The M Word

I remember my very first migraine. I was 11 years old and having a picnic in my front yard with some friends, when suddenly, each friend had only half a face. Laughing, I told my mom on the front porch that I could only see half of her face too! Her smile fell and she told me I'd better come inside. Having suffered migraines herself since the age of 11, she knew what I was in for.

Today, the punk came up to me and started talking, but I didn't hear a word he said because he only had one eye. The feeling that comes over me when I realize I have lost my vision can only be described as dread. In one second, all plans for my day vanish and I know I'll be useless and miserable for the next 8 hours, and "hung over" for the following 24. 

With the help of my man, who took over everything I was supposed to be doing, I have survived yet another awful migraine. (This was by no means the worst, but they are all awful.) My vision has been restored. And it's a good thing too, because when your punk has eyes like the sea after a storm (name that movie), you want to see both of them.

The Only Pet I'll Ever Love

I've done it. I've found the impossible pet. One that I actually like!

Yes, it's true. I am evil. I don't like dogs. Or cats. Or ferrets or guinea pigs or hamsters or horses. I am not a pet person. I've had every opportunity to become a dog lover. I grew up with dogs; my parents have a dog now and so do my in-laws. Although the former is a bit scraggly and the latter is slightly neurotic, these dogs are nice enough. But I just don't have the animal lover gene - the one that encourages people to snuggle their smelly animals and allow themselves to be licked and scoop their poop and nurture and train and care for these creatures.

But now... I have found the ideal pet.

 My parents brought three caterpillars from the ranch for the little boys to observe. Calvin named them Milkweed, Jady (because at the time, he was in the shape of a J), and Idy. (Can you guess which letter he resembled?) Shortly after these little guys received their names, Jady moved and became Ody for a minute. But then he moved again and his former name was restored.

Jady has already spun his chrysalis. I think Idy will spin tonight. Milkweed is still chowing down on his... you guessed it... milkweed.

Listen to me! I am just as invested in the happiness and wellbeing of these striped worms as the little boys of the house. They don't leave hair on my furniture or poop in my grass. They don't require love and affection, nor training, nor exercise. As long as I keep a constant supply of fresh milkweed coming, they are content. And, in a week or two, after the novelty of having real live insects on our kitchen table wears off, they will emerge from their green and gold enclosures and we will set them free!

The Perils of Nordstrom

I walked into Nordstom on a resolute quest for boots. I'm looking for something with a heel (at my man's request), but not too tall. Something I can wear with one kid on my hip, one kid holding my hand, and a bottomless Mary Poppins carpet bag on my shoulder. And something with a little flare, i.e. a buckle or two, but not too over the top. No fur, no fringe. Just a sexy but functional mid-heel boot. So basically something that doesn't exist.

But then I spotted them. Mid-heel. Two buckles. Interesting greyish color. Nice height. I must try them on and purchase them and snuggle with them under a blanket by a romantic fire. So I picked up the display boot to check the price on the bottom, but alas. The sticker was missing. I asked the closest salesperson if he knew the price of my new best friends. Without skipping a beat, he replied, "They're three-hundred and ninety-five dollars."

I snorted and almost said, "Pshyeah right!" Then I noticed that he wasn't smiling. "Oh." I said. "Really?"

"Yes," he said. "They're [some uber-fancy brand that I've never heard of]." (Did I imagine his almost pitying look of distain?)

I turned and almost crawled back to the table to replace the boot on its pedestal to await its true owner. Goodbye, fickle friend.

Creepy

I was home alone. My man was in a hotel room 2,000 miles away. I have an old house that makes sounds. Unsettling sounds. Sounds that may cause one to believe that robbers, rapists, and murderers have broken in and are making their way down the creaky wood floor of the hall to the master bedroom. Or worse, that ghosts or other questionably real creatures are preparing to appear in my bedroom to torment me. When I hear a creepy sound, I usually perk up and listen for a second, on high alert, arm hairs standing, muscles tensed. Then I remember that I am a wuss with an overactive imagination and I am able to talk myself into rational calm.

Last night after one such episode, I turned to reach for my book on my "night stand" (which is currently a short stack of large art books by my bed) and saw this looking back at me.

Aaaaaagh!

The eyes! They're looking at me! Stop looking at me!

