Let's Talk Some More About Me

My beautimous blog friend Kelly tagged me for a Seven Quirky Things About Me meme, which I've done before - here and here. But frankly, I cannot resist the subject matter (ALL ME, ALL THE TIME) so I'm gonna do it again, sort of. I'm changing it up a little.

Therefore, I give you:

Seven Things I Want

1. I think the whole problem with the way the news media is currently covering the mommy blogging milieu is that they aren't enough news stories about me, or interviews starring me, or enough articles about me being on Nightline (WHY AREN'T I ON NIGHTLINE?!!). Since Nightline has not called yet, I would like to be asked to speak at General Conference, and when I speak, I would like them to flash my blog address repeatedly on the bottom of the screen, like a scripture.

2. I want to start a blog called THE NAVEL GAZER COOKS where I would post all of my recipes and all of my pictures of things I cook, except I think everyone already knows how to make a bowl of cereal, so perhaps also I would give Photoshop tips, and maybe there would be some random pictures of horses or some such. I think that might be a good idea for a blog. Maybe.

3. I want to be thin. Yes. I do. I want to be thin, BUT, and I'd like to make this absolutely clear - I don't want to have to exercise unless I really feel like it (in other words, not often), and also, I want to eat lots of stuff in large quantities.

4. I want those jerks at Dyson to send me a freaking vacuum already.

5. I want to be able to fly using only my arms. This would help me out because I have places to go, but I'm afraid of planes. I don't like being in situations where vehicles are moving around without my input.

6. I would like our bankruptcy to be discharged tomorrow, despite the letter they sent letting us know our case was being "routinely audited." I would like that letter to spontaneously burst into flames. Ahhhhh, the Bankruptcy. IT JUST KEEPS. GETTING. BETTER.

7. In spite of that, or maybe because of that, I want my husband to know how much I love him. (Oh, I know that isn't funny. Whatever. It's my blog.) Seriously - I love you hon.

Remember when we got married - how I had that fit of laughter in the temple right before the wedding ceremony was supposed to start? I couldn't stop laughing, and everyone was staring, and my mom was kind of apologetically saying something about nerves, and you thought I was having some sort of panic attack. The truth is that I was so happy that day, and it just bubbled up out of me for a few minutes. That's still how I feel, even in the tough times. I feel lucky. I feel happy. I'm so happy to be with you, and I love you - no matter what.

In Which Suburban Correspondent Hilariously Defends My Mother's Honor

Read it HERE.

My mother thanks you. ;>

Yum, LARD

IMing the other evening, my friend Azucar and I somehow got to talking about the horrible, no good, very bad culinary pranks our parents liked to play on us. AZ reminded me about powdered milk and wheat gum (VOMIT). I cannot talk about that particular bit of wretchedness without having horrifying flashbacks, but luckily AZ just posted about it here.

(Ooooh, also, my sister wrote about powdered milk a few months ago on her food blog, here. I love how in the comments my brother's wife says he is still traumatized, and my mom tries to disavow her role in it. NICE TRY, MOM.)

My mom had other cooking quirks. For a while there she had this thing about gluten, or as I like to call it, wheat dregs. Once she made us gluten and oatmeal cookies. Let me repeat that. GLUTEN AND OATMEAL COOKIES. And she told us they were treats. That is NOT. RIGHT.

We were not allowed to have chips or any kind of sugary cereal. No Fruit Loops or Fruity Pebbles for us. No sireee, we ate Wheaties. Except, and I've never been able to quite figure this out - they let us put brown sugar on TOP of the Wheaties. And they would just - hand us the bag. Here kids, eat this nasty brown tasting cereal because it's good for you, except, also, HERE'S a SHOVEL and a bag of sugar - knock yourselves out. TELL ME HOW THAT MAKES SENSE.

My mom used to lock the fridge. To be fair, she did not really have a choice. There were NINE of us. Defensive measures had to be taken. She had this bungee cord and she would hook one end to the fridge handle and one end to a hook on the wall, and if you tried to open it and actually managed to get it unhooked, it would basically snap you so hard you went unconscious.

Sometimes, if the fridge was unlocked and mom was in another room, we would just rush it and take anything we could find and run away to another room where we would eat it, crouched in corners, stuffing the food into our gullets while keeping a watchful eye on the doorway. I once ate seven raw hot dogs, just because I could. Because they were there. (This explains so much about my eating philosophy. Oh, look, there it is! Hurry, hurry, hurry EAT IT NOW! EAT IT NOW! BEFORE IT'S GONE!)

I remember very clearly that my mom came after us for that one. She said, "Who ate those hot dogs? WHICH ONE OF YOU ATE THOSE HOT DOGS?! They were raw. RAW! You ate RAW MEAT. What are you?! ANIMALS?!"

