’m sure most of you are shocked that I got released from my last calling, what with how well I handled things.

We’ve got five kids in our class–two girls and three boys. It’s been a month now and I’m definitely seeing a pattern emerge.

We start to ask a question.

Both girls raise their hands to answer before we’ve even gotten to the question.

The three boys cross their arms, sigh a little, and look at the ceiling.

What do you do? So we call on one of the girls. Here’s an example.

“Where did we–”

Two hands shoot into the air, as both girls burst out of their chairs in total anticipation.

“Oooh! Oooh!”

“–come from before we came to Earth? Suzie?” (Names have been changed, BTW.)

“I–oh. Well, my sister is dating this boy and he’s, like, talking to the missionaries and stuff, and he was totally going to get baptised but then she decided maybe she didn’t want to date him anymore and now he’s not talking to any of us at all. I mean, can you believe that?”

That’s when the boys lean forward and try to nonchalantly cover their ears. Those poor boys don’t have a chance in Hades. They don’t even try to participate most of the time because they know that no matter what they do, the girls will always be quicker on the draw and have seven times more to say.

And frankly, they might as well figure us out now because some things just never change.

I’m sorry, but I don’t understand what in the heck I’m supposed to be doing on facebook. I get on there and immediately need a nap. Now and then I think up a few people from my ancient past to stalk, and I always let people know if I blogged, but other than that, what’s the point?

Take the whole “request” thing. I am constantly getting hit with relative requests, birthday requests, hug requests, “which dog breed are you” requests–it’s too much, I can’t handle it.

So I ignore them. All of them.

My relatives probably think I’ve disowned the family in general, since I’ve now shot down about 42 relative requests (we have a huge family). As far as Facebook is concerned, I don’t have a birthday, and I have no desire to know which dog/country/dessert best represents me.

Actually, I could tell you that without a test. I’m a Goldendoodle (the blonde ones), Puerto Rico (because I’m dramatic and flamboyant and sometimes border on tacky), and for the dessert? Hmm. Jason just said I’m a Lemon Tart because I’m blonde and sweet and tangy. He also threw in cute and skinny and perfect,  but we know he was just shooting for extra credit so those three don’t count. We also know that “tangy” isn’t necessarilly a compliment.

But don’t get me wrong, I get totally psyched during the initial “Ooh! Someone I used to know!” friend request, but with one peek at their profile page, I’m usually sadly disapointed. Because most people don’t write anything. No juicy details about their life or job or kids or marriage or mortgage, there’s usually nothing there to sink my teeth into.

And so, if you’re a relative/friend/neighbor who is interested in requesting something from me, don’t feel bad when I ignore it. It’s not you, it’s facebook. I feel like all I get is a picture of your face and a few random status updates (which usually consist of valuable information like, “Joy is happy it’s Friday!” or “Suzie doesn’t want to do dishes :(“).

Why doesn’t everyone have a blog?

ps – My dear friend Susan sent me this photo to commemorate this week’s column. Susan, you’re the best. I’m having this blown up and framed for my kitchen.

This has been the busiest week of my life. I feel like I haven’t even had time to call my ailing mother (who is now one breast shy of a set, thank you modern medicine). And what, you ask, have I been doing? Crafting. Cleaning. Cooking. Corresponding. Okay, not corresponding, but I like the illiteration.

So go clicky click on my face and read this week’s column. Regarding domesticity. And marriage. And men.

Sometimes they’re just so stupid.

The June Bug is currently in the throw-myself-back-onto-whatever-hard-surface-is-behind-me-and-get-a-concussion stage. Hello, 14 months. So far this week, she’s made contact with my hard stone kitchen floor (about seven times), the piano, the front door, back door, both couches, and two toilets–not to mention my shins. That lump on the back of her head? She’s not deformed, just spoiled.

She did get wise this morning before hurling her body weight south and paused to look behind her first. Such a smarty pants.

Okay, I have to clock in on The Biggest Loser last night. Did you see what happened? This is exactly why NBC is stupid and mean. If they hadn’t come up with that ludicrous ratings ploy (the one where they sent nine deserving people home), Dave would be finding success instead of bailing out.

They brought back the banished partners last night, and it was heartbreaking to see a kid (cause he’s really young) who needed to be there avoid his issues and basically ask to get voted off. The thing is, these people need way  more than a diet and a treadmill, they need a counselor. Someone like Bob and Jillian to help them conquer the mental mountain, not just the physical one.