Have you ever looked at a person's eyes upside down? One time as a child, I was playing with my brother in his room downstairs. For some reason, we were lying on the ground. Maybe we had been wrestling. Well, he was lying flat on his back and I was on my hands and knees above him, looking down at his face, upside down. His eyes met mine and suddenly, I was gripped with intense terror. My whole body jumped and I screamed. The sight of his upside down eyes looking into mine was at once so surprisingly terrifying that it seized my body with fear. My scream scared him. One second, we were smiling and laughing, and the second, we were screaming together.

Look at a person's eyes upside down and tell me it doesn't scare you.

There, that's better.

Homemaking Skillz

About two years ago, I had an identity crisis freakout session. Really. See rant here. I was concerned that I wouldn't have the capacity to enjoy the everyday life of a stay at home mom. (I still haven't found a suitable alternative to that title.) Well, if my 2008 self could see me now, she would see...

1. How much fun I had making a Cafe Rio taste-alike chicken salad for my bachelor brothers when my man was out of town. It took hours and lots of ingredients, but I now find so much fulfillment in cooking for other people (especially when they are as appreciative of homemade goodness as bachelors can be).

2. How obsessed I became this week over my new sewing project. The only other project I've completed besides the ugly felt Christmas stocking I stitched in 7th grade home economics was a quilt I made two years before I even became pregnant with the punk. I made it with two other girlfriends as a fun activity, and we were heavily supervised through the entire process.

This time, I'm completely on my own. I have armed myself with an entire paycheck-load of darling fabric (isn't it a requirement to use the detestable word "darling" when discussing a baby quilt?) and my mom's sewing machine, which used to be my Grandma Venna's.

I was supremely happy for two hours today: sewing, drinking Diet Coke out of a fancy glass, enjoying a shortbread cookie that I made last night, and watching Julie & Julia, the film that inspired my friend Brittany and me to begin a monthly cooking group (and blog) with our fellow food-loving friends. I combined two homemaking enterprises today that may have intimidated me two years ago. Look at me now! Meatloaf in the oven and sewing machine at my fingertips! I'm a totally awesome housewife!

This is my grandma (my dad's mom). She passed away when I was only one year old, but as I've been working on this project with her machine, I feel like she's watching over me. Thanks Grandma! I need all the help I can get, even if it comes from the Beyond. What am I saying? ESPECIALLY if it comes from the Beyond!

3. How giddy I can be over a scrumptious lunch at home. Today it was turkey, swiss, cranberry & arugula on a parkerhouse roll. Oh yeah, and half a banana. The punk stole my other half.

4. How I haven't swept the kitchen floor in at least a week nor changed the bed sheets for... too long. Some things never change.

Sunday Faux Pas

My brother David and I attended our little sister's Young Women Standards Night this evening where we heard an entertaining guest speaker talk about the recently added Young Women value: virtue. She first addressed all the other Young Women values, saying that if only she could be considered a woman of faith, or a woman of divine nature, individual worth, etc, then she would be content. When she came to the value of knowledge, she said, "I would love to be a woman of knowledge. Not only spiritual knowledge, but sexual knowledge."

Huh?

All the heads in the congregation snapped up. She had our attention. We wondered what the next slide would be in her PowerPoint presentation. Images from the Kama Sutra? Are we in the wrong meeting?

Silent pause.

Crickets chirping.

"Excuse me, I meant secular knowledge."

This faux pas was the highlight of my Sunday. That and the fact that my brother brought a fork with him so he could scratch his itchy foot during the meeting. He just carried it right in with him. No wallet, no keys. Just a fork in his hand.

The Solo Outing

About 6 years ago, I discovered the surprising yet encompassing bliss that is the Solo Outing. My man was out of town on business... on a weekend! What was I to do? I was not yet a mama, so my expectations for Friday night were high. (Boy, did the punk do a number to my weekends when he came along!) I suddenly had a dangerous idea. I would go see a movie. Alone. Dun! Dun! Dunnnnn!

That night, I arrived solo at the movie theater. I bought myself a popcorn and a Coke. (The man never splurges on treats during a movie, so I was walking on the wild side.) I sat on the end of a row, and proceeded to enjoy a life-changing experience. I don't remember now which movie I saw, but I know it was something my man wouldn't have watched with me. I laughed, I cried, I smirked, but I didn't have to worry what anyone else thought of the movie. It was all for me. All for my own personal enjoyment. And enjoy I did. Immensely.

