Is Your Mama Gonna Miss Ya Now You're Gone?

The incident occured Sunday October 31st around 0530. The only witnesses to the crime were the handsome couple toodling down I-15. The children were rendered unconscious from hours of Halloween partying and sugar withdrawl.




Witness statements.....

Officer Handsome: I think a jackrabbit just jumped in front of us.

Lovely Lady: What the *&^%$#@! Aahahaha! Something just flew at us!



Despite the dark nature of the night sky Officer Handsome signals and moves to the right. Upon reaching the off-ramp he completes his stop and exits the SUV with an LED flash light. He examines the bloodless carnage and returns to debrief. Handing over the flashlight to Lovely Lady, he snickers and insists she should find interesting the scene at the front of the vehicle. With much trepidation and a sense of foreboding, she rounds the SUV and finds herself face to carcass with an extremely large, and quite substantially dead owl. Having known this is what she would find, she shrieks with pride, "I told you so!". Then with the fear of God like ice water in her soul.....she runs down the off ramp pawing at the arteries in her own neck and shielding her ears from her own terrified screams. It appears to be a case of suicide by SUV/Cop.



The body remains afixed with a rigid determination to the front of the vehicle. Upon reaching Cedar City and the breaking of dawn across the morning sky, they were able to peer into the dead yellow eyes of the owl. Contemplating removal of the body from the grill, their decision was made by the quickly growing crowd of excited Asian tourists. The handsome couple were forced to move on with the corpse still firmly implanted, amid the flash of high quality Asain cameras.



The couple made many friends as they crossed Southern Utah, Arizona, the sinful and ugly Nevada, into the unsavory village of Barstow California. People love to be entertained as they drive the Godforsaken desert. This day, their dreams were realized. Many hand gestures, smiles, gasps, and screams were exchanged. For the few tenderhearted still remaining in the soul parched Nevada, there were tears shed as the owl triumphantly sped at great speeds, past their waning vehicles.



Upon entering Barstow, the town where life no longer has meaning, the handsome couple prepared to lay their new friend to rest. Lovely Lady retrieved her secret stash of surgical gloves, secreted away in the secret compartment, for a scene such as this that she secretly knew would happen one day. Pressing them into the caring, yet strong and manly hands of Officer Handsome, she exclaimed, "Don't touch that foulness with your bare hands!" The bird was swiftly removed with little trouble, despite it's ability to ride the grill through four states. Pictures were taken to document the momentous occasion. The bird was toed by Officer Handsome just to be sure no signs of life remained after the arduous journey. Nope, it was truely dead. It was time for goodbyes and a few photo ops from the new crowd gathering at the Carl's Jr. Farewell friend that gave us such memories! Farewell.

If I Could Trade Places With Someone Else For A Day.....

I struggle right now whether to be straight about my answer here or not. There are lots of people that I wouldn't mind trying their life out for a day. I could live with being rich, I could live with having toned glutes and abs. Frankly I could live with being my toddler, which would mean drinking chocolate milk and hanging out naked all day. I wouldn't even mind being the love o' my crush. But if truth be told I would like to be someone.....and I don't even know who she is.......that has the energy to do it all; be a fantastic, sweet tempered mother, a smoking hot wife, a real Betty in the kitchen, the skill to bring all of my home decorating fantasies to fruition, the wherewithall to squeeze in some sort of intense jump training workout, and the baffling ability to be lead by the Spirit in all my doings....to know what it would be like to be able to do the right thing without feeling like every step I took wasn't happening underwater with weights around my extremities....to have peace in my home and in my heart, to not struggle with feeling like I am tempted beyond my capacity at every turn. I don't know who this person is.....but I wouldn't mind being her for a day. P.S. It would really be icing on the cake if she had great hair to boot.

A Letter To Someone That Has Injured Me Recently

This is another Challenge from my private blog.  Who thought this would be a good idea?  Probably a teen forwarded this challenge until I somehow stumbled upon it.  I gaurantee there are people out there that are publishing their 'smack down' on a pulic site.  'Not gonna do it.'   Plus I'm not really harbouring any seething hatred worthy of a public take down.
My only options are writing a letter to the child that pulled my hair too hard while giving me a great comb through (which I forced the child to do).  Or.....this bread bowl.


Dear Bread Bowl,


You crusty little sucker with your pious smirk. Your insides are soft and delicious. You hold things I greatly desire; chicken salad, creamy soups. You tempt me despite the high caloric intake. My weakness for you is repaid with your injurous crust slicing through my tender thumb. You will live long enough to regret this....as I rip you piece by piece to feed to the birds off of the pier.

                                                                                              Ever,
                                                                                                      M

Set Goals You Can Accomplish

On my private blog I am doing a 30 day challenge.  Today I am supposed to be posting my goals for the month.  Yeppers, I am going to post goals to accomplish in the next three days.  Some of you may feel that is cheating and I should post of  all of November.  Nah.  There is a much brighter possibility that I will accomplish a small list in a small amount of time.
Sometimes when I have to make a To Do list.....I like to add some things that I can already check off.  You know, just to get my engine started.  Help me feel like I can get something done.
My Short Term Goals For October
1.  Get out of bed.
2.  Dispose of dead bodies.
3.  Make soup for ward Trunk or Treat party. (This is looking sketchy.)
4.  Eat Chinese food.  (This is looking like a sure bet.)
5.  Launder every stitch of clothing not being worn or having already been put away.  (I will NOT make a goal to put all of the laundry away.  In essence setting myself up for failure.)
6.  Trick or Treat
7.  Halloween party
8.  Pack clothing, food, toys for 6 people for 7 days.
9.  Finish reading Abraham Lincoln Vampire Slayer.  (This is also looking like it will have a positive outcome.)
10.  Drive to Disneyland:)

My Favorite Super Hero

In honor of Halloween, my super fave holiday, I thought I would post my all time favorite Super Hero.  Yes, her patriotism shines through in this amazing outfit. 
I seriously love Wonder Woman.  Great hair, snappy boots, small waiste.........and the ability to super jump and make people tell the truth. Ooo ooo, can't forget the ability to change clothes by spinning.   I spent hours pretending to be Wonder Woman when I was little.  I once made a bionic jump from my bed with such power that I drove my knee into my nose and rendered myself bloody and helpless for an afternoon.  I sometimes contemplate purchasing an outfit like that and wearing it all day.  I think it would really give me the drive I need to finish the laundry.  I pretty much covet her rope of truth.  I would love to take people out to an old wooden shack and tie them up and ask them all sorts of questions.  Bahaha......the power!
Yep, I'm power hungry and I long for great hair.  It comes so naturally to Wonder Woman......and this is why I love her.

