tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-116570202013-10-26T16:44:09.477-07:00The Belyoak Bunchsecond marriages, blended families and other belyoaksshaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11742270945335370549noreply@blogger.comBlogger300125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11657020.post-63878292490179532262013-10-21T08:00:00.000-07:002013-10-21T08:00:05.918-07:002013-10-21T08:00:05.918-07:00In Which Post My BFF Slaughters Five Chickens<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eSe94SiCmPY/UmA7jQmLNJI/AAAAAAAABCw/1VThOWPBeq8/s1600/ashely-and-me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eSe94SiCmPY/UmA7jQmLNJI/AAAAAAAABCw/1VThOWPBeq8/s320/ashely-and-me.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif;">There
are times in our lives when friends outgrow us and move on. It may have less to
do with incompatibility and more to do with the need for greater stimulation.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">This
past weekend, my BFF slaughtered 5 chickens and graduated from our friendship. Love
may no longer be enough to keep us together.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">But
first, a little backstory.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">By
Monday morning I had decidedly had a rough weekend. The last 60 hours had
included the apprehension and prosecution of one in-house vandal, a basement sleepover
robbing 9 people of 38 hours of sleep, and a garage cleanup which resulted in 6
cans of garbage, one truckload of furniture donations and 7 hours mediating the
usage of an industrial broom by five children. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><b>Story problem</b>: After the
aforementioned 60 hours how much sanity remains between the two step/parents? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><b>Answer:</b> There may not be enough back
episodes of Parks & Recreation to completely recover.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">So
when I called my BFF on Monday morning to debrief, she calmly listened to me
recount my weekend, for which she offered the appropriate amounts of sympathy. Then
I asked how her weekend went.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">BFF: I slaughtered the chickens.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">ME: What? Where was Jason?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">BFF: He had to fix the van so I told
him I would take care of the chickens.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Before
we go any further, let me just say, yes, of course they have chickens. It’s
like Little House on the Prairie, Idaho Falls edition.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">My next thought? If me and Mr. Charming were to ever have chickens needing
slaughter, and he said, “Hey, honey. I’ve got to fix the car today.” I would immediately
reply, “Ok, dear. I’m going to postpone the slaughtering of our chickens until
next Saturday.” Because in no alternate reality can I imagine myself
volunteering to decapitate, pluck and gut 5 chickens—and I don’t even know if
that’s the proper ordering of butchering tasks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">The
truth is my BFF has been leading up to this for some time. Since spring of this
year I believe she’s canned or pickled quarts and quarts of peach jam,
strawberry jam, apricots, black, white and pinto beans, tomatoes, zucchini, grape
juice concentrate, apples, and jalapeno carrots—all while managing the affairs
of a third-world country via email transmission. Ok, so that last part’s not true, but it’s
totally within her capacity. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1A8qbZqXRb8/UmA7o6UxttI/AAAAAAAABC4/RZxYkh5f4eo/s1600/ashely-and-me2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1A8qbZqXRb8/UmA7o6UxttI/AAAAAAAABC4/RZxYkh5f4eo/s320/ashely-and-me2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">This
woman is better prepared for the zombocalypse than me, and I’m married to the
man who actually created a board game about it. My BFF now simultaneously awes
and terrifies me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">So
thus you see how I am concerned I may not be enough friend for my bestie. She
may be better aligned with a warrior princess from the Amazon. You know—like
with an invisible airplane, a lasso of truth, and bulletproof golden bracelets?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Until
then, I’m here as long as she’ll have me.
And when she offers me a jar of pickled jalapeno carrots and a budgeting
plan that could restart the government, I’ll offer her a ride to Sam’s Club and
a sneak peak at my column. Heck, maybe
I’ll even write one about her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><br /></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Because
that’s what friends are for.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11742270945335370549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11657020.post-71444912525250469792013-10-16T09:58:00.000-07:002013-10-16T10:41:28.229-07:002013-10-16T10:41:28.229-07:00The Wrath of ComiCon<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OralvYYhxvI/Ul7I9rHd8vI/AAAAAAAABBU/IcutFwdVv7I/s1600/IMG_1109.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OralvYYhxvI/Ul7I9rHd8vI/AAAAAAAABBU/IcutFwdVv7I/s320/IMG_1109.jpg" width="240" /></a><span style="font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif;">For
months my three kids had been planning to attend the Salt Lake ComiCon with
their father. So when we discovered, last-minute, that my ex would be unable to
take them, Mr. Charming and I decided to go in his place.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">I
will never be the same.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">For
those of you who may not know, a comicon is an annual convention originally
intended for comic book, sci-fi/fantasy fiction, television and movie fans
which has long since expanded to include enthusiasts of any movie, sitcom,
anime, video game, board or card game. Plainly put, if you like something a
whole lot, can make your own character costume for it, and are willing to sweat
it out in full regalia at a venue that defies fire regulations, you’re ComiCon’s
intended demographic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vFC52Ilyw7M/Ul7J8CJoAhI/AAAAAAAABB0/zTmQ4Lws6Sk/s1600/IMG_1144.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vFC52Ilyw7M/Ul7J8CJoAhI/AAAAAAAABB0/zTmQ4Lws6Sk/s320/IMG_1144.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">First
of all, deciding to go was a no-brainer. My husband is a consummate nerd; the
only dilemma was in attending ComiCon without a genius costume. People plan for
these things weeks, if not months, in advance, and we were leaving for Salt
Lake just hours after purchasing our tickets online. So—armed only with our
Teefury shirts and a combined encyclopedic knowledge of Marvel Comics, Doctor Who,
My Little Pony and the world of HP Lovecraft—we set off. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-eGzgpSlHmJ8/Ul7Jot510BI/AAAAAAAABBs/dIFOx0eQ9Bw/s1600/IMG_1122.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-eGzgpSlHmJ8/Ul7Jot510BI/AAAAAAAABBs/dIFOx0eQ9Bw/s320/IMG_1122.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Entering
the Salt Palace Convention Center for ComiCon is like walking into the mosh pit
of junior-high outcasts who had finally shed their alter egos, bad acne, and
aversion to deodorant. Within ten minutes we saw (and photographed) 4 Doctor
Whos, 2 Spidermen, all the Avengers, assembled—including Spiderman, who was
never officially an Avenger but helped them out in a few issues, 2 Wonder
Women, 1 Rainbow Dash, 2 post-apocalyptic cyber-guys, Russell from Up, the
entire Hobbit cast, 1 dancing Wolverine, 2 Ghost Busters, and a weeping angel. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8ftl8iFYeR8/Ul7KHN8aTuI/AAAAAAAABCE/3x5SmEX3I-k/s1600/IMG_4769.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8ftl8iFYeR8/Ul7KHN8aTuI/AAAAAAAABCE/3x5SmEX3I-k/s320/IMG_4769.jpg" width="238" /></a><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">It.
Was. AWESOME!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">We
spent our first three hours there gawking at all the elaborate costumes, and
then, like giggling groupies, asking perfect strangers if we could take
pictures with them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">My
son, whose Doctor Who costume has become a daily uniform, had suddenly joined
an army of 11<sup>th</sup> doctor clones. While ecstatic to happen upon so many
Whovians, he was downcast at being one of the least originally dressed. This is
where the more obscure your costume, the geekier—and thus, cooler—you and
anyone who recognizes you becomes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HAuk92SVKfE/Ul7NA5ZSDbI/AAAAAAAABCY/nfS-RRJMH6Q/s1600/IMG_1218.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HAuk92SVKfE/Ul7NA5ZSDbI/AAAAAAAABCY/nfS-RRJMH6Q/s320/IMG_1218.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">The
absolute best part of ComiCon for us was a photo op with Stan Lee, 84-year old
father of Marvel Comics and ultimate hero of my 9-year old boy. We stood in
line for 3 hours to get one 8x10 of a frail Stan Lee with his arm slung
casually over Zack’s shoulder. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">While
waiting, I noticed one woman in a DC comic shirt ahead of us in line. “The
nerve,” I whispered to my husband. “Wearing a DC comic shirt at a Stan Lee
photo-op.” If my sons had taught me anything, it was that Marvel and DC were
rival comics, and you never aligned yourself with a DC superhero. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8ebRmyhCITQ/Ul7J9ZCxW6I/AAAAAAAABB4/ZwJMeU_yZLI/s1600/IMG_1150.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8ebRmyhCITQ/Ul7J9ZCxW6I/AAAAAAAABB4/ZwJMeU_yZLI/s320/IMG_1150.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Mr.
Charming looked at me in mock surprise and said, “Wow! Can’t we just all get
along?” He then reminded me of a Coexist shirt we had seen with letters
comprised of DC and Marvel superhero logos. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">So,
that warm and fuzzy feeling I had that weekend? It came from the realization
that ComiCon is where all —regardless of race, creed, gender, political
affiliations, life form, alternate reality, bond or free, Orc or Hobbit—are
welcome and celebrated. So to all those who have ever been tormented, mocked or
alienated for being a nerd, remember, it gets better.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><br /></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">And
there is always ComiCon. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11742270945335370549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11657020.post-22006260849771602572013-04-26T19:47:00.003-07:002013-04-26T19:47:25.960-07:002013-04-26T19:47:25.960-07:00Yes, This is What Our Kids Do in Their Spare Time<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/y7ghILBtir4" width="560"></iframe>shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11742270945335370549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11657020.post-74069762410038720172012-09-11T08:20:00.000-07:002012-09-11T08:20:33.500-07:002012-09-11T08:20:33.500-07:00What do Lyme Disease, Blood Panels and Sharpies Have in Common?<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">I’m a
self-diagnosed, low-grade hypochondriac. Those who know me well are aware that I can be
nudged into a full-on panic attack at the discovery of a raised mole, a numb
toe or a sore armpit. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Because
I’m all about full disclosure, I shared my ailment with Mr. Charming before the
nuptials. The poor man assumed I was
exaggerating, until, that is, I told him I thought I was dying of leukemia or Lyme disease. Okay, maybe that’s not
totally accurate. He assumed I was exaggerating
until I began weeping uncontrollably as I explained that I thought I was dying
of leukemia or Lyme disease.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Maybe he
attributed the sloppy meltdown to pre-wedding nerves. Or perhaps he felt somewhat heroic because he
calmed by fears by pointing out that the rash spanning my torso was identical
to his own and most likely caused by our foolish and vain attempts to tan our
blinding bodies before the wedding day.