Today my wonderful and kind brother David gave me a priceless gift: two and a half hours to myself! He came over to play with the punk and put him down for his nap while I left. To go anywhere I wanted! For one hundred and fifty minutes. As I was driving away, I actually said out loud, "I'm free!"

I enjoyed a solo lunch at Citrus Grill. As I ate my sourdough turkey sandwich, I perused my fat book entitled 501 Must-Read Books. I skimmed the synopses in the Classic Fiction and Modern Fiction sections, and checked off the books I've already read. After lunch, I took my reference book to Barnes & Noble, where I spent the next hour and a half sipping a Starbucks hot chocolate (WITH whipped cream) and reading about these must-read books and marking the books I want to read now. (I am in a desperate book drought. I am in the middle of a novel that I am just not interested in finishing. That does not happen to me very often; in fact, I feel incredible guilt whenever I think about the very few books that I've chosen not to finish. Add this one to the list of shame.) After deciding on 4 prospects, I went on a search and discovered that 3 of the 4 books were not on the shelves. Not to worry. I found 2 others on a table marked Reading Group Favorites, and bought them instead, along with a membership to B&N. It's my go-to gift stop; I might as well be a member.

All in all, the perfect afternoon.

Why is the solo outing a social oddity anyway? Have you been fortunate enough to discover its merits?

Tears of Laughter

I'm going to Hell for sure.

Last night, I was enjoying a blue moon blender from Red Mango with Little Sis, when something struck me as funny. Little Sis was mid-sentence when I burst out laughing, spitting as I did so, and continued to laugh so hard that I cried. I couldn't talk for several seconds. Little Sis just sat there staring at me like I was nuts, because it wasn't her story that had tickled my funny bone. It was another frozen yogurt customer: a 50 year old woman with an eye patch.

I saw this nice blonde woman, and my imagination immediately took over. I imagined her looking at me, hooking her finger, and exclaiming, "Aaarrrrgh!" Like a PIRATE!

After this poor lady, whom I'm sure is very nice, and probably just had some kind of eye surgery, purchased her creamy treat and returned outside where Sis and I were sitting, it hit me AGAIN! Tears were rolling down my cheeks and I was just hoping against hope that she hadn't noticed the lunatic who was allowing blueberries and chocolate to dribble down her chin because she couldn't contain her evil laughter.

At least Little Sis and I did do something besides laugh at the unfortunate. We made summer rolls! Check us out here.

Early Dose of Testosterone

The punk and I just returned home from an afternoon of pure bliss. This is the reason to be a stay at home mom. We were out running errands in Sugar House, so at lunchtime, we picked up some chicken nuggets and mandarin oranges, and a healthy salad for me (with a side of fries), and went to Sugar House Park to watch the ducks and geese. We relaxed on our blanket and ate until our tummies were satisfied.

Then, we posed by a tree for GQ Magazine.

And found lots of cool rocks and roots in the dirt.

Then we found some new friends. We had seen them at the pond with their own Wendy's bag, and then they ended up on the playground with us. When the punk saw the younger brother, who is his same age, he walked up and gave him a hug. They were instant buddies. While the younger two were climbing and gallivanting, I was talking to the boys' mom while she watched her older boy (about 4 years old) on the slide. We were soon joined by another boy about his same age.

This handsome little redhead initially seemed harmless enough, but soon he took control of the slide and began to assert his rights as slide dictator. When he called my new 4 year-old friend a "stinky head," the poor boy screwed up his face and started to cry. "Mom, he called me a stinky head," he said, his voice cracking. I looked in vain for this little terror's mom. Finally, as he was spitting at me through a long plastic tube, his nanny came up and told him that wasn't nice. He apologized to me and started playing nicely with the other kids.

While he was showing his new playmate how to walk up the slide with bare feet, I figured he had found his manners. Just then, he yelled, "Hey, do you think I have a big penis?"

Liquid Gold with Eggs and Toast

Tonight, the three of us ate dinner separately. My man had called to let me know that he had eaten a large, late lunch and not to worry about making the gourmet, five course meal I usually make for him. That was fine with me since I had also had a large lunch and wasn't remotely hungry as dinnertime approached. So I whipped up an unorthodox but delicious meal for the punk (spaghetti noodles with turkey and parmesan, and edamame on the side) and the man and I postponed our dinners.

