'Twas Brillig

In case you missed it...

2007-06-26T13:21:00.001-06:00

Brillig doesn't live here anymore. She lives HERE. Go on. Go clicky-clicky.

Sometimes Things Hit Me On The Head And They Hurt

2007-06-22T09:03:00.000-06:00

I have been a bad blogger these last few days. I'm hardly posting here, I'm hardly replying to any comments, or even acknowledging comments to new visitors to my site (who I love!!! Welcome!!!) I've been reading all my favorite blogs on my google reader, but not taking the time to comment. And little updates here and there have been ignored. I mean, Scooby has been two for several weeks now and Lil' Dude is not only 10 months old now, but his nickname has been changed to "Fuzzles." But have I updated that information? No. And when was the last time I updated my bloglights? It's been weeks!

How do you people put up with me?

By way of explanation, I have a confession.

Brillig has a secret.

Acknowledgement of this secret on my part will require a little bit of work on your part. Still wanna know?

Today is my three month bloggiversary, and to celebrate, I'm going to dump it.

I feel quite savvy with Blogger. Everything you see here, I did myself. My banner, my color scheme, my buttons and slide shows and widgets. I can hardly bear to dump all of this and go on to the unknown world of my own site, and yet I feel that it is time, once and for all.

Many of you know that I've been contemplating the dump for some time now. And, in all honesty, I'd bought myself a domain quite a while back that I've just been sitting on. Okay--not just sitting on. I've been tinkering away at it like mad. I wasn't, and am still not, quite geek enough to just buy a domain and have it up and running the next day!

Today, it is finally "up and running" as it were. Don't get me wrong. It isn't aesthetically pleasing nor is it very high tech. Yet. I'm really just getting my feet wet. But if you're willing to put up with my tinkering and template changes and page additions, then I'm ready for you to make the great leap with me.

So, here it is in all its glory:

Twas Brillig

Now, won't you change your bookmarks and your link lists for me? PLEASE? Even though I've been a very bad blogger for the last little while? (And yes, I will be obsessively checking my technorati to see who's playing. hahahaha.)

And now, by way of disclaimer, I must throw in a word about WordPress. I think WordPress and I are going to get along swimmingly. But as many of you know, if you host your own site and put WordPress on it, your easy options are extremely limited, as opposed to sites that have wordpress.com in the URL. So please be patient with me while I try to get my site looking cool without all the magic that comes included in the wordpress.com sites! Keep in mind that I'm doing this all by myself... and I'm not very smart!

As for the title of this post, these are the very words that I uttered last night while Hubby was giving me some geek-pointers and a lamp suddenly fell over and hit me in the head. I was in a bit of shock, after feeling quite frazzled anyway, and the utterance was intended to be profound. Hubby, being the kind, supportive, understanding man that he is, busted up laughing at me. So I give it to you now, so you know a bit about what this blog-switch is doing to my brain.

Hey. What are you doing here still? Go! Hie thee forth to my new blog!

(Please?)

Separate Beds

2007-06-19T23:52:00.000-06:00

I can barely recall when I was very little and my parents actually shared a bed. It was a giant king size bed that we all loved to jump on.

But soon they went to separate beds. Twin beds, scooted right next to each other. That way, each could feel free to toss and turn without fearing waking up the other or having their blanket stolen.

My mother had her own room right next to mine--a study, where her computer and books and endless piles of professor-stuff all lived. At some point, a bed was put in there. And then, slowly but surely, her clothing and other personal items began to migrate there. Eventually she just began sleeping there full time.

I never worried that my parents had stopped liking each other or anything like that. Believe me, there was no mistaking their mutual adoration. But my dad liked to stay up late watching TV and sleep in in the morning while my mom liked to go to bed while the sun was still up and wake up long before the sun rose in the morning. Plus, Dad snored, and Mom had to pee twelve or thirteen times a night (okay, that's possibly a slight exaggeration, but still...) so the separate bedrooms thing really worked for them.

I understood why they did that, but I thought, "man, when I'm married, I'll want to snuggle next to my husband all night long. No WAY would I want separate beds, let alone separate bedrooms!"

When Hubby and I were first married, we went to an out-of-town family reunion and stayed in a hotel. Hubby's sister and her husband, who'd been married for nearly ten years, were in the room next to us. Each room had two queen beds. Hubby and I put our luggage on one, and slept together in the other. So we were FLABBERGASTED to see that Hubby's sis and her husband decided to each sleep in their own beds. Hubby made a comment, poking fun at them, and they both exclaimed over how wonderful it was to spread out and have their own beds!

Anyway, the years have gone by and I love Hubby even more than ever, but I also enjoy spreading out in a big bed all by myself. I certainly don't sleep snuggled up next to Hubby when we're in the same bed, the way I'd romanticized things as a teen. No--we each claim a side and once it's time to sleep, no one crosses the imaginary line between us.

But this last week (as I have mentioned ad nauseum) I've been sick. I keep us both awake all night with my constant coughing and puking and tossing and turning. So I've sent him to the guest room so that he can get some semblance of sleep before he has to show up at work in the morning (he gets the guest room because he thinks the mattress in there is more comfortable, not because I've banished him there against his will or anything...)

And guess what? We're enjoying it. LOVING it, in fact. I see, talk, play, and snuggle with him all I want to, but then at bedtime we go our separate ways. Right now, we're just doing it because I'm sick. But once I'm better, will we go back to the old way? I don't know! I really think that separate bedrooms means more freedom with my time (and my overhead light and TV remote) and we both get a better night's sleep, and our relationship doesn't suffer--in fact, it may even benefit from it.

So, Mom. Dad. Sorry I laughed at you. I get it now. I really do!

Doctor Trippin'

2007-06-18T17:07:00.000-06:00

Well, I went to the doctor on Friday, after having the night from hell. I suspected strep, since it's the only thing I knew of that could go from sore throat to puking and back to sore throat again. ("Sore throat" doesn't even really seem to scratch the surface of what this feels like!) Fortunately, my dear mother-in-law watched the kiddos for me so that I could go a little more easily.

On my way, I decided to stop in at my old house to gather some more stuff up and I was going to clean out the van and get the oil changed (just because a girl is sicker than a dog doesn't mean she doesn't have things that simply must be done!) Upon arriving at the "old house," I had to go to the bathroom--and thank goodness I did! Heretofore unbeknownst to me, I was covered in blood. Sweet little Aunt Flo had picked just this moment to express herself--all over my jeans. I had no back-up for such a thing. It was totally unexpected. I haven't had a real period since my latest miscarriage three months ago. I felt like I was in Jr. High school again. What to do? I couldn't go out like this, but I couldn't just not go to the doc either!

I scoured the basement to see if somehow I'd left anything wearable. Finally I found something. An old box full of clothes that I was way too familiar with.

My maternity clothes.

In desperation, I found something that hopefully didn't make me look too pregnant (though with my current configuration of body fat, I pretty much look pregnant all the time...) and off I went to the doc.

After sitting in the waiting room for a FULL HOUR, I was seen. The friendly nurse stuck her little magic wand into my ear and cheerfully announced that I had no fever.

I considered beating her to a bloody pulp.

Because even the slightest touch to my forehead would confirm that I did indeed have a TERRIBLE fever.

Stupid nurse. But the doctor was actually really great. She commented on my obvious fever, and even said, "oh wow. Oh WOW!!!" while she looked at my throat. Somehow I needed that validation! I needed her to look at me and say, "of COURSE you feel like crap! You're SICK!" In the end, it was determined that both of my ears are infected and I do, indeed, have strep.

I called Hubby with the news, and learned that he too was feeling sick and had a sore throat. He wasn't nearly to the stage that I was, but I still made him go to the instacare on the way home and get tested for strep so that he could start on an antibiotic before he got too much worse. His strep test came up negative, but the doc gave him a prescription of antibiotics anyway because if he had a fever and a sore throat and his wife had strep, what were the chances that he didn't?

Yesterday we went to a big family party at Hubby's parents' house--a Father's Day celebration. I didn't think I could miss it. By the time we came home, after hours of chasing and disciplining children, cooking, setting up chairs, socializing in those high-pitched cheery "oh-you're-so-darling" tones, cleaning up, and single handedly washing all of the dishes, I was dead. Though I do not have first-hand experience, I suspect that I felt the way one might feel after cooking in a microwave for a few hours.

Therefore, wasn't it a lovely treat that Scooby decided that he too was sick last night. Hubby was up with him for the first half of the night and I took my shift for the second half. He screamed and screamed and tugged at his ears. His skin felt like a furnace.

So this morning, when my other dear children "pleasantly" surprised me by waking up at the crack of dawn, I knew that I'd have to make some phone calls and take Scooby in to the doctor--an adventure that seemed absolutely unconquerable, since I didn't feel like I could even put one foot in front of the other, let alone haul four little ones all the way across town.

But it had to be done, so I did it.

And wouldn't you just know it, that by the time we got to the doctor's office, he'd made a miraculous recovery. POOF! In what can hardly be called an "examination," the doctor determined that he had no fever, no sore throat, no sore ears. "Call us if he acts sick," she said, trying not to sound condescending (but failing). With an office full of doctors and nurses staring at me with that look of, "why did she even bring him in here?" I trotted off with my healthy children.

Of course, now that he's home, he has a fever.

Gotta love it.

Oh, and that pile of hair on the floor? Yah, that's mine. I'm ripping it out by the handfuls right about now...

Chadding Along

2007-06-17T23:08:00.000-06:00

Soap Opera Sunday and Chad part 2 (part one is here)

I know that some of you were casting bets that Chad was gay. I'm so sorry to disappoint, but he wasn't. Believe me, a big chunk of my life would have been a lot easier if he had been!

No, actually he'd fallen for me. I'm not sure how or why, especially since every girl in the apartment complex, not to mention anyone who had a class with him, or, well, anyone who walked past him in the hallway, had a thing for him.

It made me the object of much cattiness and snippiness. Stupid, silly, girl-stuff. I didn't mind, at first. It just meant that they were all jealous. But because BYU operated on an "Honor Code" system, we were all sort of encouraged to spy on each other and report when someone broke the rules. And having a group of girls with a grudge against me would turn out to be an unfortunate thing.

Chad and I began spending a lot of time together. A lot. We never "defined the relationship" or anything silly like that. We were just having fun. On the surface I think that we thought we had a lot in common, but the more we got to know each other, the more we realized how completely different we were.

One night, he and I were at my apartment watching a movie and I fell asleep. I woke up to hear my roommate interrogating him. I could hardly believe that she thought it was any of her business to ask him such things, but since I too wanted to know the answers, I pretended to still be asleep as I listened in.