Needless to say, he married me anyway.
Sucker.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Since
then he’s witnessed a handful of other sloppy meltdowns that are generally
health-related and largely unfounded.
You can imagine the anxiety he observed the week of my yearly physical
that included a blood panel. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">When the
nurse called to tell me my white blood count, platelet count, and hemoglobin
levels were normal, I asked, “So, does that mean I probably don’t have cancer?” You could tell mine wasn’t a typical response,
as it took her a few second to recover.
“Uhm…while not 100% definitive, you maybe probably don’t have cancer.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">While
that may not alleviate the fears of a high-grade hypochondriac, I decided that
if a certified nurse tells me I maybe probably don’t have cancer, I’m going to take
her word for it. After all, she is a
professional.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">When I relayed
the conversation back to my husband later that night, he shook his head, most
likely thinking, “I am sooooo lucky!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Here is
the actual conversation we had the night before my appointment:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Me:</span></b><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"> So, will you think less of me if it
turns out I don’t have a life-threatening illness?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Him:</span></b><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">
What?!?! (insert puzzled
expression here)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Me:</span></b><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">
You know, being as how I hyped it up and all. I mean, after all this anxiety, would you
think less of me if I wasn’t actually dying of something?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Him:</span></b><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">
Would I think less of you if you did have a life-threatening illness,
being as how you probably attracted it with all your hypchondriactic thoughts?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Me, harrumphing:</span></b><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">
You shouldn’t! Wouldn’t that just
make me psychic? And isn’t it better to
be a psychic than a hypochondriac?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Him, shaking his head
again, still likely awestruck at his luck:</span></b><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"> Okay, so maybe best case scenario for you is
early-onset diabetes. That’s pretty
serious, which justifies your concerns.
But it’s also totally reversible.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Me, nodding thoughtfully:</span></b><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"> I like that. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 1.0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Later
that night, after showing Mr. Charming all the questionable moles I wanted my
physician to examine, he said, “Maybe you should circle them with a Sharpie so
you don’t forget.” Excited that we were
already finishing one another’s thoughts, I replied, “I was thinking the exact
same thing.” The only difference was he
wasn’t serious and I was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Turns out
I have high cholesterol which is both congenital and potentially life-threatening. Thankfully, my physician thinks it can be
lowered through diet and exercise. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">And after
all that, I still don’t know whether or not to tell Mike, “I told you so,” or
“I’m sorry you married a freak.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Either
way, he appreciates your condolences.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11742270945335370549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11657020.post-78757052230159460872012-09-05T08:18:00.000-07:002012-09-05T08:18:24.669-07:002012-09-05T08:18:24.669-07:00My Son the Doctor<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-k1Y0pVGISLY/UEdsWuDaChI/AAAAAAAAA_Q/_nKfD-Es8do/s1600/kaleb-postcard.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-k1Y0pVGISLY/UEdsWuDaChI/AAAAAAAAA_Q/_nKfD-Es8do/s320/kaleb-postcard.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Doctor</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">When
you meet my oldest offspring for the first time, he will introduce himself as
The Doctor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’ll most likely be wearing
a dry-clean-only suit jacket that I accidentally ran through the washer and now
has three-quarter length cuffs. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, and a
bow tie with blue Converses. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">For
that narrow margin of my demographic that watches sci-fi time travel episodic
television, you’ve probably guessed that my son is currently obsessed with Dr.
Who, having watched all six seasons this summer via Netflix.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">For
those of you who aren’t, well, Whovians, Dr. Who is a BBC television program with
a protagonist called “the Doctor.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
Doctor is an alien in human form that travels through time and space in a
British police box (otherwise known as the TARDIS—<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">T</b>ime <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">A</b>nd <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">R</b>elevant <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">D</b>imensions <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">I</b>n <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">S</b>pace).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My brain is already
winded.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PyYJP5OR5nQ/UEds0ouBmuI/AAAAAAAAA_Y/a78MreL5Mb8/s1600/tardis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PyYJP5OR5nQ/UEds0ouBmuI/AAAAAAAAA_Y/a78MreL5Mb8/s320/tardis.jpg" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">TARDIS</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">This
dramatic shift follows years of superhero worship and a brief stint idolizing
Ezio Auditore da Firenze, a hooded assassin from a video game he shouldn’t have
been playing in the first place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I
guess, all things considered, Dr. Who is a welcome change.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">And
heavens knows, the Belyoak’s doors have always been open to fictional
characters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, we’re like a
halfway house for Marvel superheroes, little ponies and time lords. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So walk through our threshold and you better
be prepared for heated discussions on alternate Spiderman costumes, allusions
to Princess Celestia, Dr. Who knock-knock jokes (they write themselves, really)
and any crossovers that might exist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For
those that may be interested, there is, in fact, a Dr. Who/My Little Pony
episode on YouTube called Dr. Hooves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As
Leah would say, “Get it?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">I
have no room to judge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I was six, I
believed I was Wonder Woman’s daughter, orphaned so that she could continue to
save the universe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I understand the
allure of assuming an alternate identity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In fact, my previous work as the imaginary birth child of a fictional
Amazon warrior princess enabled me to celebrate my boy’s initial infatuation
with Spiderman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I admit, I kinda
miss the days when, wearing a threadbare Spiderman costume, he would follow me
down the grocery aisles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Periodically he
would crouch amidst the canned goods and extend his hands in web-shooting
fashion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In those moments, I was
simultaneously Wonder Mother and Matron Saint of Imagination.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">These
days I question my ability to handle either of those roles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just the other day, I asked Mr. Charming if
my little Time Lord needed a refrigerator box from which to fashion his own TARDIS
or a therapy consult.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a fine line,
people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A fine line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">So
we’re going to sit this one out in hopes that at some point his interest in
girls overrides his interest in Dr. Who.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’m guessing that’s the point at which he’ll begin dressing like an
11-year old again and stop flashing his Sonic Screwdriver at strangers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And maybe he’ll even remember to wear
deodorant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Hey,
if my children can be superheros and time lords, I can afford to dream
big.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Right?</span></div>
shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11742270945335370549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11657020.post-28938841204807904162012-08-15T11:10:00.002-07:002012-09-11T14:46:21.466-07:002012-09-11T14:46:21.466-07:00Is the Honeymoon Over?<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IXQYfE-51l4/UCvligGisxI/AAAAAAAAA-s/1m1YjBOgF48/s1600/photo-booth1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1klgBwaWFN0/UCvlkRiueQI/AAAAAAAAA-0/AZPUBKTgORA/s1600/photobooth2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="226" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1klgBwaWFN0/UCvlkRiueQI/AAAAAAAAA-0/AZPUBKTgORA/s320/photobooth2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Nearly
five months ago I married Mr. Charming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And according to AskMen.com, the honeymoon ended about three and a half
months ago, give or take a weekend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">While
I’m generally not one to complain (riiiiiiiight), there are two things my
husband stopped doing immediately after we wed: one, putting down the toilet
seat after using the bathroom, and two, kissing me when I was sick.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">And
when I say immediate, I mean honeymoon suite.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">I
nearly plunged into a swirling abyss the first time I followed my sweet husband
in the high-end commode.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This after
months and months of walking into the bathroom to find, not only the toilet
seat down, but the lid too!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">So
while I was surprised at the newlywed slip, I ultimately decided to be grateful
that he put it up in the first place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Because for more than a decade I have routinely sat my delicate hiney
upon a wet toilet seat. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Believe me,
next to accidentally swallowing a bug while riding your bicycle or having a
child vomit into your cupped hands, it’s unpleasant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Later,
after we’d been married for about a month, I came down with the flu, complete
with fever, chills, and the inability to behave rationally.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And believe it or not, my husband cut me
off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, he continued to serve me
chicken soup, go on Robitussin runs, and insist I rest, but he acted like my
face was on quarantine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even long after
I was able to stand upright and recite the alphabet, he dodged my kisses like a
ninja.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">This
wouldn’t have been so surprising had the man used those same stealth tactics
months earlier to avoid my lips when I had a series of cold sores.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Forget that I had open wounds on my
mouth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Forget that they were highly
contagious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Forget that they were
reoccurring over a period of two months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The man simply bought an industrial-sized bottle of Lysine, popped them
like Vitamin C and dove in. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">But
now that we’re betrothed, I guess we’ve both let our guards down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My hair is routinely fashioned in a sloppy
ponytail, yoga pants are the new lingerie, and I may or may not have once popped
a pimple with the bathroom door open.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Thankfully,
a few things have remained sacred.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tubes
of toothpaste are squeezed from the bottom and capped when not in use, we share
responsibility for replacing toilet paper rolls, and neither one of us has yet to
“Dutch Oven” the other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All in all I’d
say the romance is still in full bloom.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">So
if after five months that’s as downhill as things get around here, I’ll take
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And from now on, I will refrain from
consulting AskMen.com on, well, anything.</span></div>
shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11742270945335370549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11657020.post-34720030793552824342012-07-29T15:29:00.000-07:002012-07-29T15:29:13.815-07:002012-07-29T15:29:13.815-07:00The Belyoak Mobile<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-r3AtS7W-BKE/UBW4dLeApSI/AAAAAAAAA-M/H7zlexAWIm8/s1600/van+001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-r3AtS7W-BKE/UBW4dLeApSI/AAAAAAAAA-M/H7zlexAWIm8/s320/van+001.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Mr.