Cherry Clafoutis.......Ya, That's What I Said

I'm sitting here having an ADHD moment.  I have cleaned about 16 different places and I can't seem to nail it down to just one area.  I've finally given myself a pseudo break and I started looking through some cooking magazines I need to get rid of.  

I am looking at these pictures of food like some people probably like to look at porn.  I can't get enough and I don't want to throw them away.  Frankly I want to save them under my mattress. 
The problem is that I like food.  Ever since having the nuggets my tastes have developed quite nicely and I really enjoy trying new things, new flavors, new combinations.  The bigger problem is that the rest of my family including The Man, eat like toddlers.  Cut up pieces of meat.....beef, chicken, pork, maybe a cheese stick and some chips to top it off.  None of them will eat a thing if it has any kind of sauce or vegetable....most of them don't even like bread.  That is a mortal sin.

So, unless I want to make my own very tiny meal with food items that I don't usually keep on hand....er, you know there are only so many things you can do with a hunk of meat and plain white rice (YUCK!), I don't really eat the kinds of things that I dream of.
On our super awesome anniversary vacation (that wasn't sarcasm......I know, it's hard to tell sometimes) we had the best time!  But when it came to food we were doing a lot of meat based restaurants.  I love some good meat, don't get me wrong.  BUT I would like to branch out.  Finally, desperate to make my taste buds happy, Officer Handsome took me to a beautiful little French bakery.  The food was so beautiful I was near tears.  I loved my food.  I nearly had an affair right there in front of him.  My heart was very close to transfering it's affections.  And what pray tell did that handsome man eat?  The only normal thing on the menu...a BLT.  I literally had to block him out to be able to enjoy my food.  It was like eating with someone on a diet.  I wanted to give him a little smack on the tush!  And not in an anniversary kind of way!

So here's what I'm gonna do.  I'm gonna save my little pictures of pretty food, that I am sure tastes just as pretty.  I'm gonna put them right next to my bed.  And when Officer Handsome doesn't come home until VERY late at night because he was chasing a nut job down a deserted road in the dark, after she threw some drugs out the window........I'm gonna look at those pictures.

Dirty, Messy.......Life

Challenged by my dear, dear friend  http://liddell6.blogspot.com/ I decided to post about what makes me dirty, messy and loveable:)
This blog has never intended to make anyone feel inferior.  I am pretty sure that it never has.  I think I am fairly upfront about the fact that I am frantically trying to keep my head above water.  If anything you should surf to your next web address feeling uplifted that you are succeeding where I am trodden down in the mud. 
Thus I will leave you with 7 dirty, messy, strange things that I accept about myself.....yet find myself adoring anyway!

1)  I do not like even numbers as a general rule.  I find 4,6,8, etc...offensive in their desperation to be even.  I do not like that they try so hard.  It is very hard to watch. It makes me uncomfortable. (For some reason 22 does not bother me.  Infact I like it.)

2) I have phenominal pregnancies physically if you don't count that my hips disengage and I totter around like a pure bread dog, awaiting euthenasia.  Mentally I am a mess.  I teeter on the verge of hysterical, raging, mania.  As the birth nears I feel like a trapped animal.  I also feel like my agency has been taken away and I am being forced to proceed with something that I do not want to be part of.  I refuse to return to the doctor just to prove that no one can make me go into labor.  I am not a pleasant person to be around.....BUT after I have accepted the fact that I cannot physically or mentally survive without medical intervention (epidural!) and that warm, safe feeling courses through my lower body......there is a time in there that is the very greatest time in all the world.  And it is not the drugs I refer to.  When that little tiny nugget that is all yours is born, after such intense deranged fear and trama.  There is no other time that is more ROMANTIC!  It is even deeper than romance.  I don't think I have words really to say what I mean.  When it is just you and your little baby and your hubby........that is the deepest love and adoration, the safest and most loved I have ever felt.  And when I mourn not having more babies....this is the thing I mourn for.  Well, that and the irresistable baby.

3)  I love to sort money.  I seriously L.O.V.E. it.  Our family saves all of our change in a huge bucket for our vacations.  When it's time to dump it out and roll the coins I am stoked.  I love sorting it because there is no guess work.  You are either a penny, a nickle, a dime, or a quarter.  Really this speaks volumes about me.  I like when things fit neatly.  I don't like when there are things that I don't know where they belong.  Therefore there are stacks of mail and paper on my counter because I am undecided what to do with them.  I hate not knowing.......in general, all across the board.  Just lay it out for me. Do you love me, hate me, do I irritate you, what should I be when I grow up........the list of things I need to know are exhausting.

4)  I did this fantastic workbook which took me months.  It literally ravaged my soul.  I learned things about myself that I do not like....I do not like them with a firey intensity.  I crave adoration.  I am lazy and desire only what comes with ease.  I have dark recesses so terrible that they are like a red velvet lined coffin.  There are parts of me that want only what is impossible, or risk damnation.  No joke.  And guess what.  Although I was trodden down like a wet leaf in the mud.......I liked it.  I liked that I could look at all of those things and admit that I knew they were there, but that I am still a pretty rockin' chick.

5)  I have hideous, grotesque, Quasimodo like nodules that grow on my scalp.  They are not many in number, and not frequent. There you go.  I have surgically removed some myself and had others removed by someone more professional.  Now for everyone that was soured by my striking beauty and raged with jealousy over my perfection.....you know the sick truth.

6)  I love that texting was ever invented.  That is because I do not like making phone calls.  That is because I am afraid that I will interrupt someone doing something much more important than speaking to me.  And while their phone rings, they will look down, see my name on caller ID and roll their eyes.  As I have an issue with desperate numbers (see #1) I also do not wish to be seen as desperate.  This causes me to act aloof and uncaring when I am secretly not aloof and I care so very deeply.  I employ this trick on many people. 

7)  I once snuck into a Stake dance when I was underage.  I find this hilarious for more than one reason.  a)I lied to get into a church function.  I showed fake ID even. b) I did not dance.  c) When I was of age to attend, I could not have been dragged there.  d) I did not even attend school dances.....even though I assure you dear readers, I WAS asked.  Then why, pray tell did I do something so flat out dumb?  Because...and this is the real #7, I succumb easily to peer pressure.  When pressured by the right person, for the right or wrong reason....I'll cave, especially if I love you. 