What I learned from their conversation was that he'd stopped believing in God. He wasn't sure he'd ever believed. What you need to know about BYU is that nearly everyone there is Mormon, and on top of that I knew he'd served a mission for the Church, so I had just made assumptions about his beliefs--that they were identical to mine. But I realized we'd never actually talked about it.

As their conversation continued, he admitted that he was finding himself falling completely in love with me, but he knew that I was extremely religious and that I would want a certain kind of wedding ceremony and a certain kind of lifestyle, but going through with that would feel like total hypocrisy on his part and he couldn't do it.

At some point, my roommate told him, "well, I don't think she's even thinking about marriage right now! I mean, she just turned 18!"

"WHAT?!?!?"

Ummm, ooops? I guess I'd forgotten to mention that part. I hadn't tried to hide it. In fact, I was quite proud to be the only female freshman in the Foreign Language Housing. It was a true honor to be there for anyone, but it was almost unheard of for freshmen to be admitted*. I just assumed he knew that about me. He was 25. Apparently our 7-year age difference was a little too much for him.

*Before you are impressed with my accomplishment of being accepted, please know that it had nothing to do with my own merits, and everything to do with who my Daddy was and who his connections were. My Italian sucked. I had NO business being there and I was painfully aware of it. Still, it made me LOOK smart and talented.

Looking back, I think I would have been ready to break up with him if I hadn't heard this conversation. We really weren't very good together and we really didn't have much in common. Making-out was fun, but not worth staying together over.

But sitting there, listening to him give my roommate his list of objections over me, was the same as him issuing me a challenge. I said to myself, "My religion bothers you? My age bothers you? Hmmmm. We'll just see about that."

Picture me, then, arching my eyebrows, tapping my fingertips together, and chanting, "he will be mine. Oh yes, he will be mine."

Let the unhealthiness begin.

Happy Father's Day!!!

2007-06-16T21:50:00.001-06:00

Just wanted to pop in and wish a Happy Father's Day to all the wonderful dads in my life. Each one is so amazing in his own way.

First, my own Dad: The smartest, kindest, gentlest man on earth. He's in Spain right now--I just got an email from him. My heart aches for how much I miss him. I'm definitely Daddy's little girl, even at 28 years old!

Next, my Father-In-Law: I never expected to love "someone else's Dad" so much, but I do. He has been such a great friend to me and so generous and helpful. My children adore him and he adores them back. I love him for being such a devoted Grampa.

And then, of course, my darling Husband: I thought I loved this man with all my heart the day I married him, but I didn't even know what love was until the first time I saw him holding our first baby. I cry every time (including right now!) I think about the way he walked around with her, moments after she was born, singing "Getting to Know You." A new life was born that day, along with a whole new depth of my love for him. And with every baby, that love just deepens. He is Super Dad. He takes his turn getting up in the night with sick babies, he helps put them in bed, he spoon feeds, he takes them on outings. They love him as much as he loves them. How could they not?

Happy Father's Day, Guys!!!

Flashback Meme...yeah

2007-06-15T08:14:00.000-06:00

It started as a sore throat a couple of days ago with a bit of a cold, and yesterday the fever hit. Then the diarrhea, of course, because life would be too easy without that. And then, the vomiting began. I was up all night throwing up.

Somewhere during the night, I had the strange and rare pleasure of blowing vomit out my nose.

Gentle Readers, I am sick.

I can barely talk which, frankly, is good news for my children because they're driving me crazy but I can't scream at them!

Also, I don't have my scanner set up here yet, nor do I really have any idea where my pictures are, so rather than Flashback Friday, I'm going to go with a meme that Paige tagged me for. It's kinda flash-backy, and requires much less effort and thought from me in my thoughtlessness today.

What were you doing 10 years ago?

Ten years ago I was not quite 19 years old. Oddly enough, I was living in the city that I've now just moved to. I was finishing up my freshman year of college, going to summer school and taking my first Spanish class. I had just been thrown out of the Foreign Language Housing and very soon I would be thrown out of BYU all together. Ahhhh, the sweet memories. Hahaha. Oh, and I was making out with everyone. Okay, not everyone. I had two criteria--they had to be male and they had to be hot. Still, there were PLENTY to choose from. Hahahaha.

What were you doing 1 year ago?
One year ago I was 6 months pregnant with Lil' Dude. I was traipsing all over the place with my little kiddos and my big fat pregnantness.

Five Snacks You Enjoy:

chocolate
string cheese
saltine crackers
chocolate
Dr. Pepper

Five Songs That You Know All The Lyrics To:

Um, since I know all the lyrics to pretty much every song I listen to, how 'bout I randomly pick the first five songs from my iTunes--I'll put it on shuffle.

Phantom Limb, by The Shins
I Will, by the Beatles (okay, fine. This one didn't come up on my iTunes--it's right where Paige wrote it. Still, it's one of my favs and I didn't think I could just delete it... )
Lonely in your Nightmare, by Duran Duran
Change Your Mind, by The Killers
Chocolate, by Snow Patrol

Five Things You Would Do If You Were a Millionaire:

Travel--show my kids the world!
Donate a big chunk to my Church
Buy a summer home and a winter home
Buy cool stuff for my summer home and winter home
liposuction, baby.

Five bad habits:

I only talk about my good qualities, which leads my readers to erroneously believe that I'm cool
My writing is full of typos, but I'm always correcting other people's grammar and punctuation
I eat too much chocolate
I drink too much Dr. Pepper
I scream at my kids

Five Things You Like To Do:

eat chocolate
read
blog/read other people’s blogs
Snuggle with Hubby
Take the kids out to play

Five Things You Would Never Wear Again:

Florescent t-shirts
floral prints
skin-tight anything
a bikini (I'm okay with all my stretch marks, but I don't have to honor the world with them)
sleeveless, strapless, too short, too low, etc.

Five Favorite Toys:

On-demand TV
digital camera
All of my kids
My Blog
Your Blog

Five people to tag: (apologies if you’ve already done it)

Instructions: Remove the blog from the top, move all blogs up one, add yourself to the bottom.

A Beautiful Life
Absolutely Bananas
Smiling Mom
42
Twas Brillig

Not My Mama's Kitchen

2007-06-14T08:42:00.000-06:00

My mother, who I love dearly, is crazy.

First, let me review. I have mentioned before that my mother is one of those exceptionally beautiful human beings. Every day, people come up to me and exclaim over her gorgeousness. At 65 years old, she still turns the heads of many--I have watched men flirt with her all my life, including men that you would never expect to see "flirting" due to age and station in life. My dad jokes that he looks more like her father than like her husband. hahaha. He's not too far off, poor guy!

A large part of her beauty can be attributed to good luck and the laws of genetics. The rest should be attributed to daily yoga, meditation, and all the crazy crap she eats.

My mother is mostly vegan and won't eat any salt or fat. And she has a bit of an obsession with the word "organic." Anything processed, refined, altered, or "unnatural" is OUT.

Beauty is just a pleasant result of this craziness. She does it because she's obsessed with health. But, as I have learned, even obsessions with health can be incredibly unhealthy.

Every once in a while, I've tried to eat the way she does. I've come to the conclusion that it's not humanly possible. I mean, I'm all for "healthy" but she has taken this to outlandish extremes.

This week, I am the lucky inheritor of her kitchen. She removed much of her food, but left some stuff around "just in case" I might want it. She then instructed me to throw away anything that I think I won't use.

Brace yourselves, Gentle Readers.

This is a fair sampling of things that I found in her cupboard (minus the long list of crazy herbal tea that had already found a new home in the garbage can before I decided to take this picture). Organic everything, of course. But it's not just "organic"--it's Organic Sauerkraut. Seriously???? Or the Organic Almond Butter, with the $29 price tag still on it. And I have no idea what Organic Sesame Tahini is, but I have a strange feeling that I wouldn't like it very much... And the goat milk. Don't even get me started on the goat milk. I encountered probably twenty cans of the stuff. Because apparently, if you MUST drink or cook with milk, it should ONLY be organic goat milk...

The fridge and freezer were filled with similar treasures, like organic whole grain wheatsprout bread, tofu of all varieties, and let us not forget the wide variety of home-sprouted grains.

You'll be happy to know that I'm keeping some of this stuff! You'll also be happy to know that I'm tossing most of it to make room for macaroni and cheese, rice-a-roni, Lucky Charms, and ice cream!!!!

My mother would have a heart attack if she saw how I've disgraced her kitchen. Sorry, Mama, but this ain't your kitchen anymore...

Really, I love the idea of being beautiful like my mother, but NOT at that price!!!

Poor George

2007-06-13T11:08:00.001-06:00

~The most lamentable and disastrous tragedy of George the Monkey-Pillow~

George (how we will choose to remember him)

My intentions were good. I thought I was being so helpful. O, foul wretch that I am, I never meant for this to happen.

Frankly, George stank. A lot. "He needs a bath," I explained to his friend and owner, Scooby. I've given George a "bath" before and it was inconsequential. He came out sparkling clean and smelling less like... well... a two-year-old boy's favorite toy.

George was given his name because, as far as Scooby is concerned, ALL monkeys are named George. He is my son's beloved friend, confidant, and bodyguard. George can do no wrong. And I appreciate George too, because of the level of comfort that he gives to my Scooby, particularly during difficult transitions (moving from one home to another, for instance...). George is a constant companion, and sleep comes to a screeching halt when he's missing.

It took much convincing for Scooby to allow me to bathe George. As you all know, reasoning with a two-year-old is an exercise in futility. Grudgingly, Scooby eventually allowed me to put George into the washer. But he was NOT pleased with me.

And thus, Gentle Readers, you can only imagine my horror when, upon opening the washer half an hour later, I found soggy bits of George, strewn here and there, no longer attached to each other.

George is dead.

I murdered him.

His ~~cotton filling~~ blood stains my hands.

Now he is dead, now he is fled, his soul is in the sky.

I shall take up this stuffed animal and bear him to the tomb.

And then... I'll have to find a way to let Scooby know of his mother's villainy.

There are likely to be many, many sleepless nights around here.

So Behind

2007-06-11T16:06:00.000-06:00

One of these days I will post a real post. One of these days I will tell you about the sliver in my daughters foot that sent us to the Urgent Care after-hours place an hour away, because I couldn't get it out the old fashioned way. One of these days I'll catch up on reading and commenting on all of my favorite blogs, as well as making the correct changes to my blogroll. And one of these days I'll tell you about my father-in-law's retirement party which I'm just now getting back from, that I hauled all of my kids to all by myself with the youngest two snugly nestled into the stroller only to find out that the party was on the top floor and there was NO ELEVATOR. And one of these days I'll catch up on my soap opera Sunday about Chad that I started last week but didn't do anything on this week! And maybe, just MAYBE, one of these days I'll tell you how the move went--but first, I'll have to move. (Tomorrow is the BIG DAY!!) And maybe at some point I will do something about all my children--who I can hear screaming their heads off. And maybe one day I'll even post some pictures.