I pretended to know nothing. "It wasn't me," I said. And then I threw up on her. (So I think she figured it out.)

If we were very good, my mom liked to serve a little dish she called Chocolate Treat. Chocolate Treat consisted of four ingredients. Peanut butter, unsweetened cocoa powder, powdered sugar, and a dash of milk. She mixed the ingredients together until it was the consistency of thick frosting, and gave it to us to eat with a spoon. So basically her philosophy was, "Here my children, eat Wheaties for breakfast and then you may have a nice bowl of lard."

This is me and my older sister. (I'm on the right.) See the nice healthy sheen on our hair? TOTALLY FROM THE LARD.

Ah, memories. So, what foods did your parents inflict on you?

And the Walls Come Tumbling Down

When I moved to Utah four years ago, it took me about a year to really let my guard down. People I didn't know would wave to me as we drove through the neighborhood and I had no idea what to do in response. After all, I didn't KNOW them. How could I just wave? INSANITY.

In Vegas, you don't wave to strangers on the street. In Vegas, you don't make eye contact with store clerks. In Vegas, you go about your business, are polite but distant with strangers and neighbors, and interact primarily with your family and friends.

I'm not sure if you notice it if you've lived here your whole life. You can't really understand that it isn't like that everywhere, that it isn't normal not to acknowledge a neighbor in the front yard a few houses down, or to pretend like you can't hear your neighbors out in their yard on the other side of the six foot cinder block wall. When someone points it out to you, you may not even really understand what they mean, because it's something you've always taken for granted. It's a normal distance - an unfriendliness borne not of meanness but of culture.

There are people of course, who are friendly everywhere they go, no matter where they live, no matter how other people react. They are the people who surprise you by engaging you at the grocery store, at the post office, at the park. And you may enjoy the interaction, but a part of you is saying, "That was odd. She just jumped right in and started talking to me. Wasn't that odd?"

I had to go to the bank yesterday to talk to them about a Very Important check they'd slapped a two-day hold on. It was destined for Important Things, and I desperately needed them to release the funds.

At the bank, I talked to the teller, who looked bored as she told me that actually, it was a NINE day hold.

It took me a second to process that. "What? Nine - nine days, but that's - I can't - NINE?!"

She nodded, a tired expression on her face. I'm sure she dealt with this kind of thing all the time. I'm sure she was used to people freaking out about money, taking their financial stress out on her when there was nothing she could really do about it.

"Can I talk to your manager?" I asked her quietly.

She waved her manager over and I explained as politely as I could that I could wait two days, but not nine, that in nine days, Very Bad Things would happen, and please, was there anything she could do?

The manager didn't look at me as I spoke. She kept her eyes focused on the screen, tapping the keys as she reviewed our account status. I could tell I wasn't an actual person to her, just a transaction, an interruption in her workflow. She wasn't rude or impolite, but she was detached and curt. After a minute, she shook her head. "There's nothing we can do. Your account is too new, and its an out-of-state check. It'll be released on the 22nd." She tapped another key.

The 22nd. I couldn't help it, tears welled up in my eyes.

Even though we are mostly back on our feet, with good jobs and good income, we've had to pay for so many things lately - security deposits and attorney's fees and licenses, not to mention the occasional bag of groceries, and the money seems to fly out the door faster than we can earn it. But this check - THIS was supposed to be the one that gave us breathing room.

I felt overwhelmed, pushed past my capacity to deal with everything that had happened in the last year. I could handle the bankruptcy, I could handle losing our business, but this one little check was going to push me right over the edge and into a nervous breakdown, I could feel it.

She finally looked over at me, and was obviously startled at my expression and the tears in my eyes.

"Please, isn't there anything you can do?" I said with as much dignity as I could muster, given the way my nose was running.

She stared back at me for a second and her eyes softened. "Let me see." She walked over to another computer and started typing.

I waited nervously, watching as Abby and Carter charmed the loan officer into giving them suckers. The teller really looked at me now, and made sympathetic small talk.

A few minutes later, the manager returned. "I was able to release the funds - all of them." She smiled at me, a real, honest to goodness up-to-the-eyes warm smile, as though I was a friend and not just some random stranger, and I suddenly wanted to bake her cookies.

I tried to smile at her through my tears. "Thank you so much. Thank you. You have no idea - this really - I really appreciate this..." I showered grateful thanks on her, on the teller, on the loan officer.

"No problem," she said, and she shook my hand. She looked genuinely happy to have been able to help.

I took Abby's hand, took Carter's hand, and we walked out of the bank. I was smiling from ear to ear (groceries! gas! wheeeee!), and not just because of the money.

I know it wasn't a big thing. It wouldn't even qualify as a Hallmark moment. A bank manager helped me out, overrode policy - big whoop-de-doo. But the thing is - for a minute she really SAW me.