Now here is where the difference between my man and me is so evident. At about 7:30, he poured himself a bowl of rice chex and rounded out the meal with a peanut butter sandwich (no jam, no honey; just peanut butter on a slice of white bread). Done.

Although I was hungry at 7:00, I waited. I waited because I knew that the enjoyment of my meal would increase oh so much if only I didn't have a little person pulling on my pant leg, begging for a bite. I waited until 8:15 when the punk was in his crib, snuggled up in his yellow lamb blanket with a binky in his soft, pink, baby mouth. Then, I opened the fridge and found that we were out of milk. This just won't do. I had my heart set on the ultimate quick comfort food: hot chocolate with soft eggs and buttered whole wheat toast. Did you notice that the hot chocolate comes first? It's not just an afterthought like many beverages tend to be. Hot chocolate makes this meal. One can't just settle for eggs and toast. That would be wrong. So, off to the grocery store I went.

As I entered, I could have marched straight to the back of the store where I could see the milk waiting for me. That would be too easy. Too like the man waiting for me at home. No, instead I tortured myself by strolling by the bakery, at the opposite end of the store, to drool at the chocolate eclairs and cheesecake brownies. As I made my way back to the dairy section, I passed peanut M&Ms, chocolate pudding, peanut butter cups... I reminded myself that I wasn't actually going to purchase any of these treats. I was there only for milk, and the chocolate torture game was just a bonus. I grabbed the milk and made my way to the registers... but blocking my way was a display of Lehi Roller Mills brownie mixes. Gah! How am I to withstand such temptation? I'm telling you right now, if the man were not at home to see what a glutton I can be, I would have picked up a box in a split second, made the brownies, and eaten the entire pan. Lucky I don't live alone, eh?

So I made it out of the store with only the milk I had gone there seeking. Then I proceeded to make my perfect hot chocolate (which would have been more perfect if I had Ghirardelli cocoa, but my grocery store doesn't sell it), and with it, eggs and toast. Then I sat down to enjoy my delicious meal with a semi-entertaining, if not scholarly, book. I dip my toast in the liquid gold, I smear soft egg on another bite, and I am in food heaven.

All this is to say that my pleasurable meal took about an hour to prepare and consume, while my man took about 4 1/2 minutes with his dinner.

With whom do you identify? The efficient, eat-for-sustenance guy? Or the slightly neurotic, chocolate-crazed, eat-for-pleasure chick?

Imagine This

Imagine that I had just spent the last 2 weeks taking care of a man in my bed who decided to get walking pneumonia.

Then imagine that, just as he was beginning to feel better, our punk started puking his guts out.

Then imagine four days of baby squirts later, I started puking my guts out.

Imagine that while I was worshipping at the porcelain throne, my man was gallivanting about in Philadelphia, although except for gallivanting, he was also nauseous and trying not to puke his guts out while also trying to work to bring home the bacon.

Imagine that my man's mom is an angel who volunteered to take the punk for a couple hours so I could puke in peace, and that she ended up keeping him for 8 hours that would have been glorious and freeing had they not been filled with illness.

Imagine that after an entire day of groaning, I looked like something you find on the bottom of your shoe after taking a long walk in a dog park. I had three day-old, greasy hair and no makeup. And I was wearing multi-colored pajama bottoms, black fuzzy socks with snowflakes, a blue tee shirt that I got from a 5K, and a frumpy lime green robe over the top of it all. I was a hot mess, minus the hot.

Imagine that by the 8th hour sans punk, I had begun to miss the little guy and was looking forward to his return, so when the doorbell rang, I threw off my covers and ran to the front door to retrieve him.

Then imagine my horror when I opened the door and saw, not my smiling punk, but two smiling members of my bishopric, dressed in their Sunday best. One of them quickly exclaimed, "We caught you looking your best, eh?"

Then imagine that they came in and issued a third church calling to this invalid, which I accepted. (In addition to being the relief society pianist and on the relief society activity committee, I am now a relief society teacher.)

Imagine, finally, that when they stood up to go, I reached out to shake their hands and blew chunks all over their freshly pressed suits!