But not today.

But I did want to pop in and post a great big THANK YOU to everyone for all of your emails and your notes and your well-wishes. I have the absolute greatest blog-buddies ever. Thanks for being so wonderful! How did I survive for so many years without you?

To Scooby

2007-06-07T20:26:00.000-06:00

It's Flashback Friday and Scooby's birthday!!

When I was ten days past my due date, I'd had it. This was the longest pregancy ever.

For the first six months of the pregnancy, I puked every single day, multiple times a day. And on top of all the puking, I was spotting. Since I'd already had a handful of miscarriages by this point, I was freaking out. Both the severe dehydration and the bleeding sent me to the Emergency Room on various occasions. And you may have gathered by now that emergency rooms and I don't exactly get along...

But the hardest part was being so sick while taking care of two very energetic toddlers. Fluffy and Bubba were 3 and almost 2 and were next to impossible. I was almost too sick to keep up with them, which meant that they were causing even more trouble than they would had I been well enough to be more diligent.

And on top of all of that, Hubby was not only working full time, but feverishly working on his Masters Degree. He was gone all day long and well into the night almost every single day.

I was sick, exhausted, hormonal, lonely, and extremely overwhelmed.

So making it to my due date and then going beyond it seemed so completely unfair.

We had decided not to find out the baby's gender. We already had a boy and a girl, so we were prepared for either one. Still, Hubby and I were both convinced that it was a girl. Her name would be Sophia. I couldn't wait to cuddle my little girl in my arms.

And so, on this day ten days past my due date, as I was on my way to my prenatal appointment, I decided that I would ask my midwife to break my water. This was a huge thing to me, since I was so completely devoted letting nature take its course...

But, SURPRISE! My water broke on its own on my way to my appointment! There I was, on the freeway in my minivan with Fluffy and Bubba, gushing amniotic fluid. Upon arriving at my midwife's and looking like I'd been peeing myself, she checked me and announced that I was already dilated to a 7. Since my last labor had only lasted four hours, we expected that this baby would come any second. So I jumped back into my van with my kiddos and my midwife loaded her car with all of her supplies and followed me home, each of us gripping our cell phones, just in case it became necessary to deliver the baby on the side of the road!

Fortunately, we made it all the way to my house and even had time to get the birth tub set up, at which point I sat. And waited. And waited. The house slowly filled up with people--Hubby, my midwife, her two assistants, my mother-in-law, and then randomly two of my sisters-in-law and all of a sudden my FATHER-in-law (who stayed in the kitchen where he couldn't, um, see stuff...) AND my two children: Fluffy who watched in awe, and Bubba who wanted to get in the birthing tub with me and took off all of his clothes and screamed and screamed and SCREAMED and NO ONE WOULD TAKE CARE OF HIM, though they scolded me when I tried, saying, "oh, don't worry about him right now! We're here to take care of him!" And yet... they didn't. (He wasn't even supposed to be there, by the way. Babysitter had bailed last minute.) And there I was, post-transition and well into the pushing stage with mass chaos around me. It was so completely nuts. My quiet, tranquil homebirth had turned into a circus. However, I was way too focused to even be bothered about the circus. I had a big job ahead of me, after all.

I pushed for two hours. It was agonizing. I'd been through natural childbirth a couple of times, and it's NEVER easy, but this was different.

Finally the baby was born.

A boy.

It was Hubby's job to announce the gender. I nearly died when he said "boy." I had to look for myself, and then look again!

And, posterior. The last time I'd been checked, he was anterior. Somewhere in there he flipped and came out backwards. Hence the longer-than-expected labor and, well, the AGONY of the delivery!

But oh! how I loved him. Adored him. From the instant he was in my arms, he was the joy of my life--the piece of my soul that had been missing.

He didn't have a name--he wouldn't have a name for a couple more weeks! We couldn't exactly name him Sophia, after all...

After much war with Hubby over names, we finally settled on one. The PERFECT one. (And no, it's not "Scooby"--that's a nickname that Fluffy came up with during the nameless-interum.)

And now he's turning two! He's rambunctious and hilarious and darling. He's a little more crazy than his siblings, as evidenced in various trips for emergency x-rays and the like. Still, he keeps me laughing all day long. He's a middle child, but he never gets lost in the mix. He's so vibrant and colorful and delightful!

And so, on this very special day, I wish him a happy, HAPPY Birthday!!!!!!

Unchanged

2007-06-05T19:08:00.000-06:00

As you know, I'm in the midst of moving and I'm being the crappiest blogger ever in the process. Please know that I have all of you in my google reader and I'm keeping up on reading your posts, but I'm hardly commenting anywhere. I know, I know. Reading isn't enough. Comments are the real validation for your writing. I get that. And I'm so sorry. One of these days I'll take an entire day and catch up on all my comments.

In the meantime, though, I wanted to share a story from today. My little Bubba has a "friend." We will call this friend "Brat." Bubba always begs to be able to see Brat and to play with him. Brat lives in the old neighborhood, where the house that we're trying to sell is located. So, since I was hauling all the kids down there today to begin moving the old boxes to our soon-to-be home, I thought I'd call this little friend and see if he wanted to come play with my son for a little while.

"He's changed! He's changed!" the Brat's mom said, unprovoked by any question on my part. Brat had been a terrible bully to my Bubba, though Bubba loved him anyway. At one point, about a year ago, I had informed her that Brat was not to play with my son anymore, because my kid was being taught that it was okay for Brat to beat him up, and that Brat's mom could be in the room and watch it and never lift a finger or her voice or anything--unless Bubba cried too loudly, in which case she yelled at Bubba, instead of her nasty rotten little abusive brat.

"He's not a bully anymore! I've been disciplining him and teaching him not to be mean! You'll see! He's doing so well!"

I was hopeful, but skeptical. This kid really is the world's biggest monster and his mother is the world's biggest enabler.

But, because Bubba really wanted to see him, and because I was willing to give the kid another chance, I invited him over.

Within a few minutes of arriving at our house, Brat comes running inside (he and Bubba and Fluffy had been playing in the backyard) with giant alligator tears streaming down his face, announcing that Bubba had shoved him. His mother looked at me like she was about to murder my Bubba.

But before she could accomplish her intended homicide, Fluffy (who honestly should become a reporter due to her dependably accurate and unbiassed tattling) came in to tell the real story. Brat had attacked my Bubba with a metal dump truck toy, whacking him in the head repeatedly, until Bubba pushed him away so he would stop it.

Sure enough, when Bubba was located, his forehead was bruised and scratched. Even so, Bubba apologized for shoving Brat (something I didn't even see as necessary! How proud I am that he shoved the kid away! What were his other options? Just sit there and take it?). But Brat didn't (nor was he ever encouraged by his mother to) apologize--though he did smirk with satisfaction when he saw the damage that he'd caused on Bubba's forehead.

Moments later, Scooby began screaming (TOTALLY out of character for him) and came running to me with his nose GUSHING blood. (I wish I could say that I was more worried about the nosebleed than I was about my carpet...) I gasped and asked what had happened. "Brat threw a shoe at him," said his mother, nonchalantly. She'd SEEN him do it. My son was screaming and bleeding. Still, absolutely NO discipline whatsoever.

I grabbed my keys and said, "I'm afraid we are leaving now." (Even though I hadn't accomplished one single thing...)

"Oh! Okay! But when you come back next time, PLEASE call us again! I think Brat and Bubba really had a great time! They love to play together SO much!"

You'll be happy to know that I restrained myself from poking out her eyeballs and frying them on a stick, though it is precisely what I wanted to do. Instead I gave a little half smile and said, "well, we'll see."

Needless to say, Gentle Readers, I'm not terribly impressed with the "changes" that she was so proud of. Nor will I be calling them ever again.

Moving Week

2007-06-04T08:31:00.001-06:00

My blogging this week will be sporatic at best. One week from today we will move into our new home! But with four little ones and a billion tasks to complete before the big day, I'm not likely to be seen around these parts for a bit. I will definitely check in for Scooby's Birthday to post (as is my tradition) his birth story and of course I'll keep up on my latest Soap Opera Sunday series, and I may pop in if I have something BRILLIANT to say (and by "brilliant" I mean "mediocre") but otherwise I will likely be quite unheard from until I get established.

But! Do you realize that in a week I will have a wireless internet connection, instead of the dial-up that I've been using here? I'll be able to watch videos and hear soundbites!!!! I will no longer tie up the phone lines while I'm blogging! And my dear little laptop will come out of hiding too!

And I'll have TV back. Not just any TV, but my Dad's massive wall-size TV with uber-cable, as opposed to the 19-inch antenna TV with crappy reception that I've had here!

I will have SPACE! Room to put my STUFF, instead of piling everything on the couch, floor, tables, bed...

I will have my own KITCHEN! A place where I can cook and clean and not constantly feel like I'm in someone else's way!

And, as much as I love her (and I really do) I won't be living with my MOTHER-IN-LAW anymore!!!!!!!

Yeah, moving is good, even if it's a big fat pain!

Hanging Chad

2007-06-02T23:07:00.000-06:00

Soap Opera Sunday, friends!

As I was trying to tackle this particular Soap Opera, it became clear that this one is just so many soap operas within a soap opera. Much too soapy to possibly fit into one post. So, I’m making it June’s Soap Opera—a series, of sorts, that will last the whole month. Unless it’s extremely unpopular, or if I get really bored with it. Plus, one day I may run out of Soap Operas! Then what would I do on Sundays? So I suppose it’s better to stretch it out, huh?

I was heading towards the laundry room in my apartment complex--not to do laundry, because that would have been totally out of character for me, but rather to buy candy. As I approached the laundry room, I could hear singing. Opera-impersonating singing. Not terrible, but certainly not professional. I thought there must be a hilarious gathering of people in the laundry room (not totally unheard of in these parts), but when I opened the door, there was just one person. One completely embarrassed person, singing while he was doing his laundry.

It didn’t hurt that he was gorgeous.

He laughed and introduced himself as “Chad.” We talked for a brief moment—he lived in the Russian House*, I lived in the Italian House. He’d heard that all of the girls in the Italian House were extremely pretty. I’d heard that at least one of the guys in the Russian House was gay.

He asked me what I was doing so late, so I explained that I had rented the movie “The Rocketeer” because some guys had told me that I looked EXACTLY like Jennifer Connelly in that movie, so I wanted to see what she looked like, since I hadn’t seen her in anything since Labyrinth. And now I was stopping by the laundry room to get some candy out of the vending machine, because who can watch a movie without chocolate?

“Well, I hope that you took it as a compliment—the Jennifer Connelly thing, I mean. As I recall, she was beautiful in that movie.”