It meant something to me.

We forget to really LOOK at the people around us. We get so cynical. We learn too many hard lessons about people, and we shut out everyone but those who are closest to us. We save our mental and emotional energy for the people we love, and pretend that the other people we deal with (the checker we fail to acknowledge at the grocery store, the lady we cut off in traffic, the crossing guard we ignore) aren't really REAL people, they're just obstacles in our day.

I'm not saying we should talk to every stranger who crosses our path; but we can acknowledge them, can't we? Acknowledge that we see them, and acknowledge our shared humanity? Smile at someone? Nod politely as we pass each other?

Simple things. Baby steps. That's how it starts, right?

Because as it turns out - that whole Love Thy Neighbor thing? Has its merits.

Hilarious Blogs You May Not Know About Written By People Who Should Totally Be My New Best Friends (Call Me!)

Need a good laugh? Visit these people:

Kacy, because she feels about her hamster like I feel about my dog

Nicki, because we both have serial killers after us

Heidi, because everything she writes makes me laugh

COMMENTS OFF (Twice in one week? Yes my friends, the Apocalypse is clearly at hand.)

A List for my Mother

Thanks for making me practice the piano, even when I had an absolute fit about it, screaming like a banshee as you grimly dragged me back to the keyboard.

Thanks for insisting that we, "for heavens sake, turn off the TV and go play outside." I don't remember much about the shows we protested over, but I remember playing with my brothers and sisters and friends - cops and robbers on bikes, don't-touch-the-ground tag in the backyard, rollerskating up and down the street with packs of neighborhood children.

Thank you for dragging the whole brood of us to the library, over and over and over again, and for unlocking my imagination by introducing me to the Boxcar Children, Mrs. Pigglewiggle and The Little Princess, to Roald Dahl and Anne of Green Gables.

Thanks for making me take swimming lessons - for chasing my six year old self around the pool as I screamed "I DON'T WANT TO DIE!" Later, when we spent summer after summer at the rec center pool, I was grateful that you'd been so VERY MEAN.

Thank you for getting me the pink, poofy, STORE-BOUGHT dress I so desperately wanted for my seventh birthday. I will never forget the feeling of a wish truly, sweetly fulfilled.

Thanks for singing with us, for filling the house with music, for letting us do crazy Broadway style dancing in the living room (not even visibly wincing as we leaped on and off the furniture), and for being the attentive audience for an infinite number of impromptu talent shows in the family room.

Thanks for helping me clear off that branch on the mulberry tree because I was in love with the quirkiness of the idea of sitting there to read, and for letting me read there for hours every day when I probably should have been doing chores.

Thanks for sometimes pretending not to notice when I would read in bed at night, flashlight under the covers. Now when I catch my own daughter reading chapter books in the hallway long after she should be sleeping, I smile. (Well, o.k., sometimes I yell GET IN BED, but - you know, lots of other times I smile.)

Thanks for teaching me what it means to look on the bright side. (I think I'm finally FINALLY getting it.)

You know all those times I screamed and lied and had tantrums and was ungrateful and mean and just generally a little snot? Thanks for letting me survive into adulthood. I can't imagine raising nine children and not going stark, raving mad. The fact that we are all alive and in one piece today is kind of miraculous.

There have been times when I judged you harshly. Kids are good at keeping score, at weighing and measuring their slights and hurts. All too often I kept track of all of the things that seemed unfair, storing them up so that I could throw them back at you during our many arguments, all the while swearing I will never do that to my children.

And now each time my children are angry with me, when they shout, "That's not fair," and tell me how I've hurt their feelings, I learn a little more about what a tough job it can be, and how well you managed to do it, and I pray that my own children will be more forgiving than I sometimes was.

Thank you for the countless things you've done for me - and for all of us.

I love you Mom. Happy Mother's Day.

COMMENTS OFF

My Ears Are Broken

Mom, can I play 'puter? Why not? Why not? I wanna. I wanna play it. I wanna play da guy who takes da word and shocks it POW and goes up high and makes a beep and you get a star and it goes bigger and da guy turns into a monkey. Come on. Come on. Come on. Come on. Let me do it. Mom, COME ON.

(Five minutes later, climbing on me) Oh, mom, I love you. Why you so sweet? Huh? Yous a sweet mommy. Let me hold yours face. Let me kiss yours nose. You so cute. Look at me. Look at me. I love you. I love you. I love you. Mom, I love you. I love you. I love you. Hey, mom, I’m gonna play 'puter. Why? Why? WHY? BUT I LOVE YOU! LET ME PLAY DA 'PUTER!