Now go ahead and spill your guts on your own blog and PULEASE tell me all the messy little things about you so that I don't have writers remorse.

Indecent Proposal

I am easily wooed by verbal acuity.  Truly it is true.  I didn't date much in highschool (gasp).  My extreme social phobia and grade oriented obsession kept me busy enough.  But I would also like to point out that I didn't know very many funny guys.  Superman would counterpoint  that is because I didn't know ANY guys.  I would then counterpoint that that makes him a very lucky man.  He would then laugh in a derogatory way.  What I am really trying to get at is though I will never dismiss that Superman is a hot piece of work and I could chew him up when I hear his radio crackle, or I see him in his dress shirts.....it's really his verbal skills that caught my attention.  A good laugh with him is almost as fulfilling as a good.......book:) or a supersize box of Jr. Mints.  You know what I mean.  If he couldn't make me laugh I would have never married him.  Blue eyes can't compensate for everything.
Superman and I like to play our little games.  "Can you think of any couples that aren't equally matched in looks?"  That is our study in the bizarre social phenomena that people match up physically.  "What would you do with oodles of money?" That is our fantasy game of traveling the world and funding our kids Ph.D. educations.  "What would you do for X amount of money?"  This one is also known as 'Indecent Proposal'.  It was our latest endeavour.    I love these games because it's when my love is at his funniest.  I am ashamed to say that I theoretically allowed him to have an Indecent Proposal for only 1 million dollars.  I was easily bought.  I did however have stipulations.  She had to be over sixty and he had to throw up after. I felt like his obvious displeasure was worth a million.  He chivalrously said he wouldn't be bought when it came to me.  Who knew?  I mean seriously.......who knew? 
Finally after much heckling that I was easily bought, I had to take back what I said.  When push came to shove, for a mere $5,000,000 Superman would kiss an oxpecker (the symbiotic bird that cleans up rhinos and other such animals), or any other animal I could think of.  I don't really see either one of us being approached for that kind of dare though.  But I will put it out there in cyberspace.....if you've got 5 million to throw away......we'll kiss a 'butt bird' as my man calls it.

Failure

Well there we were, Superman and I, planted on our little chairs in Nursery.  The little darlings were fighting playing sweetly with the race tracks and dolly furniture.  The last little boy to arrive brought his own Book of Mormon.  He was very excited to have his own book of scripture.  We asked him if he wanted to hold it or put it on the table.  The overwhelming desire to play with the train consumed his little soul.  He put the book down.  Then from the corner of the room we hear a tiny little chipmunk voice say 'This isn't a scripture class anyway.'  Ah, well thank you special little spirit.....it had only been moments from my last failure and the taste was beginning to leave my mouth......I couldn't quite remember what it was like.  But now I do.  That's right, no scriptures are being used in our Nursery. 

Dumb Things That Make A Girl Happy

Try not to be shocked......there are some things I am not very good at.  I jokingly said the other day that I had just found #3623.  The joke is that the number is significantly higher.  The first 1000 probably having to do with lack of self control.
The thing I wasn't good at.....actual mountain biking.  I have ridden a mountain bike on surface roads and dirt hills for years.  I have not, until the other day, ridden on actual mountainous trails.  We decided to go camping before the actual holiday rolled around.  Thus avoiding a handful of things I don't like; other people, other people, and all of the things that come with other people.  Superman graciously lent me the use of his mountain bike.  I had wisely left mine at home hoping to avoid the coming situation.  Much of my problem had to do with the fact that his legs are a hair longer than mine and I was terrified of a bloody crash involving the 'boy bar' and my body parts.   The dirt was very loose and there were lots of large rocks.  I learned about applying both the front and back break.  Squealing ensued.  There are many appropriate times to welp out a good squeal.  This, among times such as; making cotton candy for school functions, flying down country roads on a four wheeler with a maniac at the wheel, being tasered in the dark by your spouse, using a got glue gun, being poked with sticks by your children and their friends........
I am happy to say that it ended well.  I only bailed into the bushes once.  I'm not good at mountain biking.  Not yet.
So there I am sitting by the campfire in my layers of clothing, including a fleece jacket, down vest, and some sort of Northface kind of get up.  The kids are surrounding me like I am beautiful Glinda the Good Witch and they are little Munchies.  Daddy is inside the trailer taking care of everything that I don't take care of when we camp (everything).  Along comes one of our camping neighbors with his 10 year old daughter in tow.  He asks if our parents are around.  I lit up like a firework.  You would have thought he just handed me a ridiculously large check and informed me of winning Publisher's Clearing House.  I was beyond stoked that he thought I was a child.  Granted the guy was trolling for drugs, which is what he wanted to ask our parents for.  So I guess he's not really a reliable sort of fellow.  Guess what........I DON'T CARE!!  Ya, someone mistook me for at least a teenager, AND it wasn't even dark! 
This bodes well for my goal..........Live to be 100, look 60, act 15.  I have a feeling I will need a lot of time to really work on the first 1000 things I'm not good at......all having very much to do with lack of self control.

Crazy Eye

Where does the market for this come from.  Really........I want an answer.

Nugget #3 just became the second piglet to need glasses.  I didn't figure it out until 'Kindergarten Kickout', as she put it.  She totally failed her eye test.  I take that personally on more than one level.  A) It's not acceptable to fail a test.  It actually makes me feel dumb by association.  I feel like she didn't study hard enough and it's my fault for not quizzing her properly because I am a bad parent.  B) I feel pretty bad that my weak genetic makeup spread to my little beauty. 

What makes me feel a wee bit better is the fact that she was totally into eye wear as a fashion statement.  She had a wild time trying on pair after pair of pink and purple glasses. 
The doctor explained that because we had no idea she was half blind in one eye, the other eye had to do all of the work in order for her to see anything.  One eye was like a fat couch potato with a hairy back and long thick toe nails.  He didn't do anything but sit in a dirty recliner with crusty dishes and beer bottles surrounding him, watching soft core porn.  That eye disgusts me.  The other eye has sweet little biceps and triceps.  Her hammies and quads are cut.  Her abs have nary an ounce of fat.  She is so perky and toned that she can get away with boy shorts and a hot pink sports bra.  I'm pretty sure she has lush shiny dark brown hair.  I love this eye.  If Hairy Back doesn't get off the recliner and start pulling his weight, we might have to knock Perky Pink out with a roofie.  In other words, Piglet's eye is lazy.  If her glasses don't start to correct the problem, she may have to wear a patch.  I will most  likely buy her the heart one pictured above...*snicker*. 
Piglet didn't care.  She knew she looked just as good in glasses as without.  She immediately came home to spread the good news to Superman.   "Dad, guess what!!!!!!! I have a crazy eye!!!"