That’s what Dave needed, without it, he was like a sad little boat, bobbing around in a really big ocean of hot fudge and french fries. Even if he does lose something for the finale, he’ll never be successful because he doesn’t believe it.

So sad.

Rex just came in and said, “Your father’s not crazy Mommy, he’s a genius!” Guess the movie.

ps – June just hurled herself against the leg of my chair. Nice.

I am done with potty training Rex.

No, seriously, we’re finished. Finished as in, the kid is COMPLETELY potty trained.

I know, it seems only yesterday I was still fretting about getting him to the toilet on time (actually, it was only yesterday). But oh how grateful I am for things like the Holy Ghost, who apparently knows a lot more about potty training than I do.

We were away from home on Saturday night and the kids were with a babysitter. The entire time I was gone, Rex handled all his own bathroom business with no help. Not only did he decline assistance, but he refused to even let the babysitter in.

And here I’ve been fretting that he needs constant assistance because he never actually tells me when he needs to go. This experience, paired with a moment of undeniable revelation (the kind where some unseen mother’s helper yells in your ear really loudly), opened my eyes to the fact that he doesn’t tell me because he doesn’t want me to be there (yes, that’s what they yelled).

That’s right, I have a child who likes privacy. Man he’s gonna be hating life when he learns to read and discovers my blog. For the rest of his life, he’ll run into strangers who know the intimate details of his underpants’ history.

So yesterday morning I vowed to go the entire day without saying a single word to Rex about the toilet. Just let the kid wing it.

The result? His pants were dry all day. I have no idea when he was going to the bathroom, but now and then I’d find a toilet with yellow water and know that somehow, he’d snuck under my radar and used the potty. He even went to the Big House by himself. At one point, I finally had to come in and help him finish up (because he wasn’t sure how to wrap up his performance), but the entire time I was in there he was saying, “Go away Mom! Shut the door! Don’t come in here!”

He is so private, and so not related to me.

There are a few frightfully dangerous downfalls to potty training (in addition to the contamination issues). One of them is being stranded in the house. With a credit card. And the internet.

Oh dear.

See, I’ve always believed that the internet could never usurp real live shopping because real live shopping is so absolutely fantastic. I was born to shop. I have actually been assigned shopping angels. Seriously, if you ever need to shop for anything specific on an insanely tight budget, just take me with you. My angels will ensure that we find it. Don’t believe me? Ask around.

Apparently my shopping talent doesn’t end at the mall, it carries over to my laptop. Who knew there were so many amazing deals to be had on things I don’t actually need?

Since I’m locked in the house so much these days with little poopy pants, I find myself surfing dangerous bargain sites like Old Navy, jcp.com, etsy, Amazon, Overstock, and ebay. I have virtual carts filled to the brim with pointless crap all over the world (wide web). I’m lucky they don’t charge for cart pushing, because I’d be in big trouble.

Pretend shopping works about 90 percent of the time. Fill the cart, sigh a little, and step away from the mouse. But it’s that other ten percent of shopping that gets me in trouble.

Although frankly, who can blame me? I’ve had the same old stupid white duvet cover for SEVEN YEARS. Do you know how sad and wrong that is? And do you have any idea how good the prices at Overstock actually are? Furniture! You can buy FURNITURE!

Is it bad that I know our UPS lady’s first name?

My mom has breast cancer. Tomorrow she goes in for her third surgery, which will hopefully end her time under the knife. Hopefully.

But for the record, if, in a few years, she dies of breast cancer for not being more proactive, I WILL KILL HER. Seriously. I will push my way across the veil and throttle her neck, right there in St. Peter’s presence.

In the next few months, she’ll be undergoing chemo and radiation. We all know what that means. I’ve heard of children and friends who support their hair free loved ones by shaving their heads. Knowing my mother the way I do, I can tell you right now she would not appreciate that one bit.

So, in a humble attempt to show my undying love and support for her future visit to the wig factory, I have chosen to join her in her fight for great hair: I now have extensions. Long, golden, real (fake) extension. Because no one should go through a hair crisis alone.

This way, when we’re together, people will be too busy wondering about my fake hair to notice hers. See? I am the embodiment of compassion and sacrifice, I know.

It’s all for the cause, people, all for the cause.