Charming and I are now the proud owners of a 1991 two-tone blue Dodge, 12-passenger
van.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The red vintage interior covers three
bench seats and a console that rivals The Starship Enterprise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The stellar sound system includes FM radio
and a cassette deck, and there’s at least three feet of luggage space in the
back.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">I
know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You so wish you were us right now.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">About
three weeks ago we decided it was time for us to find a family-friendly vehicle
that could fit our nine-member brood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Until
this moment in time we had been caravanning in two vehicles whenever we all
wanted to go somewhere like the library, the park or church.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">We
found this beauty on Craigslist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-79hrhY1xBYI/UBW4xCBD1DI/AAAAAAAAA-U/utEVlw21vAk/s1600/van+002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-79hrhY1xBYI/UBW4xCBD1DI/AAAAAAAAA-U/utEVlw21vAk/s320/van+002.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Maybe
the reason I love it so much is because it’s reminiscent of the vehicle from my
own childhood: a 1974 powder-blue Ford van.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">I’m
the oldest of six children, and when there were about four of us my parents
decided that instead of strapping kids into the back of our 1970 Plymouth
Duster, they would secure a heartier vehicle fit for errands and road trips.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Upon
purchasing the van, my dad pimped that ride, 1970-style.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He took out the bench seat in the back and
replaced it with a “bed” which was basically a wooden platform covered in blue
shag carpet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the oldest, I frequently
rode on the bed, listening to cassette tapes my mother created in attempts to
keep us entertained.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rcSWqhJxHfk/UBW48qqsYqI/AAAAAAAAA-c/7JT5IBQ7Rg8/s1600/van+003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rcSWqhJxHfk/UBW48qqsYqI/AAAAAAAAA-c/7JT5IBQ7Rg8/s320/van+003.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">In
fact, thirty years later I was watching Pete’s Dragon with my children when I
inexplicably began speaking every line of dialogue with the characters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For a minute, I thought I had become
psychic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then I realized that Pete’s
Dragon, along with Benji and The Apple Dumpling Gang, was one of many movies my
mother recorded onto those cassette tapes that played for hours and hours while
we traveled. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">To
make road trips even easier, my father would bungee a mini porta-potty to the
back of the passenger seat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So when
nature called we either did one of two things: 1. exercised tremendous bladder
control or 2. balanced precariously and half naked, sans seat beat, over the
sloshing blue water of our traveling toilet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Being six years older than the next child, I went with option one, thank
you very much. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Year
later I drove that same van, carrying a slew of teenagers, to a dance in
another county.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My younger brother ended
up changing the flat we got on the way back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>After I went away to college, another brother ran it up against a
guardrail trying to maneuver the oversized van to a secluded parking lot by the
river (after curfew, I might add).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And a
few years before the van was finally put down, the neighbor boy pelted the side
of it with a bb gun, in what my mother still alleges to be part of an ongoing
feud over the hedges lining our property.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Now
we have our very own blue beast parked on the curb in front of our house. We’ll
only drive it when all our kids are home, and we hope that years from now they’ll
have fond memories of the vehicle that carted our blended family around
(without the traveling toilet, of course).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">So
honk three times when you see the Belyoak Mobile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because I’m certain that the last thing our
children will ever be when riding in this vehicle is embarrassed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11742270945335370549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11657020.post-21250386542480429262012-07-24T14:37:00.000-07:002012-07-24T14:38:29.843-07:002012-07-24T14:38:29.843-07:00Because everyone loves a chore chart...<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Back
in the day, I was overwhelmed at the prospect of successfully raising three healthy,
responsible, and kind children. Then I
got remarried and became catatonic at the prospect of helping raise seven. There’s nothing more daunting than eventually
releasing enough citizens into the world to sway election results or make a
lacrosse team.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">So
I did what any other mother does to reduce her parenting stress: I got crafty.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">For
reasons unbeknownst to me, I feel much better about myself as a mother when I can
glue gun, toll paint or macramé something for my family. That or fill a board on Pinterest with items
I can glue gun, toll paint or macramé for my family. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">In
this case, I decided a cute chore chart (made with red spray-painted cookie
sheets, of course) would solve all my parenting woes.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">The
Belknap children have been through roughly 6.5 versions of The Chore Chart,
utilizing an assortment of the following: mason jars, industrial-sized rolls of
paper, dry erase markers, magnets, marbles, packing foam and my own patented task
distribution method called Extreme Chore Lottery. Each of these versions was functional,
enabling my children to know which chores they could complain about doing on
any given day.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DeQ_fwD1bYk/UA8VXnSRhsI/AAAAAAAAA-A/7by6isW5me0/s1600/chores.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DeQ_fwD1bYk/UA8VXnSRhsI/AAAAAAAAA-A/7by6isW5me0/s320/chores.jpg" width="259" /></a><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">And
that’s the funny thing about getting crafty.
Much like bedazzling a diet journal doesn’t make me lose weight any
faster, making a new chore chart doesn’t make our children complete those
chores without first whining about them (unless, of course, the chart is
macraméd to a cattle prod).</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">The
chart enjoyed its official unveiling last night when Mr. Charming’s children
came over. First let me explain that the
chart includes all our children’s names, checkmarks and a variety of magnetic
chore icons. The magnets represent a
child’s assigned chores which they move under the checkmark once they’ve been
completed. Genius, right?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Only
the girls hung around to admire the chart’s sparkly blue lettering and
glass-tipped magnets. “Oh,” said the
youngest. “This one’s my favorite.” She placed the “clean room” chore icon under
her name. “Now I have to sleep.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">“Uhm,”
I said. “That one actually means you
have to clean your room.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">“No,”
she said. “It’s a bed. It means I have to sleep.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">“When
you clean your room, you make your bed, so that’s why there’s a bed on the
magnet.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">“Ohhhhhhhh,”
she said. And she promptly removed the
magnet from beneath her name. “I don’t
like that chore.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">So
far version 1.0 of the Belyoak Chore Chart is working swimmingly. Version 2.0 may include revised expectations
and a new batch of magnets including “graduate from high school” and “stay out
of jail.” (I’ll be posting templates to
Pinterest, if you care to follow me.)</span></div>shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11742270945335370549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11657020.post-11084831995323995292012-07-01T08:08:00.000-07:002012-07-01T20:32:51.760-07:002012-07-01T20:32:51.760-07:00The Law of Attraction and Tampon Dispsensers<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Note:</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> the following post is intended for an all female audience. Any man who reads this post is cautioned to do so at his own risk. ‘Nuf said.</span><br />
<br />
I don’t mean to make a public announcement or anything, but it’s that time of month. And I did the last thing any woman should ever do within the first couple days of her period. I went shopping. And unlike other, more prepared women, I wasn't carrying a spare in my purse, if you know what I mean. My new BFF, who no longer has a uterus, informed me that even she carries a tampon in her purse. In retrospect I’m realizing I should have gone shopping with her.<br />
<br />
So I was at Sam’s Club with Leah and Zack, checking out the summer workbooks for kids, when I realized a change of guard was in order. But, I thought, this is America. What retail chain wouldn’t take advantage of a woman’s misfortune and sell a tampon or two in their restrooms? No problem, right?<br />
<br />
The ladies room was being serviced. The janitor heard my moan of frustration and called out, “You can use the family restroom.” Women who use the family restrooms need tampons too, right? So I ushered my children in to discover that the only thing being dispensed in the family restroom was diaper packs and scented changing pads.<br />
<br />
So leaving the door to the family restroom open while my children romped and played, I wedged myself between the wall and the janitor's cart to check the walls of the women’s restroom.<br />
<br />
“Can I help you?” the janitor asked, stepping directly into my comfort zone.<br />
<br />
“Are there any, uhm, <i>machines</i>, in there?” I asked.<br />
<br />
<i>Machines</i>?” he asked, and I could tell he was trying to figure out what new technology he was missing out on.<br />
<br />
I racked my brain. Was there a nice euphemism for tampon dispenser? Besides girlie cigar and lady lolli I couldn’t think of one proper synonym for tampon, period. Pun intended.<br />
<br />
“I need a tampon. Is there a tampon dispenser in there?”<br />
<br />
I realized there are many things you can say to shut a man up, but that phrase, uttered to a complete stranger, is by far the most effective. He didn’t say a thing. In fact, he physically resisted the reflex to look at my crotch and see just how dire my lady dilemma was.<i>Not that dire, buddy.</i><br />
<br />
I returned to the family restroom and soon realized that my situation hadn’t been dire at all. All that fuss for nothing.<br />
<br />
My friend insists that I “attract” these situations so I have something to write about.<br />
<br />
Speak up, ladies. Please tell me there are others who experience menstrual emergencies while out and about. That I’m not that only female on the planet who <a href="http://belknapkids.blogspot.com/2008/05/brainless-in-idaho.html" target="_blank">exposes her eczema to single pediatricians</a>, <a href="http://belknapkids.blogspot.com/2007/12/project-playroom-makeover-part-one.html"><span target="_blank">locks herself outside the house in the dead of winter (after midnight)</span></a>,and is <a href="http://belknapkids.blogspot.com/2006/04/mary-kay-saves-day.html" target="_blank">accosted by Mary Kay consultants while standing in the neuter line.</a> <br />
<br />
Never mind. Don't answer that. I don’t want to know…shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11742270945335370549noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11657020.post-7728271687202367132012-06-26T20:02:00.001-07:002012-06-26T20:03:32.327-07:002012-06-26T20:03:32.327-07:00With Great Power Comes Inevictability<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W9ecd5nEHKg/T-p2wQ_9kJI/AAAAAAAAA9o/b5pdoCIwmU0/s1600/spiderman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W9ecd5nEHKg/T-p2wQ_9kJI/AAAAAAAAA9o/b5pdoCIwmU0/s1600/spiderman.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">I
did the math. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">I’ve
lived with Spiderman longer than I have any other man in my adult life. And after nine years with the webbed
superhero, I’ve come to realize he will not be evicted from our home anytime
soon. He’s like the lazy, grown son I’ve never had, lounging around the
basement in his spandex, watching episodes of himself on Netflix, and leaving
his dirty dishes on the futon. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Kaleb
fell for Spiderman at two and a half years old.