“Well, I guess I’d better go see, then!” I headed out the door, but stopped to say, “Do you wanna come watch it with me?” (*gasp* Had I really just been that bold?)

“Uh, no.” He replied. “I’ve got this laundry… and it’s late.” (*gasp* Had I really just been brushed off?)

I reported this meeting to my roommates, all of whom knew who he was. And, awkwardly enough, they were all in love with him. And, by the way, Chad had been right. My roommates were exceptionally pretty women, so the competition would be fierce. Still, the guy was hot, and had that special, intangible something, so I wasn't going to give up just yet.

The next time I saw him was at a college dance. He was dancing. With a group of guys. To Abba’s “Dancing Queen.” Hmmm, okay. I guess he was the gay one, then. Well, that was that. Still, I couldn’t keep my eyes off him. He looked my way and smiled a few times, but stuck with his group of friends.

Later that night, when I got home, my roommates had a bunch of people over. Okay, they had a bunch of GUYS over (we didn't have very many female friends...) There were guys from the Italian, French, and Russian Houses. And yeah, Chad was there too. But I really didn't talk to him. There were many attractive young men in the room and there was much flirting to be done. hahaha.

At one point in all the chaos of a tiny apartment filled with a million occupants, Chad grabbed my hand and pulled me outside.

"Okay, I know it's last minute, but I was wondering if you would go out with me tomorrow night."

I was a bit stunned, but readily accepted, hoping I wasn't coming across as TOO eager...

So we went out. Apparently, he wasn't gay. Just a lot of fun. (I think that the only truly fun guys I'd known up until that point were gay, so this was new for me.) He was an art major--oh, how I dug the starving artist thing! And starving he was. He drove a clunker that was older than I was. He was on full scholarship, fortunately, but could barely afford his next meal. Still, he had a well-stocked "date" fund. The boy knew his priorities.

He took me to dinner and then "disco skating" (random, but really fun...). He was funny, flirty, charming, and (did I mention?) gorgeous.

When he dropped me off that night, I wasn't ready for the night to end. He walked me inside my apartment which had no lights on except for my roommate's crazy green lava lamp, which was strangely romantic in the moment. I remember being certain that he was going to kiss me. I remember the way he looked into my eyes, and then slowly looked down at my lips, and then back to my eyes.

But he didn't kiss me.

Instead, he said goodnight and left.

*We lived in BYU's Foreign Language Housing, where you had to be proficient in both English and at least one other language. (Most of us were Americans who spoke foreign languages, but there were a handful of foreigners who spoke English plus their native language.) Inside your respective "House" you could not speak anything but your assigned language. In return, you got school credit and great language training, plus the "prestige" of living there, as the application process was brutal, and only a few were selected. It was a fun place to live, despite it being excrutiatingly demanding, because you knew that the people you met would likely be cultural, intelligent, and interesting. Though, of course SOME of us weren't. hahaha.

Perfect Post Awards!

2007-06-01T01:14:00.000-06:00

Okey dokey, folks. Flashback Friday is on hold for today, because it's the first day of the month. DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS? It means it's time for the Perfect Post Awards!

This is the first month that I'm participating in the Perfect Post Awards, brought to you by Suburban Turmoil and MammaK. For more info and other Perfect Post recipients, check out their sites.

And, well, since it's my first time to award it, I thought it should be different. Challenging, in fact. And what is a challenge that I have not yet mastered? Why, iambic pentameter, of course. And so, without further ado:

Shall I award Kate for a funny day?
It was not lovely, nor quite dignified:
Of blisters popped and chin hair she did write,
And many readers likely were quite horrified:
Sometimes too yuck the skin confessions were,
And once a "happy trail" she did imply;
And every fair from fair therefore declined,
By zits or steroid's cream to rectify:
But my eternal laughter did not fade,
Nor lose remembrance of that fair she hath;
Nor was it so gross that I ran and screamed,
But rather thought a "perfect post" to grant:

So long as blogs shall be, or Brillig see,
So long lives this, which post gives laughs to me.

Oh my gosh. I did it. A full sonnett, all 14 lines, all in iambic pentameter. I must have really enjoyed her post. So, in case some of you missed it (because, let's face it, sometimes I had to stretch a bit and it lacked, well, meaning) I hereby award Kate of Walking Kateastrophe
May's Perfect Post for her post, "Just when I thought lazer hair
removal only worked on brunettes."

What are you doing still sitting here? Go read her post!

Acceptance, Soap, and Thuds

2007-05-30T21:35:00.001-06:00

Oh, the crazy "mommy moments" just keep happening around here. While I don't post about them too often, rest assured that they make up the majority of my life. And, after all, I WAS nominated as the hottest Mommy Blogger. (What's that? You haven't voted yet? Well, here. I'll make it easy for you. Click here.) So I guess from time to time I need to prove my Momminess. Right now, I will highlight 3 moments from yesterday.

1. I put my happy cherubic little baby on the floor upstairs so that he could roll around and scoot to his little heart's content. Then I ran downstairs to grab something, and in the meantime I heard, "*shuffle-shuffle*scoot-scoot*THUD THUD THUD THUD THUD THUD*splat*WAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH*" In zero seconds flat, he'd managed to make it to the other side of the room and fling himself down the stairs, causing me to feel like the world's best mom. He wasn't terribly hurt, besides a little bruise on the head, but it scared us both real good. "I only left him alone for a SECOND." "Yeah, yeah, lady. We've heard that one before. You're gonna have to come with us, now. And we're giving your children to the nice lady down the street with all the cats." You KNOW that's what's gonna happen one of these days.

2. Once the littlest boys were in bed for their naps, Bubba and Fluffy went upstairs to play while I, well, blogged. After a little while, I heard strange noises in the bathroom so I went to check it out. I found Fluffy, in the bottom half of her swimsuit, and Bubba, completely naked, in the bathtub, which they had filled and dumped all the shampoo into (besides the shampoo that was dumped all over the floor in the process, of course) obviously hoping for bubbles, but instead getting just icky water. And then... I heard extra giggling. Who else was giggling? Upon closer examination, I found the NEIGHBOR GIRL hiding behind the shower curtain, wearing a swimsuit, as though she'd been planning all along to come on over and jump in our bathtub. I DID NOT KNOW THAT THE NEIGHBOR GIRL HAD COME OVER AT ALL. Rather than throttling them all, which is what I was initially tempted to do, I handled it with great dignity, fetching Blake's swimsuit and the rest of Madeleine's and telling them DON'T SPLASH. Am I cool, or what?

3. Since my little princess is about to start Kindergarten, I'd really hoped to get Madeleine into a charter school rather than the regular nastiness that is the public school system, so I applied her to all of them that I could think of, but all of my attempts had been thwarted. Kindergarten is the hardest year to get a kid into a decent school--all the spots fill up SO quickly. I'd resigned myself to Public School. But LAST NIGHT! An email came from the charter school in the town we're moving to in a couple of weeks--I don't even remember applying to this school, because we never expected to move to this particular city! Anyway, they had ONE POSITION open up and her name was drawn! I had until 10:00 p.m. (less than four hours from when the email was sent--good thing I have no life and happened to be online!) to respond and accept the position or it would be given to someone else. I'm SO EXCITED! See, if this email had come just a week ago, I would have thrown it away, because there was NO WAY we were moving to that city, therefore the slot would have been wasted on us. So the announcement came at just the absolute perfect moment! It just feels like another concrete sign that we made the right decision. Yeay!

Okay, am I enough of a mommy-blogger for you now? Hey, did you vote yet? ;-)

Animated Admissions

2007-05-29T22:58:00.000-06:00

I just bought the movie Barbie in the 12 Dancing Princesses for my Fluffy, and fortunately her brothers don't yet know that it's not cool for them to like Barbie movies, so they're all happily watching it. We've all probably seen it about 57 times now.

And I have the most random thing to admit.

I think "Prince" Derek is HOT.

I would have included a picture with that last statement, but I couldn't find any, even through lengthy google image searches--which leads me to believe that I'm the only "grown up" who thinks that Derek is hot. Or, perhaps, that any animated character is hot.

Alas, it's not the first time. I always kinda had a thing for Eric from The Little Mermaid and Prince Philip from Sleeping Beauty.

And really, I can't believe I'm writing any of this.

Still, I know I'm not entirely alone. I specifically remember a moment in college when I was hanging out with some guy friends who had just seen Disney's "Hercules" (it had just come out) and they were talking about how Meg was by far the hottest Disney character ever! When I saw the movie myself, I thought that she was definitely the skankiest of all of Disney's princesses (which is, of course, what these guys found so appealing). Still, the fact that ALL of them were saying this about an animated character makes me think that perhaps this is not totally unheard of.

So, fess up. Did you ever have a thing for an animated character?

(And is anyone gonna agree with me about Derek? Come on...)

Bloglights

2007-05-29T01:11:00.000-06:00

Well, yeah. I thought I'd add a new feature to 'Twas Brillig--because apparently my daily blogging routine was devastatingly uncomplicated. Or something.

So, here's the deal. In my sidebar, there will be a box highlighting three blogs. These will change every day (every day that I blog, that is...). My purpose is to tell how I met all the bloggers in my blogroll! I thought it would be fun, and challenging in some cases, since I'm not sure I even remember how I met all my bloggy friends!

And to mix things up a bit, I'm going to do it in reverse alphabetical order. Cuz, well, why not?

This would be a lovely chance for you, my dear bloggy buddies, to go to my blogroll and make sure that your link works, that it's going to the right place--and that it's there at all!

By the way, there is absolutely no anticipation of reciprocity here. This is just something I wanted to do, free of charge! :-D Everyone loves to hear about how their blog was found, right?

Of course, my blogroll isn't set in stone (even though it does seem to take me an eternity to update it). I anticipate meeting more friends along the way. Do not weep for them, Gentle Readers, for as I go along meeting new friends, I will certainly add them to the fun, even if their letter of the alphabet has already been featured. :-D

So, now, let the linky-love begin! Go check it out! You're likely to meet some new friends in the process!
********ETA:
Oh! And don't worry! I'll be filing all the bloglights into my blogroll so you can go back and see what I said about you or someone else, and you can see if someone's already been bloglighted or not, and also so that the linky-love is permanent, and not just for a day. :-D

It's Memorial Day, People.

2007-05-28T09:53:00.000-06:00

PLEASE don't tell me you're sitting around BLOGGING this weekend!

Oh, wait... what am I doing? Sitting around blogging? Hmmmm. I'm SO COOL.

Do you think I could buy a life on e-bay?

Plays and Drama

2007-05-26T23:09:00.000-06:00

Hello, Gentle Readers! It’s been so long since we had a Soap Opera Sunday! So, seek out your inner drama queen, and let’s go!