Okay, that last line is false. But I'm sure you enjoyed the visual. Have a nice day.

Married Couples

My man and I rarely dress alike. When we go out, I tend to dress up a little more than he does. When I was working - in an actual office - I had to dress a little nicer than he did. So it would follow that I kept a similar look in my going out attire. I would just change my skirt for a nice pair of jeans, but keep the formal top and high heels, even if we were just going to a friend's house to watch a game and eat pizza. So you would think that now that I spend most of my time at home, the man would outdress me when we go out. Not so. Now, when I have the opportunity to present myself to the world, I like to get all gussied up. (Although, in my time at home, I have developed a lower tolerance for 4-inch heels. The 2 1/2 inch breed is more my style now.)

My point is that my man and I rarely dress at the same formality level. The only time we really do is at church, but we tend to have pretty different styles so even when we're both wearing church clothes, we rarely look like we dressed to match. Of course, we tend to verify the phrase, "opposites attract" in more aspects of our life than our fashion sense.

These couples must have a lot in common with each other. When I first noticed my friends in the row in front of me, I was amused that their sweaters had the exact same stitch. And I thought, "Wow. Married couples do start to look alike." And then I noticed the couple in front of them. Both wearing blazers (do we still call them blazers?) with shoulder pads, I think. Tee hee.

And yes, I realize how inappropriate it was to snap a photo in sacrament meeting. I just couldn't resist sharing this moment with you.

A First for Mama

I'm not a big jewelry person. The two pieces that I regularly wear are my wedding ring and a silver Tiffany necklace my man gave me about an hour after bringing the punk into the world. When I dress to impress, I almost always wear these two pieces; however, I don't wear my ring around the house, which is where I am most of the time. So when I left the house to go grocery shopping today, I forgot to don my diamond.

While we were out, the punk and I enjoyed lunch at Cafe Rio. And may I just say, I love Tuesdays at the Rio because the special is coconut shrimp tacos. I feel like I'm cheating the system because I ask for the coconut shrimp in a salad instead of tacos, and every time I do, the person taking my order always looks quizzically at me for a moment before saying, "yeah, okay." And oooh boy, cheating is oh so yummy. Today, I felt like I had won the lottery because, not only did I get the best dish at Cafe Rio just by asking for an exception, I had a full punch card so I got it for free!

Anyway, after nom-nom-noming my coconut shrimp salad and watching the punk gum his quesadilla, we walked out to the car. There in the parking lot, as I buckled the little guy into his car seat, I heard someone say, "Hi!" When I looked up, I saw two men walking out from the restaurant, and I smiled in greeting. The man with a fauxhawk continued, "Are you married?" When I said yes, he said, "Well, you're really pretty. I didn't see a ring." I told him that I had forgotten to put it on. He said, "If you weren't married, I would totally ask you out. Your kid is beautiful too." I've gotta say, this was a totally new experience for me. Being hit on when I'm with the punk? I guess it could have been awkward and irritating, but I was actually kind of flattered. I guess it's nice to know that if my man's plane goes down in a fiery crash of twisted metal and flying body parts, I'll have some options. Or at least one option, if I like guys with fauxhawks.

Reprimanded by the Sewer Lady

We closed on our house today!

In preparation for becoming owners of the new (0ld) house, I had to make some phone calls this week. I called Salt Lake County to ask about setting up the water and sewer in our name. The bored-sounding lady at 411 gave me the number to the incorrect department at the county, but luckily, the lady at the county was very nice and helpful. She offered to give me the correct numbers for water and sewer. Yes, there are two separate numbers. Nothing is easy when dealing with this stuff, right?

So she rattled off the first number, and I said, "Okay, can you wait just one second while I write that down?" I put her on hold and wrote the number into my "notes" app on my phone. Did I mention I was driving at the time? Yes, I was driving. Last week I saw a story on the news about a poor, unfortunate soul who, while texting in his car, swerved into the oncoming lane and killed the two men in the other car, who both had wives and kids. The texter was so remorseful, so sad and small and broken that he made me cry. (Does anything NOT make me cry?) And he made me vow to never text while driving again. Yes, I've done it before. Not often, but once in a while. And I've Facebooked while driving too. I am the devil! But not anymore. The news story, which also stated that one is 26 times more likely to be involved in an accident while texting, convinced me to never text again at the wheel... until 5 days later, when I put the sewer lady on hold to write the number into my notes. I knew as I was doing this that it wasn't the smartest thing to do. If it were just one number, I could have remembered it and dialed immediately after hanging up with her. But no, another number was on its way, and one can't be expected to remember two 7-digit numbers at the same time, right?