By the time he was four, I had to buy him two Spiderman costumes because
he wore out the first one those four weeks before Halloween. And like Elmo and pocket rocks, whatever
Kaleb likes, Zack follows with even more exuberance.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">In
the past decade, I have decorated five Spiderman birthday cakes, purchased at
least 6 Spiderman costumes, tripped over roughly 352 Spiderman comics and
contributed to Marvel’s profit margin by purchasing a kazillion Spiderman
action figures and/or playsets. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">And
you’d think all this experience would make me the most knowledgeable comic mom
on the planet. I thought so. I mean, I knew that at one time Spiderman was
a member of both the Fantastic Four and the Avengers. I also knew that Stan Lee was the creator of
Spiderman some 50-odd years ago, and I could pick the old man out in a lineup. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">All
that comic cred disintegrated the day I donned a batman t-shirt. Thinking I’d impress the Spidey Sense out of
Zack, I thrust out my chest and said, “Cool, right?” Zack shook his head and muttered, “Batman is
a DC comic, mom. And Marvel is way cooler
than DC.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">What
was I thinking?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Luckily,
I met and married a grown man who enjoys grownup things like sushi, stringed
instruments and ABC’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Parks and Rec</i>. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Ah,
who am I kidding? Mr. Charming has lived
with Spiderman (and an assortment of other Marvel superheroes) for longer than
I have. In fact, Zack led the marriage
campaign once he discovered Mike’s comic book collection, complete with boxes
and boxes of Spiderman comics, most of which are currently shoved beneath his
bed. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">And,
believe it or not, our call name for restaurants is Marvel. “Like the comic book?” the Cheesecake Factory
hostess asked the last time we went out.
“Oh,” Mike said, innocently, as if the connection for the first time. “Sure.
I guess so.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">So
back to the math. My calculations show
that with a total of 57 Spiderman years among us, we are 85.7% nerdy. And 100% super (Okay. So that was a little cheesy.). </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">And
so you know, two ideas rule supreme in the Holyoak household: </span><br />
</div>
<ol>
<li><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"></span></span><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">With great power comes great
responsibility.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"></span><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Wash your own spandex.</span></li>
</ol>shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11742270945335370549noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11657020.post-33053431655570557142012-05-19T19:57:00.000-07:002012-05-20T17:35:25.870-07:002012-05-20T17:35:25.870-07:00Mothering Guilt<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yT8ls0GKrlE/T7hdaGhzkII/AAAAAAAAA8U/C1-DlSIKJJQ/s1600/Sept.+2011+036-1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="218" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yT8ls0GKrlE/T7hdaGhzkII/AAAAAAAAA8U/C1-DlSIKJJQ/s320/Sept.+2011+036-1.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Because I don't have a picture of myself breastfeeding...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Last week,
Time Magazine gave the women of the world the best Mother’s Day present ever:
an abundance of guilt. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Thanks,
Time, but I’m good. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">First, I
must admit that for the past five years I’ve anticipated mother’s day much like
the underdog anticipates a dodge ball game.
With much wincing and squinting.
Something about all the hooray regarding the great mothers of the world always
left me feeling wholly inadequate. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">So when
Time Magazine, picturing a perky young mom on its cover breastfeeding her
three-year old son, asked, “Are You Mom Enough?” I wanted to overnight express
a newborn into the sole care of their male editor. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Who asks
the mothers of the world THAT question on THEIR day? Seriously?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Just a
couple weeks ago, I decided I was an okay mom because I wasn’t barbequing any
of my children in tanning beds. That
lasted approximately 12 hours before a handful of our children decided the
futon in our basement made for a better teeter totter. And before those same children boycotted the
flushing of the downstairs’ toilet. And finally,
before my youngest offspring thought microwaving a nickel might be fun.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Four
years ago, Dr. Phil said sleeping with your children was wrong. At the time, I was a single mother with a
three-year old boy edging me out of bed.
Conclusion? I was a horrible
mother with no thought for my child’s future wellbeing. Now, after taking great pains to kick
aforementioned child out of my bed (i.e. I got married), I am, once again, a horrible
mother with no thought for my child’s future wellbeing. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Don’t get
me wrong. I have no problem with
attachment parenting as it’s described within the pages of Time Magazine. I also have no issue with Dr. Sears promoting
extended breastfeeding, the family bed and babywearing; in fact, I wish I could
stuff all my children into a giant fannypack every time I take them grocery
shopping. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">I just
don’t want to be made to feel guilty because I have chosen to parent
differently.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">So my
final question is, can I regift the guilt you gave me last week for Mother’s
Day, Time?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">If so,
I’ll definitely be giving it to my children.
Because as far as parenting techniques go, I’m pretty good with guilt. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">In
conclusion, I’ve decided the only thing constant in life is that my children
will always want to microwave nickels, and I will always want to write about
it. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">And to
all you mothers in the greater Idaho Falls area, that is my gift to you. Because really, don’t you all feel better
about yourselves after reading my column?
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">You’re
welcome!</span></div>shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11742270945335370549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11657020.post-62237990912541035212012-05-19T18:31:00.002-07:002012-05-19T18:33:34.224-07:002012-05-19T18:33:34.224-07:00The Crab Whisperer<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Zk3w-KWE3IQ/T7hJaZZWjFI/AAAAAAAAA8I/c7fWA3ewFqI/s1600/Painted-Hermit-Crab-Shells.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="220" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Zk3w-KWE3IQ/T7hJaZZWjFI/AAAAAAAAA8I/c7fWA3ewFqI/s320/Painted-Hermit-Crab-Shells.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Because I
have enough mammals currently living in my home, there is a freeze on acquiring
any additional hairy pets. So when my
daughter decided that she wanted to buy an ‘animal’ with her birthday money
this year, her choice was between the turtles and hermit crabs. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">The
turtles were out of her price range.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">I
mistakenly assumed that crustaceans, unlike old cats and wet dogs, would not
smell. And maybe it’s not the crabs that
smell, but their food. Either way, it
took an entire weekend for me to realize that I have zero tolerance for all
pets, crustaceans included, except those cooked up in my own womb.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">First
crab lesson of the day: they live in a crabitat which is, in our case, a small
travel tote with a purple lid. I was
surprised to discover that not all hermit crabs are created equal. Leah purchased two, and while one is friendly
and serene, the other is an angry pincher that nearly gave my daughter a blood
blister his first day at the Belknap home (How we decided this crab was male I
will never know).</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">“Can we
take him back to PetCo and ask for a hermit crab that doesn’t pinch?” my
daughter asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">“Uhm. I don’t think the return policy covers
pinching crabs, Sweetie,” I replied. “In
fact, I think they expect their crabs to pinch.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Pinchers,
as we so lovingly call him, was initially unhappy in his new digs. In fact, each time I cleaned his cage, he
would tear it apart like a rock star trashing his hotel room. The water dish would get overturned before
being dragged to the other side of the cage, holes would be dug throughout, all
the extra shells would be moved and sometimes buried before the pesky thing
would sit defiantly atop Sunny, the hermit crab with, according to Leah, an
equally sunny disposition. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">After
some time, Pinchers seemed to acclimate to his new environment. What I didn’t realize is that he was slowly
slipping into a crab funk, or crusdepression.
He stopped trashing his crabitat and, instead, buried himself deep into
the sand, refusing to come out. Leah
thought he was dead, and while I explained that he was probably molting, she mourned
her supposed loss more than once. Turns
out he was neither dead nor molting—he was simply sulking.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">But I
didn’t realize how bad things had become until yesterday, when I heard a loud
pop at the kitchen counter. There, by
the crabitat, lay Pinchers, who had somehow managed to climb up the side of his
tote and through the small opening in the lid before throwing himself from atop
the cage to the counter: Pinchers had attempted crabicide.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Luckily
his shell broke the fall, and I was able to return him to his cage unharmed,
but I couldn’t help but feel bad that Pinchers appeared to be so forlorn. Should we travel to the beach where we can
release him back to his natural habitat?