(The only thing Soap Opera-y about this one is that it contains all the angst and emotions of the high school world. No torrid love affairs, I'm afraid.)

My Freshman year of high school, I had a great group of close friends--a boy named Mark was an integral part of that group. He was funny, talented, intelligent, and (to my little fourteen year old eyes) drop dead gorgeous. Which, I suppose, is where the problems started. I liked him. A lot. And it was no secret. And, apparently, it was not reciprocated.

My passionate devotion to Mark burned him out. Slowly but surely, he began distancing himself from our group of friends and became, well, rude. And that caused me to freak out at him, which caused further distance and rudeness, etc. By our Sophomore year, we were barely speaking to each other (but speaking PLENTY behind each other’s backs, natch).

The trick here is that both Mark and I were also passionately devoted to one other thing: Theater. And we’d both climbed the totum pole to the top, so we often had to work together, but we weren’t nice about it. Every time the spotlight shone on him (which was all the time) I gagged a little, got nasty and gossipy about him, or furiously jealous. Whenever Mark saw me, I was at my snippiest, snottiest worst--which is so funny, because I wasn't really like that at all. Just around him. I just kept making it easier and easier for him to hate me.

It was so strange, to know each other so well and share happy memories and hilarious inside jokes, and yet feel so strongly negative towards each other.

By the time we were Seniors, Mark had his groupies, I had mine (Mark had, shall we say, a lot more adoring fans than I did….which, of course, bugged me too). Everyone knew that we weren’t very fond of each other, but almost no one knew that once upon a time we'd been best friends.

And then the inevitable happened. We were cast in the school play as romantic leads opposite each other. “Fine,” I thought. Sure, we’d be working even more closely with each other than we’d worked before, but we could get through it.

But this was different. Due to many factors (which are too long and boring to explain) this play was very emotionally charged and extremely stressful. Both Mark and I were feeling the pinch and, not feeling like we could lean on each other to get through it, we instead grew extremely antagonistic. Fortunately, we didn’t actually have that many scenes together, and when we did have scenes together, there was nothing too lovey-dovey. The words were lovey-dovey, but there were no *ahem* actions involved.

You could see ten feet between us at any given moment, no matter how
mushy the words that we were saying were.

During our final dress rehearsal, our director said to us (after weeks of rehearsals, and nary a word prior) “you two are going to have to kiss at that part.”

The theater, which was full of people, went completely silent, before it erupted into psychotic giggling. Everyone in that room knew how we felt about each other.

I couldn’t breathe and I think Mark was about to throw up.

(Part of the ridiculousness was that never in my life had I been surrounded by so many boys--in the cast and the tech crew-- who would have fallen all over themselves to be the one kissing me. For some reason, it was almost as if someone had hand-picked every boy who'd ever had a crush on me up to that time and put them in the cast and crew. And yet I was slated to kiss the one who found me utterly disgusting.)

I don’t remember what we said or if we said anything. But we never looked at each other or acknowledged to each other what we’d just heard. And we CERTAINLY never PRACTICED.

The next day at school, complete strangers were coming up to me saying, “Hey! I heard you and Mark are gonna have to kiss each other in the play tonight!” And they would heckle me and giggle and go on their way.

So, that night—Opening night, I wasn’t nervous about anything besides that kiss--that unpracticed kiss with a boy who loathed me--a kiss that all our friends, and even our non-friends, were sitting in the audience to witness.

I remember that right before that scene, I grabbed his arm backstage and shoved a breath mint into his hand. (Yes, I’m still snickering about that.)

We performed the play four times. I remember each night’s kiss distinctly, after all these years. Our first night’s kiss wasn’t remarkable. We were just in a hurry to get it over with. Our director’s notes after the second night were that it was “WAY TOO SHORT AND PASSIONLESS” which was SO true. You’d think we’d just given each other a hi-five with our lips or something. And so the third night we took it slower, as we’d been told to do, and it was… delicious. At least in my memory it was. I don’t actually know what Mark thought of that one, but I suspect that he was perhaps even more disgusted with me because he could sense that I was allowing myself to enjoy it a little bit. Haha. Anyway, the last night was the best. By far.

Because the whole school showed up to take a picture of it.

Clearly printed on the programs were the instructions not to take pictures. It didn’t matter. There we were, taking the “kissing position” and all we heard and saw were *clicks* and flashes. Hahahaha.

Not only did a thousand people take identical pictures, but this one was even
prominently featured in our yearbook. Hahaha.

In the moment that all those pictures were audibly snapped, I could feel Mark starting to laugh, which made me want to start laughing. Both of us realized how absolutely RIDICULOUS this whole situation had become, that there was so much real-life drama between us that people were turning up just to take pictures of us STAGE-KISSING!!! The audience didn't know that we were both on the brink of busting up laughing--we covered it well and moved on with the scene as normal. But we knew it about each other, and that was enough to undo a lot of the crazy years of anger and disgust. We now had something to laugh about together--ourselves. Stupid as it sounds, it was a really healing moment.

It was a turning point for us. For the rest of the school year, there wasn't exactly comradery, but neither was there hatred, disgust, gossip, and jealousy. We were just co-existing. It was marvelous in it's total unremarkableness.

Nowadays, I don't know where he is or what he's up to, though from time to time I hear things about him. Apparently, he pursued the professional acting thing--hey, if anyone can do it, Mark can. He really was that good--way, way better than I was. And, obviously, I made very different choices for my own life. But the point is (point? did someone accuse me of having a point?) that oddly enough, there's nothing but kindness and respect between us now, on both sides. I hope that wherever he is, life is treating him well and that he's happy. And I can say with 100% confidence that he hopes the same for me.

Taking Care of Business

2007-05-25T14:59:00.000-06:00

I've been tagged. Multiple times. I'm going to try to catch up here a little...

In the Spotlight.

Jenny and Jessabean both tagged me for this one, along with a myriad of others who say "if you're reading this, consider yourself tagged" (not at ALL cliche...). I've seen it all over the web lately, and I've seen everyone answering DIFFERENT questions, so I wasn't actually sure what the real questions are. So I went right to the Source, (and asked the horse, she gave me the answer that she endorsed, she's always on a steady course, talk to Mr. Ed) and apparently there are several questions that I can CHOOSE from! So I guess I'll answer the ones that I feel like answering!

1. What makes your blog unique? Well, let's see. I'm a homebirthing, green-eyed, vegetarian, Mormon, world-travelled, "had-four-kids-in-four-years," poliglottal, mommy-blogging Democrat who lives with her mother-in-law and writes under a Jabberwocky-inspired pen name. I like to think that makes me unique.

2. When did you start blogging? I started blogging two months and two days ago, to be precise. Before that, I had a different blog that I occasionally wrote stupid (and totally unnoticed) posts on from time to time, but I wouldn't call it "blogging." Then I became Brillig and I've been frantically blogging ever since!

3. What do you hope to accomplish with your blog? Make a million bucks? Take over the world? Hypnotize wild animals? Complete the tower of Babel? Punish all who are literate? You pick.

4. What are your feelings on the "blog popularity" issue? HAHAHAHA. I had to put this one in, because the WHOLE POINT OF THIS WOMAN CREATING THIS MEME WAS TO INCREASE HER BLOG'S POPULARITY. Well done, brilliant Christy. Well done indeed.

And now I will tag-a-roo. Hmmmm, who should my victims be today? I pick:

Whiskeymarie from Never what you think it should be
Jewels from Blonde Canary
Rebecca of Rebecca James
Believer of Believer in Balance
Jennifer from The Verge

Okay. Now to the second one. This one came from Butrfly today.

Where did you get your kids' names from? (that's not really the name, but it works...)

1. Fluffy is actually the nickname my little girl has had since she was in utero. I can't for the life of me remember why her dad started calling her "Fluffy" and then when she was born bald (and remained mostly hairless until she was nearly 2!) it became just a silly name for her! Now her hair is actually quite Fluffy, so it works just fine. Her brothers all call her "Fluffy." Her REAL name came from when I was working in a bookstore while I was pregnant with her and saw the name on a book and fell instantly in love with it, presented the idea to Hubby, he loved it too, and it was a done deal. What you should know is that she is named (her first and middle name) after who I consider to be the two most controversial women in the Bible. Beautiful names, beautiful together, and my way of saying, "back off--those two women were AMAZING."

2. "Bubba" is just what we've always called him. His real name is his Dad's middle name, which was Hubby's grandfather's first name, which was hubby's grandfather's mother's maiden name. Got it? Basically a no brainer for me. But the name suits my little Bubba perfectly. Bubba's middle name is my maiden name, which also suits him PERFECTLY.

3. "Scooby" is what Fluffy started calling him right after he was born. Hubby and I had decided not to find out Scooby's gender before he was born, but for some reason we both firmly believed that he would be a girl. (If he'd been a girl, his name would have been Sophia Catherine. Isn't that pretty?) Anyway, he was clearly NOT a girl when he was born and it took us TWO WEEKS to come up with a name for him! The name we settled on is so cute and we love it. It's Biblical without sounding Amish... His middle name is Hubby's grandma's maiden name.

4. Lil' Dude is an obvious nickname for my lil' dude. I suspect it requires no explanation. As for his real name, he was my only baby born in the hospital and you have to name your kid before you can go home! We had NO idea what to name him. But I was desperate to get out of the hospital (hospitals in general make me feel that way...) so I kind pulled a name out of the air and Hubby liked it (after we'd been quarrelling about EVERY name up to that point), so we hurried and wrote it on the birth certificate app. and off we went! His middle name is yet another family name from Hubby's side. (There are VERY FEW PEOPLE in my family that I would EVER EVER EVER name a child after, so I'm glad that Hubby had so many great people in his genealogy!)

And now, I tag
Thoroughly Mormon Millie
Braveheart-does-the-Maghreb
Mom O Matic
The Dead Letters
Families are like fudge…mostly sweet with a few nuts

Phew! Two meme's down! Only about a thousand to go...

Passing Ports

2007-05-24T21:48:00.000-06:00

It's another installment of Flashback Friday, Friends!

(I'm SO gonna end up in Guantanamo for this post. See why I use a nom de plume?)

I was digging through some of my old stuff the other night and came across my passport from when I was a teen. I was 12 when I got it, it expired when I was 17.

This wasn't just any passport. I've had a million passports (okay, probably not QUITE that many...) but this one...

THIS ONE was....

Illegal.