So after I put the number into my notes and returned to my call with the sewer lady, she kindly asked, "Are you driving?" Immediately, I felt sheepish.

"Yes," I answered.

"In order to give you this next number, I am going to have to ask you to pull over."

It was a good idea. A solid, smart idea. But I was on the freeway.

Sensing my hesitation, she asked, "Are you on the freeway?"

"Yes I am. I will just give you a call when I get home; how about that?"

And the nice sewer lady then volunteered to call me back and leave the two numbers on my voice mail. Never had I worked with someone at a government office who was so accommodating, but who made me feel like I was in 4th grade all over again.

Now I have two reasons never to text while driving again. The news story and the sewer lady.

P.S. I took this picture while driving the other day. It made me laugh. Clearly, I have no self-control and someone needs to confiscate my iPhone in the car.

Where I Belong

Do you love your neighborhood? Your city? Your grocery store?

Yesterday, the punk and I drove by our new house in Olympus Cove, which we will move into in a couple weeks. With the realtor's sign still in the ground, I felt like a voyeur, but my heart beat a little faster and I had to try not to become too giddy. We drove around the neighborhood and I was pleased to see that the other houses and yards look even better than ours. ("Not for long," said my man.)

Then we drove to the place where we will spend a few hours a month... the grocery store. I just wanted to check it out, okay? It's a little weird, I know, stalking groceries. My best friend/cousin and I used to walk from her house to this very Dan's in the summer to buy ice cream cones. It has changed drastically since then; its ginormous natural foods section caters to the hippies in the area, and the faux wood floors and serious deli satisfy the needs of my new hoity toity neighbors. I passed one lady who was asking the person at the fish counter, "Has this sockeye been frozen? No? Oh good!" Perhaps after a few years of living near her, I will develop a similar taste for unfrozen things. There were real cheesecakes and fresh guacamole (not that yucky whipped green stuff) and... get this. The deli even had freshly prepared sushi! My new grocery store has sushi! I didn't dare buy it, but maybe someday the punk and I will give it a try. We walked a few doors down to the real sushi place for lunch.

I have never been so excited to be a resident of Salt Lake City. I guess living in the boonies for 5 years gave me a new appreciation for my home town. I'm not usually one for cheese (unless it's Camembert), but... I feel like I've returned home.

Living With a Murderer

Meet Bogey. He is our housemate this month as we are sharing a home with my man's kind parents. Bogey is a murderer. Last week, he killed at least five fluffy, chirping, innocent baby quails. I'm sure there were more, but my little sis found five tiny dead guys in the grass. Today, Bogey proudly brought this vole to me and said with his body language, "You are welcome. I am a warrior. Where is my treat?"

It is no secret that I am not an animal lover. (This is where half of you start judging me for being evil.) The last pet I had was a nasty little gerbil with a temper. I was 10. After a few months of becoming disillusioned with cleaning his cage, smelling his mammal stench, and being bitten when trying to show my affection, I accepted my dad's offer to take him to a place where he could roam free with friendly possums and rabbits. (My dad took him out to the desert where he most likely was eaten by an owl within 12 hours. Good riddance!)

So pets aren't my thing. I don't like the smells they emit even when they're supposedly clean. I don't enjoy it when they jump on me in greeting. I don't like having to brush their hair off my clothes, even if I am already covered in baby slobber.

With my in-laws out of town, Bogey has deemed me his temporary mother. When I leave the room, he follows me. When I go outside, that's where he wants to be. So yesterday, I was going to relax in my room while the punk was taking a nap. I noted that the pup was dozing in the living room and planned to take that opportunity to make my escape. As I silently stood from my chair, Bogey's eyes flipped open and his ears stood up. Dang. I casually started walking around the room, hoping he would just think I was moving to a different chair. No, he sensed my intent to defect. He stood up and started to follow me. I slowly walked around the corner and heard him casually saunter behind me. As I rounded the corner, I booked it up the stairs. When he realized I had started running, he came bounding up the stairs, closing the distance between us. My adrenaline was pumping as I wondered if I would make it to the bedroom door before he did. Yes! I made it! Sweet victory was mine! As I frantically shut the door behind me, I realized what I had just done. I had narrowly outsmarted a dog. Genius.