I Had A Pipe Dream

I had a dream......I'm convinced now that it was a pipe dream.  I have longed to homeschool my kiddos.  I pictured us going on adventurous outings that I could turn into wonderful learning experiences.  We would gather round the long farm table and plan our own Duggar style steel structure.
My dream bubble was popped with the tip of a plastic rifle which was then used to hit the walls and other children.  The Nuggets were having a down day.  They didn't play with friends.  The TV wasn't on.  They had to finish chores and were dismayed to find that the only compensation for finished chores was the personal pride they had in doing them.  After dishes and vacuuming and doing everyone's hair and feeding all of the puppies, I sat down to make wedding lists and get my craft on making 'kissing balls' for my sister's wedding.
This would be when Hell let loose it's horror.  Piglet feels that she is above having to clean her own messes up.  Infact she feels it is beneath her to wipe her own tush.....it's just too plebeian.  Having only dwelt in our home for 5 years, it seems she doesn't quite understand that I NEVER give in.  I sent her to her room and let her know she wasn't coming out until she picked up her 38 pairs of pajamas and 4000 Carebears.  She on the other hand is genetically incapable of not getting her own way.  Piglet stood in the door way and lured the other children to her just to ridicule and smack them.  She cried for four hours.
The Farm Boy did a great job doing his chores but ran out of steam when he realized that I wasn't going to 'take him somewhere to do something'.  He shoved the couch across the floor and screamed that he was starving.  I assume hunger was the only emotion he was willing to cop to.  I felt like I could brighten his day by offering up a monetary reward.  I told him that I would pay him 25 cents for every diaper he changed this summer.  The real reward for him would be to learn how to be a great dad at the age of 8.  He agreed that he would either change the diapers or find a way to potty train the wee Nuggie.  But when presented with the challenge of a poopy diaper, the two boys chased each other with the scissors I had been using to make paper flowers out of.....finally locking themselves in the library.  Concerned, I pulled myself from the 'crafting' zone I had worked up a sweat getting into.  When the locked door swung open I found Baby on the floor with his diaper half pulled down like underwear.  Poop covered wipes were strewn on the floor and some how his plush bumbum was still caked with poop as was his foot and hand.  I had to fire my 8 year old son from his first job.
The Fire helped me make flowers until she opted to do math worksheets because she didn't want to get involved in anything that seemed weak and girly.
Baby Nugget spent the day eating popsicles and hitting everyone that didn't get out of his arm length in time.  Daddy come home for a brief time and Nugget felt he should be able to climb in the back of the police car and speed off.  When I had to stop him from pumping his fat toddler legs after the fleeing car, he popped me in the face.  This would be the point where I let out a gutteral wail and knew that public school had its good points.  My heart broke a little.
The following is a text conversation that I had when I broke down and called the police for back up.
ME:  I would like to kick the @sses of your children......only because I love you am I offering up the first swing.
OFFICER BOB:  It has been that good of a day?
ME:  Yes.I am mostly assured that I am about to turn violent and wipe out the next generation.
BOB:  I will call as soon as I am done at the hospital.  (He was on a DUI)
ME:    (here I said some things not worth repeating)
BOB:  Being at home sounds like more fun to me than what I have done.
ME:  Well if you saw any kind of blood or vomit I am jealous...only lots of crying, and I mean for hours at this point, some poop on the floor and various body parts not usually associated with poop, slamming of doors, snot and abuse of varied furniture pieces.
BOB:  And what did the kids do while you had your tantrum?
ME:  While I threw poop and smeared it like an ape whilst wailing like a pig with its throat only half way slit....the children sat with hands folded all in a line on the couch with their hair in perfect condition.  It was too adorable to explain.  One would have to see it for ones self.
BOB:  Wow, just as I pictured it in my head.
ME:  Well it seems you know all 5 of us better than we know ourselves.

Luckily after that I was able to laugh it off, read a dirty book, and hold the baby while he slept.

I Can Do That

I have recently come down with the serious 'I can do that' virus. I would show you all of my recent endeavors except I am too lazy I am too busy to take pictures and then download them. It would help me if all of you would assume that I made something at least as lovely as the picture above.


My sweet baby sister is getting married in nary a month. It has spurred me to begin stalking the blogs of many a creative woman. I have found that with a good amount of E-6000 not only can you stick any two objects together......the fresh scent of rubber and solvent will musk up your home. Nothing can say 'I'm crafty' any louder than that.

Recently I have permanently glued affixed various plates and candle sticks to make some lovely platters with varied heights. My most very favoritest one is a robins egg blue plate stuck to a rusty metal fleur-de-leis. I had such feelings of pride. I felt like this piece really set off my love nest. Topped with my most choice pieces of silver jewelry it became a fantastically handly place to chuck my earings/necklaces when removed. I fairly beamed with unremitted pride. Ah, as we all know pride comes quite heavily before the fall. As I lay propped on my bed of flannel down stuffed silk, waiting for my beloved to kiss me good night......he walked by, took one look at my materpiece and snickered.....rather, snorted and refused to make eye contact. When I asked WHAT could possibly make him laugh seeing as how I had not uttered a word, he said nothing. But I saw his eyes wander back to my awe inspired piece of art. I knew he was laughing at it. I persisted to know what was so funny. Finally, with damp eyes, he admitted that he thought that the stunning jewelry tray I had made, was infact quite handsome. He continued though, with......"It's so nice but it's kind of silly to have it in here. It's on an old dresser and look at your stacks of books everywhere. That piece is too nice for this room."

Ha, well I take that as a challenge. I shall make my room deserving of my astounding works of glass and epoxy!!!! Bahahah!

I'm Goin' To The Chapel And I'm Gonna Get Married

This is turning out to be a very weddingy year.  And since I have had occasion to attend recent weddings and and we just ran into Superman's best man, I have given pause.  I have have given pause to contemplate nuptuals.