There's a raised stamp right over my face causing me to look "bumpy"... I just felt like
I needed to clear that up, lest there be any confusion. :-D

Okay, okay. Illegal is perhaps too strong of a word. Technically, it's against the law to have two active American passports (unless you're Jason Bourne, apparently) and this was my second passport--I already had one that I was using, and continued to use the whole time I had this second one. My acquiring a second passport was necessary because in order to get into some of the Arab nations surrounding the country of Israel, you aren't allowed to have ANY HEBREW IN YOUR PASSPORT. Which pretty much SUCKS if, say, you flew into Tel Aviv first and they happened to stamp your passport, as is the norm when you land in any country! Then let's say you were planning to travel to, say, Amman, Jordan.

Which I did. And I was.

And so in a little American Consulate in East Jerusalem, my shady passport was concocted. I've been an unconvicted felon ever since.

*snicker*

Even with the new shiny passport, getting into Jordan was no easy feat. Tensions were so high in the region (imagine that!) that even though Amman is only about an hour's drive away from Jerusalem, the border was closed. So, naturally, being the adventurous family that we were, we snuck in.

Okay, okay! Again, I'm being a bit over dramatic! We didn't "sneak" in, in that we weren't doing anything wrong. The four of us (my older brother, my parents, and I) woke up early in the morning and took a taxi to the southern end of Israel and from there we walked across the border into Egypt. Once in Egypt, we boarded a rickety old bus that took us across the Suez Canal and on to the Red Sea. From there, we took a commuter's ferry to Aqaba, Jordan where, since we were coming from Egypt and there was no Hebrew in my passport, no one was suspicious that perhaps we'd been in Israel just hours before. And we were let into the country without a scene.

What could have been an hour's drive was a 24 hour ordeal.

Anyway, the stamps in the passport include Israel, Egypt, Jordan, Germany, Austria, Italy, The U.K. (multiple times!), and, of course, the USA.

Not bad, considering the passport was technically illegal.

The End and the Beginning of the Limbo

2007-05-23T21:18:00.000-06:00

Nope. I didn't see this one coming. Not at all.

To catch you up, quickly, Hubby and I are trying to sell our house. In efforts to sell it faster, we decided to move out of it. We've been living in his parents' basement ever since (for the last two months). I'd had to pull my kids out of preschool and soccer and ballet and all that "important" stuff, and we've been really living a half-life here, in utter limbo, in a dark, crowded, small basement. We're terribly grateful to my in-laws for being so gracious and generous with us, but we've also been extremely eager to move on with life. We've had no success whatsoever in either the home-selling arena, nor the home-buying arena.

Good. Now you're up to speed.

My parents are moving to Spain for a couple of years. They need someone to take care of their house while they’re gone.

We had taken ourselves out of the running for house-sitting, because we were building a house. And, on top of that, we already owned a house. We really didn’t need to borrow anyone else’s house.

But, if you’ve been reading this blog at all, you’ll remember that we actually decided against the house we’d been building, for no reason other than that our gut unmistakably insisted that we walk away. And we’ve had a devil of a time selling our old house. We live in a collapsing market and our old neighborhood is full of beautiful homes for sale, not one of which is actually selling.

You can see where I’m going with this.

The matter of who would house-sit for my parents was resolved a while back, but my father reconsidered the situation and decided against the renter that he’d settled on. And today he called me. He’s in a pickle, needing someone to live in his house. I’m in a pickle, needing somewhere to live. After various frantic phone calls to Hubby at work and to my dad and to various realtors, the matter was decided.

We're moving into my childhood home.

And we feel good about it.

And that's all we've asked for all along--that when we finally make a decision, we can feel good about it.

This gives us time to sell our house the way we want to sell it, and not, out of desperation, entertain stupid offers from stupid people. When we do actually sell the house, we can then put our money in the bank somewhere and watch it grow as the market collapses, thus allowing us to buy an even more fabulous house than the ones we’d been shopping for. And we will be saving plenty of money, seeing as how we wouldn’t be paying any kind of rent or mortgage (my parents bought the house with cash. They’ve never owed anything on it and they certainly aren’t trying to make money off of us).

It also gives us a destination. I’ve been living in limbo, not knowing where to sign my son up for preschool or where to enroll my daughter for kindergarten.

Hubby is sold on every level. This is so exciting to him. So many things about this arrangement are so perfect, but I have a couple of concerns, large and small. The little concerns are about, for instance, my beautiful black grand piano. There’s no room in my parents’ house for my piano. I’m trying to find a sibling or someone else that I trust who might be interested in babysitting it. It’s quite possibly the only nice thing that I own and I treasure it.

Other concerns include Hubby’s commute. My parents’ house is half an hour away from where we are now, in the wrong direction. That tacks on significant time to his commute. He’s not the least bit concerned about this, so I guess I shouldn’t be either.

It’s also strange, the thought of going back to that neighborhood where I was a dumb kid. Back to that house, this time as Matron, not Child. My daughter will sleep in the bed where I slept as a girl, and my sons in my brothers’ rooms. It all feels a little weird, but no bad per say.

The bigger concerns, for me, are matters of pride. It’s silly, I know. My brain tells me not to worry about such things, but something inside still does. I’m a grown woman with a family of my own. My husband is very successful in his career. Outside of our mortgage we have absolutely no debt whatsoever. But we’re about to move into my parents’ house. It seems like such a maneuver is reserved for the kid who can’t quite get on his own feet—the kid who’s about to file for bankruptcy if Mommy and Daddy don’t jump in to the rescue.

But I’m NOT that kid! And my pride worries that someone might think that I AM that kid! Will the neighbors snicker? Will “friends” hear only snippets of the story and jump to conclusions about me or my Hubby? It’s one thing when people speak to you in person and you can rectify incorrect ideas. But you can’t correct the secret whisperings going on behind your back.

And no, I have no idea why I care. So don’t bother telling me how stupid that concern is, because I already know how stupid it is!

All in all, I’m pleased. I’m grateful for the way things worked out. My parents’ house is lovely and they have all the amenities we could ask for. It gives us plenty of time to decide what exactly it is that we want in the long run. It’s a form of limbo itself, but it also solves my current limbo. It allows me to move on with my life, while still giving me time to determine my future.

Deny Thy Blogger and Refuse my Posts!

2007-05-22T23:33:00.000-06:00

(For about three seconds, I tried this in Iambic Pentameter. It was a disaster. I gave up. Don't judge me--you would have given up too.)

Forsooth, there were a couple of posts here earlier. Each of them, one at a time, has left this world of bloggingness.

Dear, dear Blogger, I salute you in your plight to confuse me.

I especially salute you in deleting posts that, really, weren't my favorite. How did you know?

One of the deleted posts was about me wondering why no one is voting for me, the other was wishing myself a happy bloggy birthday. Both a bit narcissistic, I suppose.

Yea and verily, Blogger. I behold and hearken to thee, that Narcissus doth not bear fair blogposts. Oh thou foul Blogger fiend, oh foulest of bloggingness. Perhaps thou wouldst that I should blot out the whole blog... (I hate to point it out to you, but you left a few Meme's and interviews and "look at me, I'm so cool" posts behind. I almost feel like narcissism has won a few small victories.)

However, I daren't declare war, or even acknowledge that YOU may have already declared war. I refuse to see your glove at my feet, I refuse to see your drawn sword.

War with Blogger would be strategy at its worst. (I could make reference to that other war where strategy is, shall we say, lacking. But that would bring me off topic and have people jumping down my throat--and not in a good way--and this post isn't really about that.)

I spent many, many hours creating my banner and my overall design. I can just see you, Dear Blogger, out of spite, turning it flourescent pink. With flowers. And a chijuajua.

(Could you really hate me so much???)

We can resolve this. Peacefully. If you continue to lose posts that I really didn't like anyway, I see no reason why we can't keep things amicable. Perhaps you're just trying to do me a service.

Blogger: "Because I like Brillig so VERY much, I'm going to delete all of her crappy posts."
Brillig: "Thanks, Sweety. But you missed a few..."
Blogger: "I'll be back, darling."
Brillig: *sighs contentedly*

And so I continue to appease you, make friends with you, stay true and loyal to you even when the prospect of my own domain beckons me. Perhaps I will ruthlessly use you, steal some of your coding, and move on someday, leaving a void in this wretched Blogspot. Perhaps I will be here forever. I cannot predict the future. Nay, I dare not! Because we're really just getting to know each other still. And perhaps, just perhaps, you are the Romeo to my Juliet.

(Of course, they both ended up dead...)

Brought to You by Fluffy

2007-05-21T15:06:00.001-06:00

On Saturday, my sweet little Fluffy went through a great big trauma.

Her earring fell out.

These are the stud earrings that her ears were pierced with a year ago and they have never ever been removed from her ear. As far as she's concerned, they are just a permanent part of her body. Just how they fell out, none of us are sure. But it happened when her dad put his hands on the sides of her face, so she is certain that it was all Hubby's fault.

And it wasn't just that the earring fell out, it was that the ear starting bleeding like crazy and blood was running all over her hands and onto the floor.

And, like any 5 year old of the female persuasion would, she screamed.

Oh, how she screamed--as though it had been her arm that fell off, not an earring.

The bleeding was the result of a horrendous infection, which we hadn't seen because it was only visible in the back of her lobe once the earring was gone. We've been treating the infection, which has been scary and painful for her, but it's looking much better.

And boy, did she milk this for all it was worth. We went to Target to buy new earrings. She got three pairs: pink, blue, and white "diamond" studs. She also got a new Barbie notebook, and a promise from me that I would take a picture of her with her new earrings in and put it on my blog.

Alas, you can't really see the earrings, but oh well. I have now fulfilled my promises.

The last of her demands was probably the funniest of all. She handed me her Barbie notebook and dictated to me what she wanted written down. It says:

"Daddy put his hands on my head and my earring fell out and it hurt really bad and I screamed really loud and then Mommy went to the store and bought me lots of new earrings and so I came home and I'm wearing my earrings now and I was really really sad when my earring fell out and Daddy made my earring fall out."

The best part is that she hands it to Hubby every few hours and requires him to read it to her. It's his penance, I suppose--even though we all agree that it wasn't his fault.

Really, she's had the whole household wrapped around her tiny little finger all weekend. I suspect that losing her earring was the best thing that ever happened to her.

I Think I'll Link You

2007-05-19T21:13:00.000-06:00

(To preface this remarkably bizarre post, I feel that I need to tell you that three years ago, I went with my sisters to a David Cassidy concert. It was quite possibly the weirdest thing I've ever done. At 25 years old, I was decades younger than anyone else in the audience, and certainly the only person dressed like I was at a concert. It was SO funny. But it was also a blast. And for some reason, it made a deep impact on who I am today. Okay, not at all... But still. Dear David has lingered with me...)

Hahahahahahahahaha

The following song is based on, nay, INSPIRED by David Cassidy's "I Think I Love You."

I THINK I'LL LINK YOU
(Dedicated to my newly updated blogroll...)