Should I talk with the good people at PetCo and see what measures can be
taken to improve his well being? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">And then
I realized that I was worrying about a hermit crab for which there would be no
therapy nor Prozac. So I did the best
next thing, and I cut up a hot dog and put it in his cage. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Just call
me the Crab Whisperer.</span>shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11742270945335370549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11657020.post-938332559351541852011-10-21T09:14:00.000-07:002011-10-21T09:14:37.928-07:002011-10-21T09:14:37.928-07:00Dear Idaho Falls,<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ag_kSoFGlOM/TqGWULgRDoI/AAAAAAAAA6U/eBw40B3KsR8/s1600/Uhaul+001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ag_kSoFGlOM/TqGWULgRDoI/AAAAAAAAA6U/eBw40B3KsR8/s320/Uhaul+001.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Remember last year when we broke up because I was overwhelmed by life and thought it might be better for my family if we <a href="http://fyisometimestheresnograss.blogspot.com/2010/06/driving-26-foot-uhaul-across-state.html">moved to another state</a>? Well, I’ve changed my mind; I’d like to get back together.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">First of all, it wasn’t you—it was me. (Unless we’re talking about your winters and then it’s all totally you.)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Weather aside, we loved your schools—especially Linden Park Elementary where all my kids started kindergarten and enjoyed <a href="http://fyisometimestheresnograss.blogspot.com/2010/11/just-call-me-smorty-pants.html">Popcorn Fridays</a>, the Homework Club and Ms. Glisendorf, the school secretary who I admit to having a little girl crush on (please don’t retire—pretty please).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">We were happy with our dentists and pediatricians. In fact, the doctor who diagnosed my youngest with eczema was the object of another crush <a href="http://fyisometimestheresnograss.blogspot.com/2008/05/brainless-in-idaho.html">about which I wrote extensively</a>, effectively embarrassing the nice, single pediatrician and shaming myself (in case you were wondering, no, we did not leave Idaho Falls because of any outstanding restraining orders).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">We enjoyed the parks, <a href="http://fyisometimestheresnograss.blogspot.com/2007/07/yep-this-is-my-life-part-3.html">the library</a>, the museum, Happy Hour at Sonic and the dollar theater which is really a misnomer because it costs more than that, but I’m guessing the Two Dollars and Fifty Cents Theater doesn’t sound nearly as good. We liked the shopping, the greenbelt, old downtown and the numbered streets, although we’re not a fan of 17<sup>th</sup> which is very busy and the place where we got into a fender bender two days after Christmas. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Idaho Falls is the place where I started a life as a single mom and was buoyed up by friends and neighbors in the community who cleared snow from my sidewalks and windblown tree limbs from my front yard. It’s also where gracious volunteers <a href="http://fyisometimestheresnograss.blogspot.com/2008/01/broken-pipes-part-ii.html">fixed my frozen pipes</a> and gave us an entire winter reserve of wood after our furnace broke. It’s the place where my kids found friends, teammates and teachers who loved them through some hard times and then kept loving them long after things stopped being so tough. </span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZlmG7F__wl4/TqGWlpcS2WI/AAAAAAAAA6c/voZzqpTSYA8/s1600/snow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZlmG7F__wl4/TqGWlpcS2WI/AAAAAAAAA6c/voZzqpTSYA8/s1600/snow.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our first Thurs in IF it snowed. That was October 6th...</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">And lest we forget, it’s the place where my BFF lives, who’s literally been with me through <a href="http://fyisometimestheresnograss.blogspot.com/2008/09/diving-off-wagon.html">thick and thin</a>, back to thick and, knock on wood, on our way to thin again. It’s also where <a href="http://fyisometimestheresnograss.blogspot.com/2011/10/dating-and-disney.html">I found Mr.Charming </a>who may or may not be filing a restraining order after discovering that we’ve rented a moving van so we can come back.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">You had us at hello, Idaho Falls. You had us as hello.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Sincerely, Me</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">P.S. While our love for you is completely unconditional, we would really appreciate milder (and shorter) winters. Thanks for your consideration.</span></div>shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11742270945335370549noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11657020.post-5244692469174556692011-10-20T13:30:00.000-07:002011-10-20T13:31:24.205-07:002011-10-20T13:31:24.205-07:00Labor-Day Weekend<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NBcX3iZGNaY/TqCEp-GtTSI/AAAAAAAAA6M/tDrDu-tS8-U/s1600/DSCF0444.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NBcX3iZGNaY/TqCEp-GtTSI/AAAAAAAAA6M/tDrDu-tS8-U/s320/DSCF0444.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">If I were entrepreneurial minded, I would totally open a store specializing in gifts for unusual occasions. Like, when you need an I-told-you-so card for your mother after she paints the house Spicy Mustard. Or maybe a wedding gift for the cousin who once got you with the honey-on-the-toilet-seat gag. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">For example, if someone had known that I would be meeting Mr. Charming’s ex wife and parents this past weekend, they could have gone to the aforementioned specialty shop to get me a refrigerator magnet, or, say, a box of chocolate-covered Valium. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">As luck would have it, the weekend, completely unmedicated, was fairly uneventful. Unless, of course, you consider the Meet and Greet picnic where I was at a complete loss for words. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">I know. Imagine that.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">But whatever awkward silences may have existed were completely filled by my children, who are walking Hallmark cards. The following were said at some point over the three days we spent in Idaho Falls and may or may not have been overheard by other grownups:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Kaleb: I’m okay with having stepbrothers and sisters as long as we can play their video games.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Leah: [following an especially emotional good bye] People are always sad to see me go.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Zack: If you marry [Mr. Charming], would his ex wife be my step aunt?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Kaleb: I just want you to be happy. Oh, and it would be nice to play Dungeons & Dragons too.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Leah (and Mr. Charming’s youngest girl): Mom and [Mr. Charming] are dating <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and </i>mating (which they continue to believe are synonymous terms, regardless of lessons emphasizing the contrary).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Zack: I think [Mr. Charming] is nice. I especially like all his Spiderman comics.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Zack: Mr. Charming’s ex wife is nice. Maybe even nicer than you.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Zack: Monkeys sometimes eat their own poop.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Zack: I either want to be a comic book artist or a mad scientist when I grow up.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Out of the mouths of babes, right?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">The weekend, designed to serve multiple purposes, taught me three very important things: </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><ol><li><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Always print map instructions before heading back home through Montana, </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">There are no prefabricated threats that will prevent my children from speaking their minds, and </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"></span><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Chocolate-infused Benadryl is another brilliant idea.</span></li>
</ol>shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11742270945335370549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11657020.post-49343633410754361692011-10-17T13:14:00.000-07:002011-10-17T13:15:26.763-07:002011-10-17T13:15:26.763-07:00Dating and Disney<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iR0wWnjTmjI/TpyMBIe95TI/AAAAAAAAA6E/LtemqVVJcVc/s1600/disney-dating.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iR0wWnjTmjI/TpyMBIe95TI/AAAAAAAAA6E/LtemqVVJcVc/s320/disney-dating.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><i><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">This was written a few months ago. Updates forthcoming...</span></i></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Disney has done my children a great disservice. While I didn’t expect Walt to teach them everything, I was kinda hoping his franchise would cover the intricacies of love and romance. My bad. </span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Let’s be honest here. I’m about as social as a ceiling fan and my flirting skillz are seriously subpar, so when I talked to my children about the possibility of mommy dating, it was in grand hypotheticals. Like winning the lottery, having MTV pimp my ride or getting all my laundry done in one day.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">As luck would have it, Mommy <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> dating. And if I’m reading my children correctly, they might spontaneously combust. Apparently, they firmly believe dating is just a casual word for betrothal, and it’s only a matter of time before the wicked stepfather sends them away to boarding school. Pray tell, where did they get those active imaginations?</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">My daughter is especially vexed. In regards to famous Disney hookups, only Jasmine dated around. Ariel imprinted with her true love moments after surfacing, Aurora and Snow White’s first kisses were with Prince Charming, and insensible shoes brought Cinderella’s destiny to her front door. So according to Disney’s schedule, I’m either ready to take a ride on a magic carpet, have my fairy Godmother fit me with a designer gown or prick my finger on the spindle of a spinning wheel and die. Not that any of those wouldn’t be equally exciting…</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Of course, I never bought into Hollywood’s shrink-wrapped version of romance myself. I didn’t once swoon when Christian Slater told Marisa Tomei he had a baboon heart. I didn’t cheer for joy when Patrick Swayze said that no one puts Baby in a corner. Nor did I become a little faint when Eric Stoltz and Marie Stuart Masterson engaged in a practice kiss. </span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Okay, so I’m a sucker for it all. And when my daughter’s eyes glaze over when talking about princes, I tend to glaze with. But unfortunately, most of Disney’s romances are caste with disenchanted mommies: stepmoms, stepqueens, class A felony kidnappers. Not one of them rides a paddle boat in the moonlight while being serenaded by sea creatures. And believe me, that’s on my bucket list.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Whether or not I’ve found Mr. Charming remains to be seen, and I’ll be the first to admit the search can sometimes feel quite magical. However, the reaction of my kids has reminded me that I can never forget my true loves. Because for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, for armpit farts and public brawls, they are my happily ever after.</span></div>shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11742270945335370549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11657020.post-41715823318753871112011-10-14T09:27:00.000-07:002011-10-14T09:58:39.212-07:002011-10-14T09:58:39.212-07:00Playing Pretend, Grownup Style<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ar3f8J1ehTc/TphkPF1pELI/AAAAAAAAA58/IySb-zXa6Ko/s1600/superclown.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ar3f8J1ehTc/TphkPF1pELI/AAAAAAAAA58/IySb-zXa6Ko/s320/superclown.JPG" width="235" /></a></div><i><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">This was written shortly before Oprah's show ended.</span></i><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">When my children don’t know I’m watching, they pretend to fight mythical creatures, perform to sold-out auditoriums, save the planet from hostile alien invasions, use the force to defeat Darth Vader (or whiny little Luke, depending on their mood), film the prize-winning America’s Funniest Home Video and flush marbles down the toilet, although that last one has nothing to do with this particular post.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">One of my most embarrassing moments came when my father walked in on a similar dreamscape: I was 13-ish and singing the Pointer Sisters’ “Jump” into a hairbrush while performing some fantastical dance moves. He tried to back out of the living room, but not before I caught a glimpse of him, bewildered and amused, behind me in the mirror.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">I’d like to say that as a grown woman I’m above that sort of Extreme Pretending, but I’d be lying. And unfortunately I’m not much of a do-gooder in my imaginary escapades; I’m not establishing world peace, eliminating poverty and hunger or curing cancer—the truth is I’m generally engrossed in a deep and touching interview with Oprah Winfrey. Sadly, this particular dream has a shelf-life of about 30 days seeing as how Oprah’s final episode airs in one month. I’m a little bummed.