(Later) Oh Mom, I love you. Gimme me a hug. Gimme me a kiss. Gimme me anudder hug. Hold me. Hold me up. No, not sittin' down. Standin' up. Hold me standin' up. Standin' up. HEY, I SAID STANDIN' UP. Aaaaaaa! AAAAAAGH! STAND UP! NOW!

I don’t wanna go in my room. I won’t! No! Never! NEVAH! NEVAAAAAH! Hey, put me down. Put me down. HEY, I SAID PUT ME DOWN. I won’t stay in here. I won’t. I won't! NEVAH! LET ME OUT!

Hey, mom, I want lunch. Turkey sandwich wit crusts OFF. I didn't want it cut like that. NOT LIKE THAT. AAAAAAAH! Hey! Where you takin' me? Hey! Put me down!

(creeping out of room) Hey mom, look at this. Look at this picture. You like it? It’s for you. Hey mom, look at this. Look at this picture. You like that? Hey mom, look, another picture. Do you love it? Do you love it? Do you love it?

Hey mom, look at this. Look at my finger. Look at my car. Look at my army guy. Look at my shirt. Look at my eye booger. Look. Look. Look. Look. Hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom.

HEY MOM.

Accidents Happen, Part II (This Time Not Fictional)

I'm ALIVE and feeling much better. Thank you for the well wishes and the comments (and the sometimes a little bit scary intensity). I have been watching the comments on my last post with excitement, gratitude and fascinated interest, but I have not had time to post because I was in an accident yesterday.

DUN. DUN. DUN.

I was backing out of my garage when I was completely blindsided by a large truck.

Luckily, I'm fine. There is a hole in our bumper, but there were no injuries. I keep reminding my husband that he should be grateful I'm alive, but he keeps rolling his eyes at me.

O.k., so technically, it was our truck that I hit, and technically, it was just sitting there behind me in the driveway. So I guess it wasn't really that I was blindsided as much as that I - sort of forgot the truck was there.

(Hey, I had IMPORTANT THOUGHTS in my brain. You try writing the great American novel in your head and also not hitting stuff with your car. It's HARD.)

Besides, it was kind of sneaky of my husband to just park it there in the driveway. Usually he parks on the street. He was kind of asking for it. I did NOT point this out to him when I told him what had happened:

Me: "Honey, I hit the truck."
Husband, staring at me blankly: "With what?"
Me: "With the car."
Husband, spluttering: "How did - how - it was parked - did you even --"
Me: "Um."
Husband, now examining hole in the car: "How did you not see it?"
Me: "I'm not sure."
Husband: "Did you look?"
Me: "I'm sorry?"

This is the hole I made in the bumper:



To my husband's credit, he didn't get angry, he just sighed a lot. He had to know it was coming. It's been almost ten years since I've been in an actual accident. Granted, I tend to run into stuff, but it's usually it's more like - a house or a building or something.

NOTE: Things I've run into: the house, the boat, the car, the garage door, a pole, the door of a loading dock, a shopping cart holder thingie, my bicycle, and my husband (I TOTALLY didn't see him.)

Oh, I just remembered something. When I was 19, I stopped at a 7-11 to get a Big Gulp. When I was done, I pulled out of the parking lot, looked to my left, saw that it was clear and proceeded to make a right turn - directly into into a parked public transit bus.

The bus driver came out of the bus and had pretty much the same reaction that my husband had.

Him: "How did you not see it? It's a BUS."

Me: "Um."

I did not want to tell him the real reason - that 95% of my functioning brain cells were currently devoted to thinking about boys, and it had not occured to me to look to my right. (In my defense, I DID look left. So if you want to look on the bright side, I was actually half-right.)

---------------------

In other news, my weight loss efforts are off to a fine start.

The other day I somehow found myself at Golden Spoon (as you do), a nearby frozen yogurt place. Basically it's ice cream, but they try to make you feel all virtuous and healthy for eating it, which would be fine if I wasn't eating enough for four people and topping it with cookies and chocolate sauce.

Once inside, I stood in front of the counter for a WHILE, trying to figure out what would be more virtuous, calorie-wise: a Mini vanilla with yogurt chips or a Small vanilla with strawberries. Standing there, I started thinking about how many miles I would have to walk to burn off the calories in that yogurt. It dawned on me that I could NOT eat the yogurt and that would save me a LOT more calories. I could walk out. I could put the spoon down. I could do it.

And so you know what I did?

I ate the MEDIUM yogurt, and then also, I put snickers on it.

So really, this isn't so much a weight loss victory story. It's more like - a cautionary tale. Because once I start thinking like that, denying myself stuff that is more or less healthy (shut up) and fits within my calorie budget/plan for the day, I'm headed for a downward spiral of disordered thinking ("even fewer calories if you throw it up" "even fewer calories if you don't eat anything at all, all day," "hey, I've heard people on meth lose a lot of weight,") and I give up.