Blog, blog, blog, blog,
Blog-blog, blog, blog, blog,
Blog, blog-blog, blog, blooooooggggg

I'm blogging
And right in the middle of a good post
Like all at once I read up
On someone that leaves comments on my site.
With all my heart and might I set my fingers on the keys,
I'll try not to feel the squeeze
As I type out words like these:
"I think I'll link you!"

This blogroll
Is getting long and lengthy
I didn't know how to deal with
And so I just decided to myself
I'd put limits on myself and never link another
And didn't I go and write it
When I typed your URL.
"I think I'll link you!"

I think I'll link you.
So what am I so afraid of?
I'm afraid that I'm not sure of
A blogroll there's no room for.

I think I'll link you.
Isn't that what blogs are made of?
Though it worries me to see
That you haven't yet linked me!

I don't know where to comment next.
I don't know who to learn about.
I got so much to blog about.

Hey!!!!!!!

I think I'll link you.
So what am I so afraid of?
I'm afraid that I'm not sure of
A blogroll there's no room for.

I think I'll link you.
Isn't that what blogs are made of?
Though it worries me to see
You haven't yet linked me!

Believe me,
You really don't have to tag me.
I only want to read your MEME
And if you say,
"Hey, go away," I will, but I think better still
I'd better comment and not lurk you.
Will you offer me some hope?
Of getting linked on your blogroll?
Do you think you'll link me?

I think I'll link you.
Oh, I think I'll link you.
Oh, I think I'll link you.
Oh, I think I'll link you.
Oh, I think I'll link you.
Oh, I think I'll link you.
Oh, I think I'll link you.
Oh, I think I'll link you.
Oh, I think I'll link you.

(Point is, there are a lot of newly added blogs in my blogroll. Go check them out! And if, peradventure, I missed you... it was inadvertant. I've been going through my bookmarks and my comments, etc. but I do have mommy-brain after all. Please don't hesitate to point out the lack of your link. If you're too shy to say it in my comments, email me. Or tell your friends to email me. Or something. Or just be offended and never come back. NO! I'm KIDDING!! Don't do that!!! Holy crap, this is a long parenthetical. Time to quite. And now I'm done. Bye.)

a man and his dog

2007-05-18T10:23:00.000-06:00

Welcome to Flashback Friday!!

When Hubby was a boy, his parents bought him a gorgeous yellow lab who he named Dusty. Dusty was a dear friend and confidant for Hubby.

As Hubby got older, Dusty had to be left behind at his parents' house as Hubby went off on life's various adventures, like college and, well, marrying me. Our first home was a dark, dank, dismal basement apartment and dogs weren't exactly, um, allowed.

So Dusty lived with Hubby's parents. But Dusty was still very much Hubby's dog. Hubby would go and visit him all the time, and did as much as he could to take care of the dog, though of course much of the burden of care was with his parents.

Hubby and Fluffy (as a baby) with Dusty

One day, Hubby went to visit Dusty, and Dusty wasn't there. Hubby's parents had decided that Dusty was too old and uncomfortable and it was time to put him down. No one ever got permission from Hubby or even mentioned it to him. Hubby had to find out after the fact. He'd never gotten to say goodbye to his dear old friend.

It was very painful for my sweet Hubby.

It's a sad story, to be sure. But here's where it hits so close to home:

Now that I'M living with Hubby's parents, is Hubby gonna come home from work one day and discover that they've euthanized ME?

Salsa, anyone?

2007-05-16T22:49:00.000-06:00

Gentle Readers, today I'm off to house-hunt. All day long. Aren't you jealous?

It means that I won't be around to read, comment, or post much. Instead, I'm bringing you something from my archives.

WAIT!! Don't GO!!!

This was one of my first stories about life with my kiddos. It was back before anyone (besides Butrfly and Kateastrophe--hi girls!) was actually reading this blog.

It has been slightly reworked...

AND THEN SHE FOUND A ROCK AND HID UNDER IT FOR THE REST OF ETERNITY...

My darling hubsters called me on his way home from work yesterday to announce that I didn't need to make dinner because he was taking us all OUT to dinner. In that moment, I really should have called the local mental institution and had him locked up because he was clearly going BATTY. Didn't he remember how hard it is to go anywhere?

Well, maybe just this once, it would be an exception. And I was actually really excited to not have to cook and serve and clean. And positively in love with Hubby for thinking of me.

So, I got all the kids ready to go and even put on my new sassy jeans. I know. Big stuff.

Well, as it turned out, Hubbadubba was taking us to dinner because he'd been given a gift certificate. Even better! I didn't need to feel guilty about the unnecessary money-spending that going out usually entails!

The gift certificate was to a Mexican restaurant in Orem, about half an hour away. There are, of course, approximately a billion Mexican restaurants in Utah, so we didn't think anything of the fact that we'd never HEARD of this particular one. And we're all big Mexican food lovers, so this was perfect.

We pulled up to the "restaurant" which was a little hole in the wall of a strip mall where everything was in Spanish. Everything.

As we were getting out of the car, Bubba peed his pants. With some pants, you can't really see the wet spot. Bubba was not in those pants. He was in the pants that reward a little pee with a great big "hi, I just had an accident and now I'm going to sit on your chair" wet spot. I wasn't sure what to do, but I really had no other option than to take him in to the restaurant, wet spot and all.

We walk into the "restaurant" which had about 6 small tables, 4 of which were fully occupied by very burly, drunk, Hispanic men.

Let me pause here to say that by now you know that I'm am impervious to racial and cultural differences. This is even more the case when it comes to the Latin culture. I have many, many hispanic friends. I'm fluent in Spanish, remember? I have an Argentine sister-in-law. And I lived in South America for a couple of years. Not a big deal.

However, in this situation, my little family of six felt pretty little, very young, and COPIOUSLY white. I expect that my abnormal discomfort came mostly because, of course, we had all eyes glued on us from the moment we walked in the door. Burly drunk men with jaws dropped, gawking at the white people--the white people with magical procreation skills.

The menus? All in Spanish. I had to translate for Hubby and the kiddos. A waiter, who remarkably spoke pretty good English, came over to us and we ordered. It took forever, because Hubby needed to go through all his options ("can I get guacamole instead of rice and then beans with cheese but no red sauce and do the pig's feet come with mango sauce? I don't really want them, I'm just curious..."), but eventually our order was in.

(I sound like I'm mocking him. I'm not trying to. He's such a darling. But see, being a vegetarian and all, my food options are rather limited and I'm pretty dang boring anyway. I scan the menu, see the bean burrito, and go with it. Hubby is much more adventurous than I, and therefore has a lot of questions that need answers.)

In the meantime, the kids were gorging themselves on the free chips and salsa. Scooby was in a high chair with no straps to keep him in.

People. If my child needs a high chair, my child also needs straps. Why is it that the straps are always broken??? For the preservation of your restaurant, and our mutual sanity, FIX THE STUPID STRAPS!!!

Anyway, needless to say, he was climbing all over the table and throwing menus on the floor, etc. I was working so hard to keep everyone and everything under control. I didn't want to be one of "those moms" who goes to a nice restaurant and sits back while the kids turn it into a disaster area.

Fortunately, this WASN'T a nice restaurant.

Still, I was determined to keep the kids under control. Then the baby started screaming. Hubby picked him up and discovered a total diaper blow out. Again, I had no handy change of clothes, so now I had one pee-soaked child and one screaming poop-soaked baby. And then Scooby, climbing out of his high chair once again, grabbed the salsa and guzzled it. What do you suppose he did next? Well, he screamed his brains out, of course, because the salsa was HOT.

And the burly drunk men stared on at the little smelly excrement-covered white people who were all screaming.

Our waiter walked by, and Hubby decided to ask what he should have asked in the first place, which was, do they take this gift certificate. The waiter looks at it and said, "No."

WHAT???

They don't take gift certificates anymore because of gift certificate fraud. Too many copies. (You've got to be freaking kidding me. People are making bogus gift certificates to this place? People want to EAT IN THIS PLACE???) Hubby points out all the reasons why this is absolutely a legitimate gift certificate--it had watermarks, security seals, important signatures, etc. The waiter was unimpressed.

"No, we do not take any gift certificates."

"Well, then we won't be eating here," Hubby announces.

The waiter shrugs and says, "okay!"

I nearly died. Really. I think my poor, pathetic life began flashing before my eyes.

So we loaded up the screaming, poopy baby in his carseat, grabbed the screaming Scooby out of his high chair and told Bubba and Fluffy to head to the door. "NO!!!" they yelled, almost (but not quite) in unison.

(I suspect my face was completely purple by now. Not a good look on me...)

"Excuse me?"

And now, in all-out tantrum mode: "NO!!! WE'RE NOT LEAVING!!!! WE'RE SO HUNGRY!!!"

We grabbed them by the hand and yanked them out the door, leaving our blurry-eyed Mexican friends to stare at each other in awe and say, "what in the Giminy Christmas was THAT???"

Indeed. What WAS that?

So, we went through the drive-thru at Taco Bell, where we didn't look like freaks at all, and ate our tacos in the van as we drove home.

An Offer, An Offer!!

2007-05-16T19:19:00.000-06:00

We just got our first offer on our house.

They offered $42,000 less than our already embarrassingly low asking price. Hahahahahahaha.

Hahahahaha.

Hahahahaha.

I'm laughing so that I don't start bawling...

Hahahaha.

So far, it's working.

And to think. In our house-hunting, Hubby and I are always embarrassed when we want to offer $10,000 less than the asking price. I guess that I will try to be a bit less embarrassed from now on.

Who wants to track these people down and throw rotten eggs at their house. Anyone?

Hahahahahaha.

Little Devastation

2007-05-16T11:23:00.000-06:00

It's no secret that my son Blake has a flair for the dramatic. (Where he gets it, I can't imagine!)

Just now, my sweet boy came running in to see me. His big blue eyes were shining with tears and his voice quivered.

"Mommy." He was trying to be so brave, but the little tears trickled down his little pink cheeks. He had my immediate attention. "Mommy, I did something very bad and it's all my fault."

"Okay," I said gently. He'd been causing trouble ALL MORNING and I hadn't been, um "gentle" about it all. But this seemed different. "Tell me what happened."

He nestled his face into my chest. "I dropped Daddy's toothbrush in the sink."

(What is it with us and toothbrushes?)

"Well, then, take it out of the sink! It's okay!"

"No, it's ALL THE WAY DOWN THE SINK. Down the little black hole part."

His little body was trembling. He was so, so concerned about this.

"Blake, it'll be okay! I'll just get it out!"

He grabbed my hand and tugged me out of the room towards the bathroom. Sure enough, he'd taken the drain stopper out and the toothbrush had plunged into the depths of the plumbing. I could just barely see the tip of it. So I brought him upstairs with me to go through Grampa's tools and found some pin-nosed plyers (don't be impressed...) which I then wielded mightily and was able to remove the toothbrush from the pipe.