Bob and I turned yesterday as the bridal party made their way down the aisle.  Truly we wanted to see the beautiful bride, and she was.  But we were primarily concerned with the flower girl.  Adorned in a cloud of purple, hair swept to the side in a tidy and elegant ballerina bun, our fair princess began her decent down the aisle.  Her duties were not taken lightly.  She did her best to stay with the other flower girl.  Piglet covered the floor ahead and her even fairer white/blond counterpart covered the rear.  Piglet's lashes batted.  They brushed her apple cheeks like butterfly wings.  Her tiny pearly teeth sparkled as she beemed at the attendees.  Upon reaching my seat, she sent out an 'air kiss' which I caught without much effort.  Ah, as far as we were concerned, the wedding was a success and it hadn't even begun.

Soon the vows were being spoken.  And that's when I turned on the water works.  As I struggle through the dark night woods of a cold hard nature that rarely allows me to show feeling in public, I wondered for a moment what other people are thinking when they cry at weddings.  Is everyone truly that hap hap happy for the new couple?  Are some of you weeping with a secret unrequited love?  Are you sure the wedding is a sham for a green card and you weep for the fear of deportation?  WHY are you crying?

I'll tell you why I cry. It happens to be for many reasons depending on the wedding.  This particular time I wept because I listened to the bishop speaking and I was rife with emotion over Superman.  I hope that he feels like I have kept up my end of the bargain in the last 14 years.  (Maimy would like me to add that we were married at the age of 10 for those math wizards out there.)  I cried a little at my sometimes sorry attempt to take our very serious covenant.....seriously.  I cried because when the bishop said that this marriage was for the period of their mortal lives......I felt my mortality.  So, I have to admit, that this time I cried for myself and not for the luminous bride and her sunny groom.

Apart from this time, I have cried for a variety of reasons.  I have shed a tear with a full heart because the bride and groom FINALLY found each other and I just knew they were destined for happiness after much unhappiness.  Maimy and I  blubbered a bucket at one wedding when we were certain that the groom was one of Satan's minion and we feared for the bride's future.  I've given a good bewailing over a bride's tender proclaimations and then snorted at the groom's blundering answer.  In a rush of judgement, Maimy and I showered a tissue during a second marriage when we were sad for the child whose family had broken up. 

As Maimy tends to be excessively self-centered, I would tend to say that most of our lamenting has had to do more with ourselves than with the bride and groom at that exact time.  We drum up thoughts of our own wedding day.  We become emotionally wrought over the profoundness of the vows and what they mean to us.  Sometimes, much to Maimy's chagrin, I am brow beating myself over my eternal damnation for being a shoddy wife.  So when all of this snivelling occurs at weddings, what is everyone else crying for?

Airing My Dirty Laundry.....

I have resentment toward my laundry......it always looks at me with a smug entitled look that I can't stand....like it deserves to be washed instead of lying there in piles.
I don't mind a good sort every now and again.....putting clothes in piles of color is a bit fulfilling.  I admit that is a little on the OCD side.
I can even put it in the washer and add all of the fantasticly scented detergent.  Let's be honest.  I buy for scent.
But then it comes to taking it out of the washer and I find myself staring off into space, distracted by other more interesting things.  I could be reading or sleeping or eating or shaving my legs or staring at the wall.  I don't like the work that comes along with drying the clothes.  First you have to decide if you are going to put each piece of clothing into the dryer.  I hang lots of items.....er well, I should hang lots of items.  Mostly I drape many items because Maimy is too lazy to go to each bedroom and collect hangers.  Then, if I am really on a laundry roll, I run out of room.  This dilema will not cause Maimy or I to break down and get hangers.  It's just too unpleasant and frankly taxing on the system to troll the closets for hangers, plus my ADD will kick in and I will get distracted by some other chores rolling their eyes and waiting for a turn.
May I complain here about taking the clothes out of the dryer?  How many times is it legal to 'fluff' the clothes because you forgot they were there?  If my clothes were my children.......well I won't go there.....'neglect' would the the optimum word here.  DCFS would get a report that I left my little darlings in a car with the windows up.
Let's say I finally get to the stuck up, self righteous clothes that made it through the dry cycles.  And they are smug, let me tell you.  Now they feel like they deserve to be put away, and promptly. 
I like to make them wait a little.  Take them down a notch or two.  So I sling them over the upstairs railing....sorted by person of ownership of course.  And just because I like to show them whose boss.....I may let them stay there for more than a day....sometimes with hangers inserted into their little necks.  That's right.....I tease them......and then let 'em sweat it out.
I know you'll be surprised here, but Maimy hates to hang the clothes in the closet.  She gets a little anxiety ridden.  I like to color code my closets.  That is perfectly normal and acceptable behavior.  If you haven't tried it, I highly suggest you do.  But if you start to run out of hangers or the clothes start to press against each other in a snug, personal space invading sort of manner......well, I breath a little more heavy and I start to feel unsettled.  It's just too much work for clothes with an attitude.  And once it's done, it will be no time at all before they are back in the laundry room.......right where they started, with a little "I told you so," smirk pasted all over their dirty little faces.

The Second Time Around

So that's about all I remember from the second baby.  Superman hid behind a hunting magazine for a few hours and pretended I wasn't white knuckling it 4 feet away.