I'm a regular font of inspiration, I know. You're welcome.

Help - I Am DYING

I think I might be dying. I am feverish and my throat is aching and my ears hurt. Naturally, I suspect cancer.

There is also a slight chance that it might be strep and an ear infection. (I blame Azucar. She was probably still contagious when I read her post.)

If I still feel awful in the morning I'll probably try to find a doctor to talk me down from whatever google inspired hypochondriac frenzy I've managed to work myself into over the course of the evening. (Can I just say that I'm SO looking forward to a) finding a doctor who takes my insurance and b) bringing my three kids with me to the appointment? Wheeeeeeee!)

Whew. (Or is that Woo? or Whoo? I cannot think clearly.) I keep re-reading what I've written so far and it does not make sense to me. I'm not sure if that is because a) it does not actually make sense or b) because I am feverish.

You know what I AM thinking? I'm thinking today would be a good day for you to de-lurk and leave me a pity comment (yum, better than chicken soup).

I've missed every single stinking "National De-Lurk Day," which ticks me off to no end, and so I would really like to just declare my own. (De-lurking means that if you read but rarely and / or never comment you finally break the silence and, for the love of pete, leave me an actual comment already.) (Hey, all you lurkers, have I mentioned how nice you look today?)

If you aren't sure what to say, here's a note: I don't care. Whatever is on your mind. Something nice would be good. Something fawning and stalkerish would be even better. You could even ask me a question, as long as it isn't about algebra.

See, I've even given you something to say: "GET WELL."

Or you could say, "I hope you die of the flu."

Or you could say, "Your poor husband." (He loves it when people say that.)

The options are endless, really.

I know plenty of people will be like, um, listen you little attention seeking freak, you get enough comments as it is, but see, that is SO WRONG, because there are NEVER ENOUGH COMMENTS. (Yeah, that whole blogging zen thing I wrote about once - ha ha ha ha ha - turns out it might not actually apply to me personally.)

I'm actually curious to see if I can break a hundred comments. My email stalker swears that I have 60 different log-ins and I'm leaving MYSELF most of my comments (and apparently, maintaining the 60 different blogs that go with them) and I'd like to BLOW HER MIND by showing her that I actually have over a hundred different fake logins.

(FYI: I have this one post, the birthday party parable post, that has 98 comments. Do you know how OCD and crazy that makes me? NINETY-EIGHT. I thought about leaving MYSELF two comments to push it over the edge, but that felt like cheating.)

So hey, take pity on the sick and afflicted and de-lurk.

UPDATED: Did I say one hundred comments? Oh, I'm sorry, I meant TWO hundred comments. TWO HUNDRED COMMENTS! Yes, my lovelies - continue to feed my addiction with your delicious comments, NUM, NUM, NUM, NUM.

(Aaaaaaand, maybe I should go lie down now.)

I'm Sparing You the Post About How My Pants Ripped Open

But I'm inflicting it on these people.

(New post up over at Fight the Fluffy.)

Why My Children Will Need Therapy - Reason #462

(Thanks to the foot post, I now know more about poop and fish eyes than I ever, EVER wanted to know. You're all DISGUSTING. Or rather, your children and animals are disgusting, but in a kind of awesome way. So there's that.)

I must preface this post by saying - I love my daughter and I am NOT AFRAID OF HER.

Still.

The other night I was sitting at my computer in the middle of the night, typing clickety-clack, clickety-clack and chortling to myself, when I felt this PRESENCE.

I looked to my left and the girl from The Ring was standing RIGHT THERE, two inches from my face and I screamed in terror. Except, OOPSIE, it was actually my six year old.

(See, she’s really pale, with long dark hair, and when she’s had a nightmare, she has crazy eyes. So you see how it could happen... Right? Um... Right? Hello? Is this thing on?)

For years I’ve worried about what kinds of things my children will say about me in therapy as adults, and I think for Sarah, it will probably stem from that moment, when I scared the living daylights out of her.

She cried, and I felt like a monster, and slapped myself several times because GET IT TOGETHER WOMAN, she’s your darling, tender hearted, sweet, kind, brilliant daughter. And then I took her back to bed and stayed with her until she fell asleep.

But then. BUT THEN.

Last night, there I was in my bed, innocently sleeping and minding my own business, when again, I felt this PRESENCE. I woke up and looked to my left, and sweet mother of a badger, there she was again, staring at me with the crazy eyes.

“I had a bad dream,” she whispered, in a creepy zombie voice. (Or possibly it was just a scared six year old voice. My imagination - now and then it tends to run up and down the hall, waving its arms and screaming in terror.)

I bit back my screams, held out my arms and she crawled into bed with me. I spooned her and patted her back while she told me about her dream about a poisonous snake in the house.