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">In the interview she’s laughing raucously at my witty and spontaneous humor. But then she gets serious, leaning forward to grab my hand and ask how my life has changed since becoming a best-selling novelist. I won’t bore you with the details of my imaginary interview, except to say that it’s the highest-rated pretend Oprah episode to date.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Just a few weeks ago, I told my BFF that I regularly engage in pretend Oprah interviews--in fact, just that morning Oprah had asked about my first extravagant purchase after becoming filthy rich. I had laughed, modestly, and told her that while my lifestyle hadn’t changed much, I did splurge and buy one of everything pictured in Pottery Barn’s Spring Catalog. </span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">It was then that I realized I’m not the only adult lost in the haze of an intoxicating day dream. My BFF informed me that she regularly imagines her Sunday service interrupted by rebel forces which she single-handedly disarms and incapacitates with a series of round-house kicks, much to the surprise of the entire congregation that, awestruck, applauds her efforts, albeit reverently. No wonder my kids liked playing at her house so much.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">So I guess that everyone plays pretend, some of us more rigorously than others. And although Oprah may be retiring, I may just have a pretend future in fighting mythical creatures. My BFF could always teach me a thing or two, in her dreams.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">How about you? </span></div>shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11742270945335370549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11657020.post-27542869904152887392011-10-13T13:15:00.000-07:002011-10-13T13:31:44.219-07:002011-10-13T13:31:44.219-07:00Road Trips and Rest Stops<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tVytzGja5tI/TpdGS1PP_WI/AAAAAAAAA4s/o9cFFrGF5C8/s1600/boys+bday+etc+002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tVytzGja5tI/TpdGS1PP_WI/AAAAAAAAA4s/o9cFFrGF5C8/s320/boys+bday+etc+002.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">If my column had a jingle it would go a little something like this: shaming myself publicly so that you don’t have to. And because I was an English major, I like that my jingle is a double entendre: I shame myself publicly before anyone else has a chance to do it for me AND I shame myself publicly so that you can avoid my shameful behavior. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Either way, my joy comes in knowing that, if all else fails, I generally make readers feel just a little bit better about themselves. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">You’re welcome. (Now back to our regularly scheduled programming.)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Over spring break I drove 10 hours to take the kids to see their dad in Utah. Then I continued to drive 10 more hours to visit my own biological father in Taos, New Mexico. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">I’m guessing there are three common difficulties in traveling long distances via automobile with children: 1. bathroom emergencies, 2. sibling rivalry and 3. the spilling of fry sauce in the backseat. Check, check and check!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">As for number one, my daughter has a bladder of steel. It’s creepy, really, how long the girl can go without going. That is, until we get on the road. Kryptonite is to Superman as road travel is to her continence. And as soon as she mentions the need, her brothers chime in: “You probably shouldn’t think about Niagra Falls” or “Is that water running or is it just Leah running to the bathroom?” And my personal favorite, “Superheroes never have to go to the bathroom.” (I don’t think Spunk understood the purpose of this exercise.)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Once I quieted the boys, I gave her my best hold-it lecture, because these emergencies never happen within 10 miles of a gas station or a rest area. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Think about something else, and put the water bottle down.</i> That’s it—that’s my lecture. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Luckily, there were no accidents (aside from the fry sauce debacle) and no close calls. </span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Unless, of course, you count my drive sans children.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">In my defense, there’s a long stretch of mountainous terrain for which New Mexico has not yet received adequate funding for rest stops. Also in my defense, I have birthed three children and do not have a bladder of steel, on or off-road.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">About two hours into my drive home, I texted my BFF: ‘Totally peed on the side of the road. Classy.’ Apparently, she’s privy to the jingle because she forwarded my text to a common friend, who was, at the time, driving back to Idaho Falls from Las Vegas—with her husband.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">“You forwarded my text about peeing on the side of the road?” I asked.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">“Oh, she totally appreciated it.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">So once again, my column is a cautionary tale. This time it’s intended for those of you who may be considering the occupation of public shaming, because like superhero work, once you assume the charge, your life is no longer your own. Unless, of course, you have an alter ego, a bladder of steel or a cell phone plan without unlimited texting. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Then you might be okay.</span></div>shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11742270945335370549noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11657020.post-14504698300833572942011-10-07T10:21:00.000-07:002011-10-07T10:46:17.928-07:002011-10-07T10:46:17.928-07:00The Tween Eye Roll<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lcYco5vEXxg/To80btM9FOI/AAAAAAAAA4g/aff-taBT-IY/s1600/back-to-school1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lcYco5vEXxg/To80btM9FOI/AAAAAAAAA4g/aff-taBT-IY/s320/back-to-school1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">My oldest child seems to be suffering from a condition in which his eyeballs are magnetically drawn to the top of his head. It happens mostly when he’s talking to me. Either he needs a specialist or karma has come to kick my trash. (By the way, that evil cackle you hear in the background is my mother laughing at me.)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">From approximately 11-years old to midway through my freshman year in college, I was notoriously sassy. Some people reminisce about near-death experiences or most embarrassing moments at family gatherings. My mother talks about Shauna’s Moody Years. And from the way she describes them, I was so caustic that red lasers would often shoot from my eyes and flames burst from my ears. Also, periodically my head would spin all the way around, independent of my neck.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">The truth is, I was especially feisty in junior high when boys stopped pulling on pigtails and started snapping bra straps. It was a time in which forgetting to wear your deodorant could make for an excruciating bus ride home, either inflicted upon oneself, the person next to you, or that mean kid who sat in the back. With reckless abandon, I tried out for basketball, cheerleading and drill team, only to be rejected thrice. I also learned that people could be incredibly cruel for the sake of popularity as I watched a boy get stuffed into a industrial garbage can at the end of PE one day. Puberty is not for the faint of heart.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">You’d think with all this I would be much more empathetic to watch my son edge his way into the preteen years, complete with questionable body odor, dirty socks that smell that corn chips and the infamous ‘eye roll.’ Uhm, not so much.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">I’m nearly catatonic with fear. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">The junior high horror stories are much worse than the ones I went to school with. Apparently the hallways abound with mini Charlie Sheens and their goddesses in the terrestrial dimension, pushing drugs you can overcome with your mind. Winning? Maybe if you’re homeschooling.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">But instead, I’m going to use my mind to will my children through a prepubescent experience more like my own. This includes being grateful for the condition from which my son is currently suffering, because it doesn’t require rehab. And to guide me through this uncharted territory in parenting, I’m going to draw from my father’s arsenal.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">“Those eyes can either roll on the floor or not at all. Your choice.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">It was a different brand of parenting, but effective in its own way. Because I turned into a most pleasant and healthy adult.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">What? Are you rolling your eyes at me?</span></div>shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11742270945335370549noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11657020.post-47853275693294302932011-02-14T13:08:00.000-08:002011-02-14T13:08:18.302-08:002011-02-14T13:08:18.302-08:00A Valentine Reflection, sort-of<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:DontVertAlignCellWithSp/> <w:DontBreakConstrainedForcedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> <w:Word11KerningPairs/> <w:CachedColBalance/> </w:Compatibility> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1DXs6N3ZsZo/TVmZVEkYSdI/AAAAAAAAA28/VvCW4f1r4A8/s1600/woodland+park+012.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1DXs6N3ZsZo/TVmZVEkYSdI/AAAAAAAAA28/VvCW4f1r4A8/s320/woodland+park+012.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><i><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">This week's Valentine's column.</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Just so you know I did a lot of preparatory work in writing this Valentine’s column.<span> </span>First, I texted my BFF: ‘Trying to write a Valentine’s column.<span> </span>Kill me now.’<span> </span>Next I reminisced about all my elementary school crushes.<span> </span>Then I fantasized about eating a giant heart-shaped sugar cookie.<span> </span>And then I posted to Facebook: ‘Trying to write a Valentine’s column.<span> </span>Kill me now.’<span> </span>Don’t let anyone tell you this job is easy.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">I’m not at all bitter about being single as Valentine’s Day approaches, a day set aside to celebrate lovers and romance and a naked cherub forcing people into relationships through violent means.<span> </span>No, not all.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Because even though I am single, I am loved.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Okay, so that wasn’t enough words to pass as a column, so I have to keep going.<span> </span>Hang with me, people.<span> </span>I’m sure this is going to get better.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Like I said, I am loved, most importantly by three wonderful children, two of which still allow me public displays of motherly affection.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">My youngest two are totally okay with public kisses.<span> </span>My daughter is all about dainty pecks on the lips, and if I miss, she’ll pout and demand a do-over.<span> </span>My 6-year old is still a little sloppy about it, and when he’s not looking, I have to wipe some of his exuberance from my face.<span> </span>A few weeks ago, he ran halfway back from the bus stop when he realized he hadn’t kissed me goodbye.<span> </span>All together now: Ahhhhhhh.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">But I know those days are numbered.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">My oldest son boycotted kissing just last week.<span> </span>I was tucking him into bed when he made the request.<span> </span>No more kisses—he’s too old for that.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">I’ll be honest—it left me reeling for a minute, until, that is, I tried to envision myself kissing the poor boy on his wedding day.<span> </span><span> </span>I can only imagine the scene from the bride’s perspective as the lumbering mother-in-law leans towards her man, puckering up for a big smooch and then wiping old-lady lipstick from the corners of his mouth.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">So while I was a little forlorn at Kaleb’s request, I can appreciate his maturity and the steps he’s taking to prevent awkward mouth kissing for him and his posterity. <span> </span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Then the other night while I was tucking him into bed, he said, “You can still kiss me, Mom.<span> </span>Just not on the lips and not in front of friends.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Ahhhh.<span> </span>Looks like I’ve still got this one for a few more years.<span> </span>I think I’ll celebrate by eating a giant heart-shaped sugar cookie.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Happy Valentines, everyone!<span> </span></span></div>shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11742270945335370549noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11657020.post-88991508306303063792011-02-09T15:11:00.000-08:002011-02-09T15:12:06.144-08:002011-02-09T15:12:06.144-08:00Picassoman<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;">I haven't blogged for awhile--I've been trying to decide what kind of writer I want to be when I grow up. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;">But, in the meantime, I had to post this goody. While I may be biased, I think my little Spunk is a prodigy when it comes to Spiderman works of art. Like this wonder:</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HxMe8kDzp1E/TVMeLrKs2uI/AAAAAAAAA24/7lSLH3rlBZQ/s1600/spiderman.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HxMe8kDzp1E/TVMeLrKs2uI/AAAAAAAAA24/7lSLH3rlBZQ/s640/spiderman.JPG" width="507" /></a></div> <br />