I've never claimed to have a handle on my emotions.  When I came to the realization that I may have to deliver the second child....I bluntly told Dr. D that I would not return after the 36th week of gestation unless I was knocked out cold and unawares.  Living up to my end of the bargain, I refused to make further appointments or discuss the possibility of giving birth. 
Duty had called loud and long.  Superman was at the 2002 Olympics keeping us safe from terrorists.  This aloneness really helped me compartmentalize...I found it quite easy to pretend that I was not 9 months pregnant. 
Dr. D, realizing that I truthfully intended to never return, called in a little treat to the pharmacy.  He felt that if he could, in fact, render me unconscious, someone could perhaps drag me to the hospital.  Superman returned from his post in time to pick up the drugs just as the contractions began.  Knowing that I would put up a struggle if he suggested that medical attention may be imminent....he brought home a little bottle of sleepy dust.
Anxiety has long been a companion of mine.  I am curious ....... does anyone else have that thing where the fear of what is to come in the morning stops you from going to sleep because the dreaded event will come faster?  Well that is about where we were sitting.  I knew the contractions were leading somewhere.  I tried to play it down, but I am sure that trying to lock myself in the bathroom piqued Superman's keen senses. Night was coming on and he knew that he was going to have to get me to the hospital by morning.  If he could just get me to eat the little doggy treat stuffed with Ambien.......home free.  I wasn't giving up without a fight.  On one hand being drugged and comatose would really aleviate the intense sense of doom...but the sooner you go nighty night, the sooner you are propped up on a table naked.  Not in the good sense....where you are dancing to boom chicka bow wow and making cash hand over fist, but the bad sense where there are blood and guts falling out of your bottom.  Superman calmly and lovingly tried to get me to partake of fruit.  Nu uh.  He became testy.  At one point he held me down.  Feeling backed into a corner I took the little pill and put it in my ear.  It pains me to admit that childish act, but you really have to understand how much I hate every part of labor and delivery........I hate it right up to the point where you are one year post partum.  You would think a man trained to detect deceit would have picked up on this......it took some time.  Finally when I didn't pass out cold, he became suspicious.  After grilling me under a 100 watt light bulb in a dark room and smashing my fingers in the desk drawer, I copped to the fact that the drugs were in my ear.  The only thing I remember after that was everything taking on a blue cast and not being able to use my legs.  I became cognizant at the hospital when the nurse in her best cheerleader voice chirped, 'Oh my heck.....are you so excited to have a baby today?"  I immediatley burst into tears and said, "NO!"  She hooked me up to an IV anyway. 
Superman, not learning his lesson the previous time, lent me his fingers to grasp while the anesthetist used a screwdriver to give me an epidural.  Once he regained the use of his bloody hand, he picked up a hunting magazine and didn't speak to me again until it was baby birthin' time. He requested more ringers be hung on the IV pole in order to block his view.  He didn't understand yet that only one of us could be scared witless...and it was my turn.  Luckily, my babies have been coached from the pre-existance and they are able to birth themselves, as I am useless with fright.  The Farm Boy appeared quick as a blink:)

Mommy, Tell Me A Story........

I hope I don't get sued for that picture.......I'm not claiming I took it.  That is not me, however I have felt like that before.

The nuggets ALWAYS ask for a story.  Usually while I am driving and listening to Nickleback as loud as I can so that I don't have to hear their shrill little voices.  So here's a story they like to hear.  It truly illustrates that I am unfit to bear children.......

Once upon a time I was pregnant with my first baby.  In order to kill the rumors that I was pregnant when I got married......I waited four years to pop out my first piglet.  I had been through college.  I had a great job doing fantastically important things.  Meh, what the heck, the car seats and strollers were so enticing....and the itty bitty clothes.....ugh, it was all so overwhelming...I was sucker into having my own nugget.

I didn't handle being pregnant very well.  Satan's grasp on Reagan from the exorcist looked a lot like...erm well nothing....when it comes to comparing my behavior with hers.  At long last the day of doom was impending.  Dr. D said it would be beneficial if I would consider induction since my little bundle of joy was due two days before Christmas and I had an hour and a half drive to the hospital.  By the end of all of my pregnancies I was like a coyote trapped in a leg vice.  I would have ripped off the arm of anyone that came within range of my teeth.  So, I declined the offer to willingly subject myself to intense pain.  Superman tried his darnedest to change my mind.  He is so sweet......and so niave, at least he was this once.  He sort of cornered me in the Dr. office and made me schedule an induction.  Basically I agreed so as not to cry in front of the office staff.....plus I was really hungry and wanted to go eat.  I knew....oh I knew, that I would never acutally go through with it.

The day I knew I would die (which is how I looked at it) arrived.  Everyone knew I was going to the hospital.  I couldn't take the pressure.  I couldn't handle that everyone knew I was about to deliver a baby.  How could I possibly preform under such duress?  I couldn't.  I cried uncontrollably until I was supposed to leave for the chop shop.  Then I made Superman call and unschedule my induction.  (This is the great thing about being an adult......no one can make you do anything you don't want to!! It's very empowering!)  Then, because everyone called to find out about the baby and instead found out that I had a nervous breakdown...continued to call to give me their opinion/support.  I admit to hiding in the bathroom......in the bathtub.  I threw the phone out and closed the shower curtain.  Yes...I am an adult.  I made Superman play secretary.  I begged him to tell everyone to leave me alone and never, ever speak to me again.  They tried to tell me I couldn't stop labor, but haha they don't know me very well.  My poor mother, in a state of frenzy, tried to lure me out of the bathroom with a cheese burger.  This actually worked.  But I made her leave the house before I unlocked the door, stuck out my hand, and pulled the cheese burger into the bathroom. 

What I was not counting on was that intense anxiety can put you into labor.  Within a very short time I began to feel what may have been contractions.  I pretended they weren't happening because.....well, I wasn't going to give birth after all. Superman in all of his duty bound glory, had gone to work when I pretended that I was not in labor. I made the mistake of picking up the phone during what may have been a contraction.    By some sick twist of fate, Superman's dad called.  I think he could tell I was gritting my teeth.  Sensing that things may not have been as kosher as I said they were, he said he felt like I shouldn't be alone.  Ah, sh*t.  I mean seriously.  This was the worst moment of my life to not be alone.  I so wanted to be alone.  You can really compartmentalize when you are alone, duping yourself into believing nearly anything.  So the dad comes and makes me leave my little haven.  I have one exceedingly painful contraction infront of a person I don't want to be sick infront of.  I could hardly sit on the truck seat.

I am dragged into the in-laws.  I am put on display in front of their children, like a sick animal in the zoo.  For hours we watch horrible medical mishaps and painful medical procedures on the big screen.  The children feed me Pepsi and chocolates as I lie swollen and anxious on the floor.  The contractions have stopped, just like I knew they would.  No labor and delivery for me!  Superman visits.  I try to express through gritted teeth and raised eyebrows that I am dying to go home and be alone.  He leaves me there.  Blah......the hours pass.  I eat more chocolate.  Finally, out of desperation to hide from the beadly little eyes, I hit the ladies room.  When I know that the peeps in the other room are getting nervous about my condition I have to stop inspecting my pores and go back out.  Somewhere between the bathroom and the living room, approximately 5 steps, my mental barrier was over ridden by nature, and I went into full blown labor.  My little sister to this day will say that I made some awful noises and I may have cried.  All I can remember is that those poor children stared at me with gaping eyes as I bit the back of the recliner I had fallen against.  Honestly so did the parents.  They didn't know me very well and I don't think they had any idea what to do.  Finally I had the dad page Superman (The ungodly days of no cell phones.  It was like the dark ages.  How did we even function?).  Didn't work.  Superman was working a canyon road.  When I resorted to biting myself, the dad finally wised up and called dispatch.  That got the cops to roll.  Superman busts in, mouth agape, eyes huge.  We leave the prison from which I felt I would never escape.  We go home.  I had secretly packed a bag for the hospital just in case.....I actually had to have the baby.  He grabs the secret bag once I tell him there is a secret bag.  I lay on the floor by the baby swing, I am sure seemingly like a cow that has been hit by a car and not killed.  I assume that looked bad because I ended up in the partol car speeding out of town.  Big Guy tries to convince me to stop at the local hospital.  No no no! 