“How long were you standing there?” I whispered.

“A long, long, long time, mommy,” she whispered back.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?”

She turned around and looked at me serenely and yet still with the crazy eyes, then said, “I was trying to wake you up with my MIND.”

Um. Ahem. Well. I see.

You know, I love my child, but from 1AM until approximately 3AM (the premium creepy hours), I think I might be just a leeettle bit afraid of her.

In Which I Attempt To Get A Piece of the Blogging Pie

DUDES. (I love saying that. It's so stupid, but so awesome. DUDES.)

I think my vacuum just died. It's sort of a relic - a Hoover Wind Tunnel circa 1996. Oh man, I'll bet some of you were (give me strength) eight years old when I bought that vacuum. (That is just - not right. Don't tell me if you were eight years old, o.k.? Because then I'll have to start with the moaning and the "woe is me, I'm so old, death is soon upon me" garbage.)

So. Recently it started making a really nasty burning smell when I run it, and it doesn't seem to realize that the mission of a vacuum is to suck up stuff off of the carpet. I've checked out all of the obvious things, and nothing seems to help. I don't think it's really doing ANYTHING at this point, other than gathering up the courage to explode.

Now see, here is where I wish my blog was bigger. As I pointed out to Amy yesterday in the comments of her Valspar post, there is no use in having a (sort-of, kind of, maybe-at-some-point-in-the-future) popular blog if companies don't feel compelled to send you free crap. That is actually my whole goal in life right now - to eventually become Shannon from Rocks in My Dryer.

(If I ever were to reach that particular pinnacle, I would regularly hold contests where I "gave stuff away" that companies sent to me, except I think I would actually KEEP all the stuff and just pretend to give it away. Or demand that the companies send me two of everything. And then keep both of them and give the extras away for Christmas.) (Possibly this is why companies don't send me anything.)

So, back to the vacuum. This is the part where the fine folks at Dyson, or Hoover, or - I don't know, even what I've read is the vacuum company of the devil, Kirby, (good gravy, I never knew there was so much inter-brand vacuum drama - it's like Coke vs. Pepsi all over again), should really just dive in and send me a free vacuum. It just makes good business sense.

So here is what I propose: Whichever company offers to send me a vacuum first, then - THEY ARE THE WINNER. So it's like - if you send me a vacuum, you get bragging rights. Because you won. Something. Kind of.

I mean, I can see how it could get out of hand. Give one blogger a vacuum, and soon, all the mommy bloggers are lining up for their free vacuum too. But I have a solution to that problem. Just give ME the free vacuum, and not anyone else. (See how easy that is?)

So Dyson (or Hoover) (or the company which shall not again be named) I am sure you CANNOT WAIT to participate in this fine opportunity. I will just sit here and wait to be contacted.

I'm sure it will be anyday now.

Hopefully soon.

(There's a lot of crap on my carpet.)

P.S. Um, also - Lexus? I once read about how some car company let some blogger borrow a car for a year. If you would like to get in on some of that action, I am totally here for you. And I would promise to write happy little Lexus oriented posts every day for, oh, at least a week. After that, no guarantees because I would probably get distracted by something shiny. So hey, Lexus - CALL ME. XOXO

P.P. S. Oh, lovely readers - I am sure many of you are sitting there thinking - oh, man, I wish I could do something to help Sue in her quest for free stuff. Because it's not like any of you have LIVES or anything. In fact, I'm guessing that what you each really want to do with your precious free time right now is help me get a free vacuum.

Well, TODAY IS YOUR LUCKY DAY because there is something you can do to help. What you can do is just link to my post from your blog, and there will be such a tidal wave of linkage to my blog that it will rise up above all of the other blogs, and the other pleas for free stuff, and Dyson (or Hoover) will be overwhelmed by the mightyness of my blog and they will have to SUBMIT TO MY WILL. Mwah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.

Anyone up for it? Anyone? Oh.

No? Not really?

FINE. BE THAT WAY.

P.P.P.S. Is there anyone you would shill for in exchange for free stuff?

It's My Blog and I'll Cry If I Want To

Tonight after putting the kids in bed I sat down to make a list of the things I'm grateful for, hoping it would help me to put things in perspective.

(Sigh.)

Pretty much the only thing I came up with for today, specifically, was that nobody was attacked by rabid flying monkeys.

(It wasn't really a very inspiring list.)

After that, I made a list of things I could do to improve our situation:

- Find friends for my children
- Finish getting things organized
- Get them involved in activities to keep them busy and happy
- Binge a lot

Oh, I know it may not sound like it, but I really am trying so hard to hold it together. I'm trying to stay positive and trying to encourage them to "bloom where they're planted" as the cliche goes. I know this is a nice neighborhood, with perfectly nice people. I know we can be happy here. I'm not sure how or when, but I know it's possible.