I heart SL

Today I went to a Middle Eastern restaurant at 9th and 9th to meet my great friend for a late lunch. As the punk and I were waiting for him, a Clark Kent look-a-like rode up on his bike wearing a white mesh muscle shirt and black spandex shorts. I looked up and smiled a friendly greeting as I started moving the stroller out of his way. As he smiled back, he looked right into my eyes and said,

"For a minute, I thought you were my sister, and I was like, you had ANOTHER baby?"

Pause, while I figure out what to say to that...

Mr. Kent: "He's a cutie."

Me: "Oh, thanks!"

Mr. Kent: "You're cuter than my sister too."

Me: "Well, thanks for that too!"

I love Salt Lake.

Thinking Inside The Box

The following statement may shock some of you. I am not a patient person. It's true. Patience is not a virtue; it's a nuisance. So when we decided to take the steps to sell our house and move to Salt Lake to be closer to family, I was immediately ready to get going.

Tangent: When my man and I were dating, it took me several months (translation: years in Mormon world) to decide he was the one I wanted to be with forever. He was, and happens to still be, 7 years my senior, so I didn't want to waste his precious 20s if I wasn't completely sure after 3 dates that he was my soul mate. Fortunately, and contrary to local culture, he wasn't in any hurry to get hitched, and assured me that I didn't have to be sure of our future at that time. After 11 months (translation: years in Mormon world), I came to the conclusion that, despite our rival alma maters, we should tie the knot. The second I made that decision, I wanted a ring on my finger. I wanted a wedding date, a dress, and a gift registry, and I wanted them immediately! Hey blonde, muscular dude: when are you going to officially propose, and are we married yet?

Fast forward 5 1/2 years: It was December. We had celebrated our 5th wedding anniversary in May, and had yet to procreate. We had enjoyed some time as a married couple without kids and traveled to exotic places like Paris, Hawaii, and Provo. Our parents had stopped asking us about having kids 4 years before. It was time. The first month after making the decision, I bought a pregnancy test. With hands shaking and stomach in knots, I wandered the grocery store, sure that every eye was on me... the agitated girl clutching the pink box. I told myself that I was not ready for a positive result, and then plunged into the depths of despair when it was negative. Three impossibly long months later, the plus sign upended our comfortable lives. And then (can you believe this...?) we had to wait 9 months more for the kid to show up!

Back to the present: Three weeks after we listed our house, we received an offer. Unless the buyers back out, we are moving in 10 days. And holy crap, we don't have a new house! We are homeless in 10 days and counting... There's no time to become impatient this time!

P.S. Do you think we should stuff the box with styrofoam peanuts, or will crumpled newspapers do?

Poor Little Dragonfly

We have seen an unseasonably wet June here in Utah. On Sunday, I was downstairs when I heard repetitive banging over the baby monitor. At first, I thought the punk had found his rhythm in his sleep, but then I realized it was hailing. I went upstairs to watch the storm and noticed this poor little guy hanging on for dear life to the screen on our kitchen window.

I was so concerned for this little insect that I actually felt like crying. I stood there through the storm to make sure he didn't get hit by a giant ball of hail. I must be a mother. I never would have had this much sympathy for a bug a year ago.

The Things I Think About

Dear Sally Hansen,

Here is a picture of your so-called "No Chip 10 Day" nail polish on day 5. I would like a refund. You may send the money, along with a Snickers bar, to me at home via next-day delivery. Thank you.

Everyone in Utah seems to have these mushrooms in their yards thanks to the awesome rainstorms that have visited us over the last week. My question is, why do they grow in a circle formation? It's a little freaky to me. It makes me think of aliens for some reason, perhaps because they remind me of crop circles? It may also have to do with my recent dream about UFOs that looked like bats descending in a circular flying pattern, but ended up being birthday cards that came in through my window.

This is my view from the driver's seat. Every once in a while, I glance back and see one eye looking back at me.