I am trying to hold my clothing off of my body so that the pressure of the light cotton on my very tight abdomen, doesn't kill me.  Superman, although great in any bloody situation, cannot handle his own bloody situation.  He will not look at me.  He will not speak to me.  I am pretty sure he didn't touch me.  I beg him not to slow down.  I would rather die in a car wreck than have another second of pain.  Fifty minutes later I am lying across the nurses station screaming.  The heathenous wretch that attends to us thinks I am being a bit extreme when she finds out we are on baby numero uno.  I will not allow her to help me change my clothes.  After my legs fail me, I am dragged to a bed and thrown up with the finesse of a cowboy tossing hay bales.  The nurses evil gargoyle hands prod until they find out ......hmm I think that's a baby head, and ew, golly that was a huge burst of water!  She tells Superman he almost had to deliver his own child.  He smells blood.  He turns white.  He runs from the room. In the confusion I still get the drugs.  Previously I am convinced that the epidural will climb my spine instead of descend, paralyze my diaphragm, and kill me.  I am  now willing to risk it.  At some point in my screaming and thrashing about, someone has put a blood pressure cuff on my arm.  As the numbing drugs begin to take effect, the cuff closes on my arm, cutting off circulation.  I screamed even louder to alert the witchy woman to the fact that the epidural was going up, not down as intended, and I was about to crash.  With a superior smirk on her face, she  pointes out that the cuff was just really tight.  Just for kicks my blood pressure crashed anyway because she didn't give me enough fluid.  All the hubbub didn't take more than a few minutes.  Then nursey recalls that there was a baby trying to dislodge itself from my body.  She, ever so kindly, turns on 18 mega watt lamps, rips off the bedding and tells me not to push. 

Dr. D makes a quick appearance.  He asks if I am ready to have a baby.  I am not.  Nine months was no preparation.  I need to rethink what I am about to do.  Dr. D. doesn't really care, considering it is 3 am.  He wants to go back to bed.  So I try to make a controlled pleasant face, which I have been practicing in the mirror at home.  I didn't stop to consider the huge streaks of mascara running down my face may make me look ridiculous.  And then before I have time to work up anymore tears on behalf of my own mind numbing fear.....tada......a soggy, loud piglet.  A total stranger, in a wee little body, smelling like blood, or Heaven, if you roll like that, is having an angry fit over the bright lights and the big city.  My little Christmas present.  I swear, as much as I hate being pregnant, I would do it over and over and over again for the kids that I have.

Stage Mother

Who out there would have thought that I have the personality to become a 'stage mother'?  I am sure you've seen this obnoxious gal at a variety of events......the chick at the gymnastics meet that has put her toddler's hair into knots so complicated an accomplished old sea dog couldn't get them out, the baby's hair is strained at the roots, scalp barely able to hold on to the follicle.  Said child has glitter and makeup galore......and mother is uptight and pushing the child to excel beyond what her short, roly, two year old legs are capable of.  How about the parent that goes ballistic at the soccer game and goes to fists with the coach out on the field?  I would like to tell them to get a grip......it's only a game! 
Little League season is starting here.  Our lives will be held at gun point until June by the rigid schedule of games and practices.  Truth be told.....I don't really like have my life run by a sport.  You should get the feeling here that I'm not really even a fan of a game that I am not personally playing in.  Watching other people play sports is very much like watching another person play a video game........it's lame.  But when Maimy and I go out on opening day, when our girl is on the mound or up to bat.....Maimy can literally lose control.  (If it ever comes to the point where we are prosecuted for assault on a ball field, I WILL pretend I never posted this.)  If we are your friend in our regular lives, yet you have a child on an opposing team.  We are not your friend now.  Do not approach us at the ball field.  Do not sit on our stands.  Do not sit where we can hear you......especially where Maimy can hear you.
I have the heart of a marshmallow.  I try to do my visiting teaching.  I bring treats to nursery and read the little tykes stories.  I kiss and cuddle all 25 kids in my class at school.  I hope people don't look at me and hate all of the other Mormons they know just because they know me.  But please allow Maimy this one moment (or 2 months) of firey emotion.  She wants to win.  She doesn't want you to win.  I will cheer.  She will scream.  We will bash the umpire.....with enough restraint as to not be lead away in handcuffs.  When The Fire pitches, Maimy might, in  a loud voice, give her tips on what to do better.  When The Fire is up to bat, Maimy may become vocal when she wants her to swing.  We will only allow her to cry if she takes a fast pitch to the kidney......you know "There's No Crying In Baseball!!!" 
I'm already getting uptight.......Maimy can feel baseball in the air.

What if.........

I love to play 'what if'.  It's my favorite thing to do on a road trip.  Turn Rush Limbaugh on to a low hum, pop off the shoes and pull my feet up in the seat, and it's time to reconnect with Superman.  I like to talk to Bobby and I hope he likes to talk to me.  He's a pretty funny guy.  If he weren't verbally adept I think we wouldn't have made it very far. 

"Bob, what if you weren't funny?"  
"You would still love my for my physical prowess."

"What if I went on a mission?  Do you think you would have waited for me?  I don't think you would have."
"Um......I would have waited.  A) I was obsessed.....and might have died if you went on a mission.  B) And this is no credit to you.....No one else would have married me.  You should probably bear a great deal of shame that this is what you ended up with.  Besides my wit, highly attractive nature, and my above average fertility rate........I didn't bring much to the table."