In Relief Society (a church class for women) all of the women were friendly and kind - in the way that you're friendly and kind to new people before you go sit with your real friends. To be fair, I sat down by myself in the middle of the back row and didn't make an effort to talk to anyone around me. I'm not particularly shy, and normally I would have tried to reach out a little, but I was feeling beaten down by life and self-indulgently sorry for myself, so I sat there and pouted instead.

A playgroup sign-up list went around the room and I signed it, my hands clammy with anxiety. A PLAYGROUP. This might solve at least twelve of my problems. I had a million questions for the woman sitting in front of me (WHERE? WHEN? HOW SOON? TOMORROW? TONIGHT? WHEN?!!), but she didn't have any answers. (And possibly I scared her a little with my inappropriate intensity about the topic.)

If the playgroup doesn't pan out, I do have an emergency back-up plan. At church they handed out a list of women in the neighborhood complete with pictures and email addresses and I think I'm just going to make a complete freak of myself by emailing everyone in the ward. (Sometimes having no shame or sense of social decorum is a net positive.)

I even resorted to blog-stalking (after my sister-in-law spilled the blog addresses for a few of the women), leaving messages like, "Um, Hi, I live in your neighborhood, and I'm not weird or anything, but I just wanted to say Hi! P.S. I see from your blog that you have children. Would they like to come over this afternoon?" Oddly, they haven't responded. Apparently, contacting complete strangers on their blogs and inviting their children over to play is frowned upon in some circles.

The truth is, I'm not in the mood to start over - to gradually meet people, to eventually become friends with them, to even more eventually become very good friends with some of them. The thought of it (of having to wade through the small talk and artifice before we can get to know each other; of the whole back and forth and trial and error of developing new friendships) exhausts me. My heart is not in it. I know there are lots of wonderful, interesting people in our new neighborhood, and that in a year or so, I won't be able to imagine not knowing them. I know that.

Right now though? I just want my OLD friends back - people who know me and like me anyway. I miss my neighbors - who don't sprint for the garage as soon as they emerge from their cars. I miss being able to look out the back door and see a crowd of kids for my children to play with. I want my old neighborhood back - with trees and grass and open spaces. I want a fairy to descend from the sky, hand me a million dollars and make everything better. That's what I want.

(Closes eyes, makes wish:) Make it so.

(Opens eyes, looks around)

Drat.

Oh, GROSS.

Oh. Hi there! GLAD YOU STOPPED BY. (I don't know why I typed that in all caps. Just because I'm REALLY GLAD.)

Recently, I have had some people* accuse me of never talking about anything important. Why use your blog to discuss so many shallow things, when you could be using it as a FORUM, they ask me. A FORUM for discussing Important Issues. (To which I respond - um, have you read my blog? Ever?)

But I do not want to be accused of never tackling the hard issues, so today, I will attempt to answer an age-old question - one that children and teenagers and certain very immature adults have tried to answer for many tens of years: "What's grosser than gross?"

(I mean - sure - we could talk about world peace, but I think that's sort of been done to death, don't you?)

So please keep in mind - when I tell you this story, I'm doing it FOR THE WORLD.

The other day I gave myself a pedicure. I always have to give myself a pre-pedicure pedicure, to sort of - take the initial winter crust off, so to speak. No way am I going to just - show up at the nail salon with my feet in their natural condition. (The horror.) They give me enough crap as it is, what with the clucking and the whispering and the aggrieved expressions.

On the bright side, the house we are renting has soft water and it's done wonders for my skin and my feet, making them no longer impervious to the effects of the foot razor callous thingie. (I think that's it's official name.) (I LOVE those things. There is something hypnotic about watching the skin peel off. It's like pulling off rubber cement you've let dry on your hand, or peeling off sunburned skin.) (Hmmmm. That last one - that's actually kind of gross. Gross, but nevertheless fascinating and addictive.)

So anyway, I was sitting there using the foot razor callous thingie to unveil the new skin underneath (like opening a present that's been wrapped in REALLY disgusting paper) and flicking the dead skin off onto a towel. My son chose that precise moment to fall or walk into a wall or something (I can't remember what happened exactly), and when I heard him crying I had to very quickly abandon my repulsive little project. As I got up, I accidentally dislodged the towel and dead skin went flying all over the bathroom floor. I groaned, but went to check on Carter.

After ensuring all of his limbs were still firmly attached, I came back into the bathroom.

Gah.

You guys.

My dog was there.

And he was LICKING the dead skin off of the floor and eating it.

Enthusiastically.

I think I dry heaved for ten minutes.

(My floor is really clean though.)

(Top that.) (Er, but only top it if it's rated PG.) (Think of the CHILDREN.)