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;">He’s only 6. Amazing, right?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;">Okay, so maybe I’m biased. But let me know if you’d like a print on canvas—it’s only 40 kazillion dollars this week.</span>shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11742270945335370549noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11657020.post-1760538675882158892011-01-20T16:50:00.000-08:002011-01-20T18:56:12.911-08:002011-01-20T18:56:12.911-08:00Elliptical Dreams<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HxMe8kDzp1E/TTjXCjo1tOI/AAAAAAAAA2w/bQxDgh3tBWU/s1600/elliptical.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HxMe8kDzp1E/TTjXCjo1tOI/AAAAAAAAA2w/bQxDgh3tBWU/s320/elliptical.jpg" width="195" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Does this elliptical make my butt look big?</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">I want an elliptical. A nice, inexpensive, calorie-burnin’, exercise while netflickin’, slimin’ and tonin’ machine. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">I am convinced it is the cure for the extra donk in my badonkadonk. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">So I have been scouring Craiglist and the MoneySaver for a deal, and in my mind, securing this elliptical is the same as squeezing my badonk into a pair of skinny jeans. I know my thinking is flawed, but please allow me to have my moment of delusion. I deserve that much.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">It was in working through aforementioned flawed logic that I realized exactly the type of person I am. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">I am the person who thinks that buying a bunch of plastic bins and hanging file folders is as good as organizing my home. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">I am the person who feels that renting a post hole digger is the same as installing a fence. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">I am the person who believes that making a to-do list is just as good as checking it off.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">I am also the person who prays for the invention of a calorie-free cheesecake, although that’s totally unrelated to this post.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">So, I’m trying to be completely mature and commit to being all healthy and stuff before I find my magic elliptical. And that’s why I’m currently <i>thinking</i> about committing to eating healthy and exercising before I actually find it, although that really sounds like just a lot of work. Not like my magic elliptical which will make burning thousands of calories a day easy cheesy. </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">By the way, I’m also on the lookout for a walking broom that will do my laundry and a unicorn that will help with yard work. Thank you.</span></div>shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11742270945335370549noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11657020.post-82998594131226351132011-01-19T09:41:00.000-08:002011-01-19T09:46:05.205-08:002011-01-19T09:46:05.205-08:00Why I Love Facebook<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">I have decided that there are half a dozen Facebook camps. I could break them down into genus and species (one includes those closet farmers who long to live the rural dream), but I’m sure I’d lose about half my friends in the process. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">I’m in the unfortunate camp that believes Facebook IS a viable social life (currently my only social life, thank you very much). This means I change my status at least once a day and comment on a handful of others before nightfall. I know at least half the other camps will collectively roll their eyes at me, but to them I say, <i>I y’am what I y’am</i>, virtually.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">So you won’t be surprised to discover that I had an imaginary conversation via Facebook this week with the 3-Day Weekend. And this is exactly why I love Facebook. I posted a fairly innocuous status:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">3-day weekend, </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">May you include lots of sleep, pizza, recreational basketball viewing, and non-argumentative playtime with kids. </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Pretty please?</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">It wasn’t even very creative, but in less than 20 minutes I got this response:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Dear Shauna,</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">More like ecstatic joy on Friday, grumbling about chores on Saturday, whining and sulking at church on Sunday, and then constant bickering with each other and the cry of, "But THEY'RE going to the movies, why can't WE?" until the blessed hour of bedtime. Just thought you needed a little reality check there. </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Love, the 3-Day Weekend. *smooch*</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">In this comment, the 3-Day Weekend is played by my friend, Sharon, a classmate from my days at BYU-Hawaii. She is so witty that sometimes my eyes sting just from reading her comments. I wasn’t nearly as quick with my reply, which, now that I look at it, is lame-O. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Dear 3-Day Weekend,<br />
<br />
I'm just not that into you.<br />
<br />
Sincerely,<br />
<span class="textexposedshow">Shauna</span></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span class="textexposedshow"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">And the conversation continued until we both spontaneously combusted. No, really.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Dear Shauna, </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">I'm always here for you anyway. At least, whenever the teachers at your kids' school decide that they can't stand your kids for ONE MORE DAY and take a vacay. I'm afraid I'll stalk you until your youngest is in college. Bwa-ha-ha-ha. </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Love, The 3-Day Weekend.</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Dear 3-day weekend, </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">I have yet to secure that type of commitment from a single man. Regardless of your perseverance, I find myself attracted to the Boys and Girls Club who open their doors to my fighting children when I am at wit's end (thanks to you). Unfortunately, they are closed on Saturday and Sunday, thus ensuring the grumbling about chores and whining and sulking at church. Read: you suck. </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Shauna</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Dear Shauna, </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Who do you think inspired the Boys and Girls Club to close on Saturday and Sunday? I have my ways of making people do what I want them to do. I am all powerful. Do not trifle with me. </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Love, The 3 Day Weekend.</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 0.5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Dear 3-Day Weekend, </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 0.5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">I'm very close to filing a restraining order against your stalking, delusional 72-hour self. We are going to have fun this weekend, whether or not it involves three little straight-jackets (note to self: check etsy for handmade straight-jackets in children's sizes). So there. </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 0.5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Shauna</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Dear Shauna, </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Just be grateful that I do not call my cousins to aid me in demolishing your carefully constructed delusions. Spring Break and Memorial Day still want recompense for the joy you had last year. And don't even get me started o<span class="textexposedshow">n how much Presidents' Day wants payback. Remember--it's not the kids who are out to get you--it's us. </span></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><span class="textexposedshow"><i><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">The Vacay from Perdition.</span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Dear 3-day, </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">You and your inbred cousins can go pester all those families at Disneyland. Already we've had 2 meltdowns, 1 screamfest, 1 public brawl, and 5 'do-you-want-to-spend-the-<wbr></wbr>rest-of-the-weekend-in-you<wbr></wbr>r-room?'s. It's only Saturday. I<span class="textexposedshow"> don't know what's in the 3-day weekend water, but it has possessed my children in a Linda-Blair like fashion. I have a dream, 3-day weekend, that my three little children will one day endure a 72-hour time span without teasing, whining, fighting, pouting, crying, or, heaven-willing, one roll of those sassy little eyeballs. Watch your back, Vacay from Perdition, because you have children too. And until we settle the score, all your silly little unofficial holidays will not be safe (yes, April Fools' Day, Grandparents' Day, and International Talk Like a Pirate Day, that would be you). </span></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><span class="textexposedshow"><i><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Shauna</span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Dear Shauna, </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">I do have children of my own. I hereby retract all ill will heretofore either intentionally or unintentionally leveled in your direction and beg for your forgiveness. You are tougher than I am--I am merely a vacation and a lame one, at that. you are Mother. You are invincible. You will Win. My apologies to you and yours, and I will endeavor not to be a pain in the rear from here on out. </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Love, Three Day Weedend</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Dear 3-day weekend, </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Ah shucks. Let's be friends. </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">xoxo, Shauna</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">I know what you’re thinking: here are two women with far too much time on their hands. And to you I say, here are two women looking for a healthy outlet so they don’t place their children in strait jackets and run away to Jamaica. (By the way, it was Sharon that once pointed out to me, via Facebook, that straight jacket was really strait jacket. A true friend who also happens to be witty <i>and</i> brilliant. Back in paradise, her mother was my grammar and semantics instructor, wouldn’t ya know [Oh, and even after that poignant Facebook lesson, I still spelled it straight jacket in this exchange because I’m, you know, unbrilliant.])</span></div>shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11742270945335370549noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11657020.post-10344349632088730722011-01-12T17:03:00.000-08:002011-01-12T17:09:06.439-08:002011-01-12T17:09:06.439-08:00When Legos Come to Stay: A Photo Essay<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Our home has been infiltrated by the Legos.</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Like the eighth plague of Egypt, these sharp, minuscule pieces of plastic have assailed and prevailed. They came in stockings, were disguished as gifts and stoawayed in backpacks and laundry bins on the kids' return from holiday visitation with their dad. Impartial to gender, they came, fell apart and pierced our fleshy souls (as in the bottoms of our feet, not the metaphysical essence of our beings). </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Anywho.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Girl Legos are different from boy Legos, in case you were wondering (and no, the difference is not discerned by looking at their <i>accessories</i>). Leah got a pink, white and orange set that can be built into a cute little Victorian home complete with a white picket fence and flower gardenette. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HxMe8kDzp1E/TS5KHsWc6vI/AAAAAAAAA18/sChFqPmUlt0/s1600/house.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="307" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HxMe8kDzp1E/TS5KHsWc6vI/AAAAAAAAA18/sChFqPmUlt0/s320/house.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">And apparently, once your girl Legos have been assembled, you are to perform Lego Plays. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HxMe8kDzp1E/TS5KRRXKecI/AAAAAAAAA2A/DNvjLfes4ug/s1600/play1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="263" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HxMe8kDzp1E/TS5KRRXKecI/AAAAAAAAA2A/DNvjLfes4ug/s320/play1.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">In this story, a young Lego Girl longs for a pony. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Lego Girl:</span></b><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"> Oh, Mama, I so wish I could have a pony.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Lego Mama:</span></b><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"> Well, dear daughter, you know I cannot afford to give you a pony.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Aside: This is called, Art Imitating Life.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Lego Mama:</span></b><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"> But your birthday is coming up and you do have a rich uncle. Why don’t you write him a letter?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Aside: This is called Wildly Imaginative and Slightly Disturbing.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><i><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Lego Girl does write her rich uncle, and lo and behold, on her 8<sup>th</sup> birthday, she is given a pony named Patty, because “that’s a good name for a horse.”</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Spunk watched the play with anticipation, because in his chubby little hand (how sad I’ll be when those hands stop being chubby) he held some Lego characters of his own, and they were itching for a role. So when I jokingly said that maybe Sis’s Legos needed a Lego doctor, because they kept falling apart between scenes, Spunk saw his chance. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Using his best siren voice, he pushed his Lego pirates and Lego truck onto the set. Like the Marx Brothers, his swashbuckling pirates clambered from their perch, bumping into each other and losing limbs of their own. “We’re the ambulance guys,” they said. And then, as an afterthought, “To the rescue!”</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HxMe8kDzp1E/TS5KuvcPxSI/AAAAAAAAA2E/JEVDftc67us/s1600/ambulance.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="207" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HxMe8kDzp1E/TS5KuvcPxSI/AAAAAAAAA2E/JEVDftc67us/s320/ambulance.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><br />