"Bobby, what if I became a doctor?"
"You wouldn't have made it."
"Friggin thanks a lot!"
"No....I mean you are smart enough, but I don't think that's what you were meant to do.  You would have finished med school and then stayed home to be a mom.  That's what you were meant to do.  Look at your Nuggets.  You couldn't live without them."

"What if we weren't married and we met in an elevator?  Would you kiss me?"
"Well, Bob, that depends on if you were married, because I don't think you would kiss me if you were married to someone else.  You are too good."
"Ha.  You would kiss me anyway."
"What?  Why do you think that I have no scruples?"
"You couldn't resist me.  I know you would kiss me in an elevator if we were strangers.  Hahah.....look at you.  You know it's true.  I can tell just by looking at you."
(I decided to try to kiss him in an elevator and pretend we were strangers.  Attorney General Mark Shurtleff destroyed my opportunity and horned in on my elevator ride. Damn the man.)

"Bobby, what if we never met?  Do you think your life would be a lot different?  I think you would be an Lt. somewhere on your way up the ladder.......or a defense attorney.  I think I ruined your life."
"Well I definitely wouldn't be a road troop anymore.  And you would be married to a tank top wearing zoo keeper."
"No I wouldn't!!  I would be married to a doctor....the one I met in med school. Wait, no I wouldn't.  I wouldn't like his schedule either.  I would be married to a funny genius that had a lot of time off."

"What if I moved down here and we met in highschool?  Do you think you would have liked me then?"
"Ya.  I would have.  You were smart and funny......  I don't think you would have liked me though.  I was too shy."
"No joke."
"People thought I was stuck up."
"You are."
"No....I am very nice......extremely nice.....but I have parameters.....like small groups are better than large groups.   Any way.....I did suffer from extreme male phobia in highschool.  Which I have grown to realize I am grateful for.  I would have done anything for a guy after one kiss.  You should be happy I kept my lips to myself.  I was saving myself for you.  Don't you feel bad you kissed all of those girls?"
" (Snort)  Haaa, just because you didn't date ANYONE and therefore didn't even have a chance to kiss someone, doesn't mean you saved yourself for me."
"Yes I did meanie.  I am a fantastic kisser.  It's one of my only fantastic traits.  Lots of people would have kissed me."
"No."

"Bobby,, what if I were a cop?"
"You don't have enough frass."

The man kills me.  He knows me well enough to know what I am thinking about just by the way my heart beats.  It's sort of creepy.......in a good way.  Happy Valentines Day Bobby.  I love you.

The Crimson Tide

Yes.......that is a cloth sanitary pad :)  Why is it so cute?  I mean really.  Who will see this besides you and the inside of your undies?  Not to mention.......how long will it stay this cute?  Which then begs the question....do you REALLY want to clean and reuse?
Maimy and I contemplate this question and others like it as we sit bleary eyed with fatigue, angry for no good reason, having wept greater than 5 times in a twelve hour period.  As we write, we also consume an extra large BK fry, an extra large BK Coke, rest our elbows on what appears to be a four month pregnant pooch (in reality an amazing amount of bloat), try to reach around our tender lady lumps, and mindlessly scratch at our deteriorating skin condition. 
Ah, the joys of womanhood.  Brought to you directly from the two miniscule ovaries smack dab in your pelvis.  How is it that two little balls of power, each under two freaking inches, can run (or is it ruin?) your life from the time you are thirteen?  Every day, every week, these two little puppies can make you happy, sad, angry, hungry, bloated, hot for a handsome man, vindictive, demonically posessed, giddy, thin, weepy, and give you cravings Gandhi couldn't have fought?
Week #1  The Crimson Tide, aka The Red Witch, Aunty Flo, My Visitor, Bloody Mary, Riding the Cotton Pony.....etc.
      Pull out the ugly panties girls.  Stay close to the potty and open your baby name books for those clots large enough to qualify for a name.  Don't forget the mind bending cramps. Who among us doesn't live for this week?
Week #2  The Thin Week
     This is the week where your skin looks decent, your hair isn't greasy, your bloat has shed and that spare tire and full on banana nut muffin sitting on your hips are a shadow of what they will become in the weeks ahead.  You finally love your man and don't want to rip off his arms and blugeon him with them.  This chicks, is the week we live for.
Week #3 Ovulation Celebration
     Ah, finally the shooting pains and semi uncomfortable cramps that signal your fertility is at its max.  Unfortunately your tender pelvic region makes er......fertilizing painful in certain circumstances (read positions).  Dang those little balls of egg. They never give up.  Week #2 is really just there to taunt you. 
Week #4  The Depths of Hell, Crossing the River Styx, PMS or for you sorry sisters PMDD.
     This is where Maimy and I sit right now.  We were wondering if we suffer from PMS or the more sinister ugly sister........PMDD.  It is normal during this week to have varying degrees of cravings, salty and sweet.  Generally the cravings take over the suffering body and as if in a trance Maimy and I NEED (yes, we classify this as a need not a want) chocolate, coke, potato chips and french fries.  It's just a fact of life.  We also have varying degrees of anger.  People close to us may use the word 'rage'.  This is when you are most likely to hear the empty, yet hostile threats such as; 'I will rip off your arms, use them to beat you, and then shove them down your throat', 'One more sound and you will be pulling the teeth I punched down your throat....out of your rear end (rear end is only the clean version)', 'If you don't stop fighting I will run screaming into the night and never return', 'Heaven help me but I am going to break your bones', 'Touch me and I will rip your face off'.  These are mostly Maimy, considering I am a tame little puddy cat.  One or both Maimy and I can be found openly crying in public places for reasons severe or........not so much ie, the death of a fallen officer, leaving Max while I go to the store, loud noises, a sad book, a sad movie, talking about a sad book or movie, accidentally hitting my fists while boxing a pretend speed bag, not liking my hair, not liking my clothes, not liking that I am angry, not liking that my husband is at work, having my husband leave the house, being asked the same question more than once........really the list goes on.  Frankly anything, great or small during this week could make me a) cry or b) be consumed with rage or c) both.  And the sick thing is, the only way to stop PMS is to........er, ride the cotton pony.  Life is sick and twisted.
Maimy and I are a little despondent to see the facts laid out so formally.  Maybe it is the PMS, or the sleepiness from the double Whopper that we don't want to own up to.  She and I are going to bed, where if we lie on our backs and suck in our gut we look only mildly bloated.  Then we will close our eyes and dream of Week #2 where thin is in and our mood is pleasant.