* Fictional people

Because Talking About Yourself Is Fun

You know, today started off a good day. We got up. I had a good hair day. We went to church. We went for a bike ride. It was a beautiful day out. There were even bubble wands.

But it went progressively down hill from there. The kids were being sweet and good, but they plucked at our heartstrings all afternoon long as they talked about Utah and their friends and their old yard - each guilt inducing word punching us in the gut just a little more until husband and I ended up depressed and deflated on the couch. I cried and he DID NOT CRY, because he is a cop, and everyone knows that cops don't cry. After a while he went to bed all sensible like, but I had things to do, like stay up and make myself a bowl of frosting. (SHUT UP, you can't expect me to depression binge on plain graham crackers. The humanity.)

Anyway, the blogging muse has left me for another woman (someone in Utah probably), but I need to post something, so I'm going to finally fulfill the meme that the wonderful Veronica tagged me for many moons ago. (Do you read Veronica? She is LOVELY.) I don't actually have enough posts in each category to make the meme fire on all four cylinders, but I'm going to do it anyway. I'm supposed to list some of my favorite past posts in the following categories:

Friends: I haven't written about friends much. (O.K., at all.) I have a hard time expressing my feelings about friends - in person, in writing, or over the phone. When I'm confronted with a friend moment that would require the expression of some kind of expression of friendly affection, or acknowledgment of good feelings, or - you know, normal human emotion - I shut down. Part of me still thinks this is tenth grade (when I told the girl I thought was my best friend "Hey, you're my best friend, and I really care about you," and she laughed and made fun of me for weeks, because she thought I was seven kinds of lame).

So there isn't much to choose from. But this post mentions friends. Sort of. In passing. (FINE, it doesn't really count probably, but I'm listing it anyway. Even though 50% of you won't get the mormon specific punch line.)

Family : I don't know if I have a favorite, but this one is, at least, not on my list of favorites up at the top, so it might be new to a few of ya. (Why does ya sound so natural in real life, and look so dumb when you write it? Doesn't it look affected, sitting there at the end? It bothers me to have it looking like that, but then "a few of you" sounds so formal, doesn't it? It's a conundrum.) (Well, possibly it's a conundrum. I'm not entirely sure I'm using that word correctly if you want to know the truth. But I don't feel like looking it up. It's late.)

Me: Things that might be awesome is probably the most me of all of my posts. I know most of you have read it, but I cannot tell you how much of my life I have spent hoping to be "discovered." For something. Anything. Not because I want to practice my "art," (because I don't really HAVE any art) but because I'm a terrible attention whore.

The Sunday before we moved I sang in church for the first time since we'd moved to Utah four years prior. My daughters sang a song, and then I sang a song - it was kind of a medley, and it is absolutely unbecoming how delighted I was by the compliments afterward. It was disgusting actually. I was pretending to be all modest and pshaw, but deep inside I was BEAMING, and even deeper inside, a little voice was saying, "STOP IT, STOP IT, STOP IT. IT SHOULD NOT MATTER THIS MUCH." It's why I will never stop blogging - I'm addicted to the comments.

Something I love: I'm guessing I'm not supposed to link to one about my kids, because of the aforementioned FAMILY category. And I never posted about food. That leaves... Hmmmmm. What does that leave?

I could do the music one, but everyone's read that and frankly, you can only read that one once or twice before it just sort of makes you want to slap me around a little. (SNAP OUT OF IT, WOMAN. WE ALL HAVE PROBLEMS.) I could link to the one about Highland, or the one about the house, but then I'LL start crying again. So I'll just link to one about blogging. Just because.

Wild card: My favorite post ever is still Goodbye Cruel World, not because it's well written or anything, but because it makes me laugh every time. At myself. (Yes, I know that's lame. HELLO, have you MET me?) I just keep remembering how hard I was laughing during the ultrasound, and the look the ultrasound tech was giving me, and how my husband was laughing, and I'm just instantly in a good mood because that was some good, quality laughing. (You know how when you laugh really hard you always remember it? Fifteen years ago I was sitting in a parking lot with a good friend and we were laughing so hard that she accidentally spit candy corns all over me, and even now, we'll look at each other and say, "Hey, remember the candy corns?" And we'll both start cracking up. I love that.)

But I won't link to that one, because, um, I think I've milked that cow one too many times now. I'm just gonna link to the post where I fought with my husband, because it makes my sister-in-law laugh and it makes another sister-in-law feel vaguely uncomfortable. (And now they will all be wondering if I'm talking about them. I have six of them. Heh heh heh.)

I have to think about the tags. I can't remember who does memes, and who doesn't do memes and who does memes but only if they're really good, and who does memes but doesn't like people to tag them and... Huh.

(Ya know, I think I'll skip the tagging.)