</span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HxMe8kDzp1E/TS5K0gwdBtI/AAAAAAAAA2I/eGEyF54cUSY/s1600/pirates.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HxMe8kDzp1E/TS5K0gwdBtI/AAAAAAAAA2I/eGEyF54cUSY/s320/pirates.JPG" width="234" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Because these guys are the rescuing type...</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Sis was devastated, because, of course, this meant her Lego Play was ruined. She retreated into the bathroom and wasn’t to be coaxed out, until, that is, we agreed to watch the production from the beginning and keep our big mouths shut. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"> </span> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><i><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">The pony is much loved. Unfortunately, after some time (perhaps 15 minutes), Lego Girl begins to neglect Lego Dog, Skittles. There is sadness and confusion.</span></i></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">The play is so engaging that Sport, passing by for a drink of water, becomes intrigued and watches the Lego Play.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"></span><i><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Lego Mama confronts Lego Daughter and shares her disappointment in the girl’s behavior when…</span></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HxMe8kDzp1E/TS5LFip7A7I/AAAAAAAAA2M/eAz5TSZzRoQ/s1600/play2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="209" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HxMe8kDzp1E/TS5LFip7A7I/AAAAAAAAA2M/eAz5TSZzRoQ/s320/play2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><b>Sport:</b> So, is that, like, horse poo?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Sport, Spunk and I lean towards the brown Lego pieces. I press my lips together because I can feel what’s coming. But it doesn’t stop the explosive laughter. </span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HxMe8kDzp1E/TS5L5pNax0I/AAAAAAAAA2Q/bU-mNew42j0/s1600/horse-poo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="305" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HxMe8kDzp1E/TS5L5pNax0I/AAAAAAAAA2Q/bU-mNew42j0/s320/horse-poo.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Lego Poo? BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Because I am <i>that </i>mature.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Our promise broken, Sis again retreats to the bathroom only to return to set up the final scene (which includes no lose brown Legos).</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HxMe8kDzp1E/TS5L5pNax0I/AAAAAAAAA2Q/bU-mNew42j0/s1600/horse-poo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HxMe8kDzp1E/TS5M5ecWtNI/AAAAAAAAA2U/IQq8i0_q72I/s1600/brunch.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="188" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HxMe8kDzp1E/TS5M5ecWtNI/AAAAAAAAA2U/IQq8i0_q72I/s320/brunch.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"> </span><i><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Lego Girl and Lego Mama share a tasty brunch throughout which Lego Girl continually rolls her eyes at everything Lego Mama says. The End.</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Not to be outdone, Sport brings out his completed Lego set—a task that took exactly one day of seclusion in his bedroom. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HxMe8kDzp1E/TS5N7mnP-JI/AAAAAAAAA2c/cbxq-tF_ZAY/s1600/building.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="260" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HxMe8kDzp1E/TS5N7mnP-JI/AAAAAAAAA2c/cbxq-tF_ZAY/s320/building.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">This assemblage is unaccompanied by any script or character arc. It’s simply Endor ‘from that Star Wars movie with the Ewoks.”</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HxMe8kDzp1E/TS5OEApbcvI/AAAAAAAAA2g/zsVjnVQnYv8/s1600/endor.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="216" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HxMe8kDzp1E/TS5OEApbcvI/AAAAAAAAA2g/zsVjnVQnYv8/s320/endor.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HxMe8kDzp1E/TS5OWKuJHiI/AAAAAAAAA2o/QHma_49d06Y/s1600/ewoks.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HxMe8kDzp1E/TS5OWKuJHiI/AAAAAAAAA2o/QHma_49d06Y/s320/ewoks.JPG" width="261" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">And this is my favorite part—because that’s Lego Chewbacca! </span> <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HxMe8kDzp1E/TS5OdiLSIqI/AAAAAAAAA2s/JW_M6Se-IWc/s1600/chewbacca.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HxMe8kDzp1E/TS5OdiLSIqI/AAAAAAAAA2s/JW_M6Se-IWc/s320/chewbacca.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">And I know what you’re thinking. What if Chewbacca ate Skittles before stealing Patty from Lego Girl so that he could use her Lego manure as fuel for his dying planet? What a great sequel, right? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"> </span> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Someone else will have to coax her out of the bathroom though, because she’s not listening to me anymore.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">(I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that the eyeroll is the tenth plague of parenthood.)</span></div>shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11742270945335370549noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11657020.post-48311984445800490602011-01-11T14:59:00.000-08:002012-09-22T18:00:10.077-07:002012-09-22T18:00:10.077-07:00What Medusa and My Naked Body Have in Common<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">There are some things you can never take back. Swimwear from which you’ve removed the panty strip, the fruitcake your neighbor gifted over the holidays, that comment about your mother-in-law’s meatloaf and her family’s genetic propensity for lazy eye, and the image of your naked self irreparably burned into the retinas of your oldest offspring. Yes, gentle readers, my son accidentally walked in on me naked this week, and he shall never be the same.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">I think mine is the generation of teenagers whose parents all walked around in their underwear, at least that’s what I’ve gathered from informal research. When I came home from a night out with friends, I’d have to stick my head in the doorway and call out, “Everyone decent?” before inviting people through the Barnes threshold. My friends all have similar stories to share, of naked fathers and their robust dashes from the john to their bedrooms, of mothers accidentally flashing neighbor children when answering the front door in beltless robes, and countless potty breaks with gaping bathroom doors. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">All this probably explains my prudery. Until this week, I’m fairly certain that my children have been spared any full frontals of their mother. My dashes from the shower to the bedroom are quick and covered. Any scantily clad trips through my own home are often made to the Mission Impossible themesong, as I duck under windows, peek around corners and hug the walls in order to maintain modesty. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">But sadly, all good things must come to an end. In my defense, it was his fault. He was tattletaling, and we all know there’s no reward for that. Regardless, my 9-year old son walked into the bathroom as I was entering the shower. In that frightful moment his face elongated around his gaping, oval mouth—I can now guess why Munch’s screamer was screaming. Like Medusa’s head, my naked self seemed to have turned the kid to stone for a few awkward moments, during which time I cried, over and over again, “Shut the door, shut the door, shut the door…”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">For that frozen second I caught myself thinking, <i>This would have been so much better had it happened when you were thin</i>. To which I realized, can it ever be good to see your naked mother? Only, I gather, in Greek mythology.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Finally, mercifully, the bathroom door closed. I quickly put on my robe (secured the belt, of course) and followed him into the bedroom. He fell on the bed and covered his head with the comforter. At which point I thought, <i>What do you expect to say, exactly?</i> “So, you saw me naked? Bummer.” Or “That’s why you should always knock, mister.” I bit my tongue on the tempting, “I can’t be held responsible for most of what you saw, because a lot of it is your fault, carrying you around in my womb and all.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">It’s done. You can’t unring a bell, or in this case, you can’t unsee your naked mother. He had a tough time meeting my eyes the remainder of the day, and I had a tough time keeping down solid food. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">For any of you that might be interested, his birthday’s coming up, and the poor boy could use a lifetime supply of therapy. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">To his future wife I say, “I have effectively lowered his expectations.” And, “You’re welcome.”</span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><i>I know it's a little late, but here's my New Year's column. I'm currently hatching this fabulous post about, wait for it, Legos. I promise it's life-altering. Until then, here's a post about resolutions and time machines because, really, how can you have one without the other? (I don't know what that means either.)</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Even though you’re reading this after Christmas, I’m writing it just before which means I’m currently experiencing Pre-Christmas Bloat which is followed by the New Years Eve Binge and then, finally, the guilt-induced Great Weight Loss Resolution.<span> </span>It’s the circle of life, people.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">This has been a stressful year for me.<span> </span>I have prepared a house for the market (and it still hasn’t sold), moved my family to a different state, experienced BFF separation anxiety, and witnessed the death of our family vehicle, fondly referred to as that Stinkin’ White Mini Van Missing a Front Bumper.<span> </span>All this means one thing: I have gained approximately 30 pounds.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">As a result, I had to unpack my big-girl pants, and it wasn’t a happy moment for me (not to mention, I hadn’t kept many of them in the first place).<span> </span>It reminded me of the first few years of my kids’ lives.<span> </span>My oldest and youngest are exactly three years apart which means we went through boxes and boxes of clothes.<span> </span>In fact, every six months I’d travel to the attic where I would retrieve the next set of clothes big enough to fit my three toddlers.<span> </span>Will I forever be keeping a spare wardrobe of clothes like that?<span> </span>Boxes of skinny jeans or boxes of fat pants? Or, heaven forbid, bigger fat pants?<span> </span>Let’s hope not!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">So I’ve made a decision.<span> </span>I will build a time machine and travel back to the Victorian Era when chunky was voluptuous and exercise machines were nonexistent.<span> </span>There.<span> </span>Problem solved.<span> </span>Except for the pesky little part about the time machine.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Maybe, ladies, we could band together and change society’s view of beauty.<span> </span>Let’s bring voluptuous back!<span> </span>Let’s boycott the waifish look and thumb our noses at washboard stomachs and buns of steel!<span> </span>Let’s celebrate the female form that’s, say, approximately 30 pounds above her healthy weight range.<span> </span>Pretty please?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Or, and this is a good one, we could bottle and sell Spunk’s metabolism and eat cinnamon rolls for the rest of our lives.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Okay, okay.<span> </span>So it’s probably easier to lose 30 pounds than it is to accomplish any of those things.<span> </span>The only problem is I don’t wanna.<span> </span>I don’t wanna count calories.<span> </span>I don’t wanna stop eating movie popcorn.<span> </span>I don’t wanna perform cardiovascular activity three to five times a week.<span> </span>I also don’t wanna keep wearing my big-girl pants.<span> </span>So I’ve reached an impasse.<span> </span>Although the big-girl pants are more deplorable than the rest, which brings me back, once again, to the Great Weight Loss Resolution.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"><span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">In my stocking, Santa gave me a pedometer—and for the record, you know something’s wrong when the Big Man implies you need a little exercise.<span> </span>So I guess moving is part of that resolution.<span> </span>As is eating fewer cinnamon rolls and more fruits and vegetables.<span> </span>And doing things I don’t wanna until I feel like I do.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Unless someone can pass me a time machine.<span> </span>Anyone?<span> </span>Anyone?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";">Happy 2011, everyone.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div>shaunahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11742270945335370549noreply@blogger.com2