And suddenly I was bowled down by the force of such a little person's great big hug, and with tears of joy, he exclaimed, "OH MOMMY!!!! YOU'RE A GENIUS!!!!"

That I am, Gentle Readers. That I am.

(And by the way, Hubby gets a new toothbrush now too, since this one came out of the pipe covered in a black goo that I'd really rather ignore than attempt to clean... Good thing I bought extras after our last toothbrush incident.)

Comment Confessions

2007-05-15T22:56:00.000-06:00

And now, a post about comments. And no, Gentle Readers, it's not me fishing for more comments. Honestly! Just some questions and observations, nothing more.

Do you judge a blog by its comments? Really? I gotta know.

When you click on a new blog, does your eye scan the most recent post and then settle on the number of comments the blogger has received for that particular post?

Do you wonder what's wrong with the blog that consistently gets one or two comments per post?

Do you feel out of your league when you see a blog that consistently gets thirty+ comments per post?

I have to admit that I judge sometimes. Not always, though. I read a few blogs that rarely get any comments at all, and I think it's some of the best writing on the internet. And then there are those blogs that seem to get thousands of comments, but are entirely worthless as far as I can see. But there are other times where I have to admit that I judge a blog too soon, good or bad, based simply on the number of comments it receives.

This is a hard thing for me to admit, because I am still a new blogger, so I certainly shouldn't be talking like a seasoned snob. My little blog is not yet two months old. And so it wasn't all that long ago that I remember being so excited to get more than three comments on one post--something that didn't happen all that often at first!

I now average about 18 comments or so per post. I remember the first time I reached that 20 comment milestone and I thought I would die of joy!!! It then became a rather common occurrence to burst through the 20-comment zone. So, when I reached the THIRTY comment milestone, I spit rootbeer all over myself. Seriously. And it was on a post that I NEVER expected to get that kind of response from!!! I remember just sitting down and writing what was on my mind--no overthinking, nothing artsy fartsy, just writing what little was in the ol' noggin. And then I checked back that night and discovered thirty comments. You can see that I'm still a bit starstruck by that moment, because it's still the only time I've gotten that many comments. haha.

I find that in my own writing, Meme's or shameless plugs for votes get the least amount of comments. Then the serious, darker stuff gets a similarly small amount of comments, but people continue to comment on them and revisit them over time and eventually the numbers go up. The other stuff, like soap opera sundays, and flashback fridays and just my average daily posts all get a medium amount. And then every once in a while, I'll write something that will touch people for some reason and my comments will go way up, and when that happens, it's a big surprise!

I have some amazing bloggy friends--friends that I know, no matter what I write, stupid or poignant, they will comment. They are my security blanket. They are always here, rain or shine.

Others a bit more picky. Sometimes they comment, sometimes they don't. Sometimes my writing speaks to them, sometimes it doesn't. And that's okay! I have multiple personalities here, after all, and I can't expect everyone to have something to say every time I write something!

And then, I see the lurkers. You might not think so, but I do. I see you. I've got sitemeter and google analytics and mybloglog. I see you. You come, you read, you leave. At first it kinda concerned me. Why aren't you commenting? Don't you like me? But then I realized that not everyone is a comment-hag like myself. Some are content to just stop in, read a little, and get on with their lives. Why should they have to validate me by leaving a comment? And so, dear lurkers, I welcome you too.

But you know what I'm learning? You just can't blog for the comments. You can't take the comments personally. This is what I'm learning, slowly but surely. Sometimes the stuff that I'm most proud of gets the fewest comments. Sometimes the mindless fluff gets the most. If you let the comments control what you write, then it's not your blog anymore, but everyone else's. And oh my goodness, I need it to be MY blog, not a popularity contest!

(Don't get me wrong, though! I love comments! Oh, how I love comments! It makes me feel like there's someone out there who cares about the crap I want to say! I just won't write specifically to receive the comments...)

How are you on your blog? Do you feel that you are validated by the number of comments you receive? Do you think one post is better or worse than another, based on the comments each generates?

And how are you at other blogs? Is there a certain kind of post that you are more likely to comment on? Are there blogs that you comment on, no matter what the subject, simply because you love the blog? Are you scrupulous in your comments, commenting only when you actually have something to say? Do you use comments as a form of manipulation, to drive traffic from someone else's site to your own?

I'm not actually sure that it's fair to call that "manipulation." It's a game we all play and I think it's fair. If I see a comment that I really like on someone else's site, I'm gonna click on the commenter's name, read their blog for the first time, and generally make a new friend. I'd say that I "met" at least half of the people in my bloglist that way.

And I love, love, LOVE to read (at other people's sites) "I found your site through your comment on Brillig's blog." I see people meeting each other--meeting each other through me and I can hardly contain my joy. Let the blog-love abound!!!

Anyway I'm interested in your responses. It seems like there's an unwritten book of blogging rules, and commenting has a whole section to itself. I'd love to know what others think of these things.

(Do you comment on posts that are way too long and contain too many questions? I guess we'll see...)

Both sides of the coin

2007-05-15T10:23:00.000-06:00

House-Selling Brillig: What the crap is wrong with these buyers? Why isn't anyone buying our old house? I mean, we're practically GIVING it away now. It's almost brand new (built in '04), it's spotlessly clean. It's bright and airy. Okay, so the layout isn't perfect. So the master bathroom is the size of a postage stamp. So the counters and floors are the cheapest possible material. This is a great house! Come buy it! At 3200 sq. ft and 5 bedrooms, it's huge! Enough room for ANY family!

House-Buying Brillig: What the crap is wrong with this seller? Why would I buy this house? The layout sucks and I will never buy a crappy layout again. And what's with these counter tops? Why wouldn't they have granite in here? And the master bathroom? Who combines the tub and shower these days? And why is there only one sink and vanity? I need my OWN sink!!! And, in the kitchen, is this... is this pergo???? You have got to be KIDDING me!!! Would it really be that much harder to do hardwood floors? What decade do they think we're in? And at 3800 sq. ft, this is too small. Way too small. No one is ever gonna buy this house.

And so you see, Gentle Readers, that House-Buying Brillig is a big fat SNOB. And House-Selling Brillig is DISGUSTED with all the snobs.

And neither one of me is having any success whatsoever.

Blogger's Guilt

2007-05-14T00:38:00.000-06:00

Dearest Gentle Readers,

I'm so, so behind in my blog-rounds. I've been wrapped up in my search for the perfect home and in my quest to sell my current home and in, well, being a mom to four very very young children. I'm mostly keeping up on reading your posts thanks to Ye Olde Google Reader, but I'm rarely commenting or responding these last few days.

Basically, I suck. I don't know how I can even call myself a "blogger." I know that many of you who voted for me are wishing you could take it back. I wonder if they let you do that...

But WAIT! No! Don't give up on me!!! I'll get back on my game, I promise! Look! There's even a new poll to entertain yourself with in the sidebar until I get back on my bloggy feet, as it were.

I think that if I weren't so obsessed with blogging, I wouldn't feel so guilty. If I didn't love your blogs and your posts and your comments so much, it would be no big deal. But I DO! And I can't wait to get back to it!

So, to sum up, I think that my not commenting on your blog is hurting me more than it's hurting you. :-D

*sniff*

Hello??

2007-05-13T15:51:00.000-06:00

Duh! It's Mother's Day! There's no Soap Opera Sunday today!

I'm off to go snuggle with my kids and let them shower me with home made presents, generally consisting of crayon sribbles on scratch paper, and I will pretend to be surprised! And then I will sit them down and have them tell me in great detail what each scribble means and I will savor every second of it! I hope all of you are having a wonderful day today and that you're making it special for the mothers in your life!

Flash Backs

2007-05-11T09:36:00.000-06:00

Welcome to yet another installment of Flashback Friday!

My daughter found this picture this morning and said, "oh Mommy! That's a FUNNY hat!"

And today's Flashback Friday was born.

Because no, Gentle Readers, it's not just a funny hat. It's my gas mask--the gas mask that defined a big chunk of my life.

In the summer of 1990, Saddam Hussein of Iraq invaded a little oil-rich country called Kuwait. It was an atrocious invasion and the world was up in arms over the ~~oil~~ unfairness of it all.

President Bush (we call him "Papa Bush" around here) gave Hussein an ultimatum: Get out by January 15, 1991, or we will declare war on you. Hussein's retort went something like this: If you declare war on Iraq, Iraq will bomb Israel to smithereens.

And, wouldn't you know it, I just happened to be in Israel at the time.

I was already pretty used to a lot of stuff before all of this happened. There was constant gunfire outside my window. I was so used to it that I remember the day I woke up and realized that I could sleep through it now. I watch many riots. I heard many impassioned marches. I even distinctly remember (because it's not the kind of thing you ever forget) seeing a man get shot and then watching them drag his body through the streets.

That was just part of living in Jerusalem.

Even so, none of us ever believed that insignificant little Hussein would actually go head to head with the US. We absolutely believed that he would pull out of Kuwait long before war would actually be declared. Call it American Bravado or naivte or just a misunderstanding of how crazy the man really was.

However, "just in case," everyone living in our Center (a scant group of 10 or so--my brother Jeff and I were the only "kids"--I was 12, he was 15)

(here's a pic of our center--the BYU Jerusalem Center for Near Eastern Studies, and a veritable fortress)

went through a training of what to do if suddenly we were being attacked. We learned all the various sirens: Air raid, chemical warfare, all clear, and so on. We were each assigned a gas mask and we learned how to put them on and practiced and practiced to get the process down to just a few seconds. We packed emergency-preparedness bags, and we learned the quickest, safest routes to the on-site bomb shelter, and little tricks like holding up a blanket every time we ran past a window to protect us from shattering glass.

But as I said, we never thought it would happen.

However, on January 15, Hussein still hadn't pulled out of Kuwait. And so on the morning of January 16, the US began carpet-bombing Baghdad. And on January 17, Hussein's threatened retaliation became my reality.

I'll never forget that first air raid siren. It was at about 2:00 a.m. and we had all been sound asleep. I remember waking up in a blur, and casually heading to the bathroom and beginning to brush through my hair. And then I was hit with the sudden realization of what that noise meant and it sent me into a brief panic where I dropped the brush and ran.for.my.life.

It was always to be assumed that chemical warfare was being used, and so our first item of business upon arriving in the bomb shelter was to put on the gas mask--fast. Here I am with my mom and my brother in the bomb shelter:

Left to right: Me, Jeff, and my mom

It was cold and mucky in the bomb shelter and it had a weird smell, but it would have been silly to complain. As I said, we lived in a fortress and we had an on-site bomb shelter. Many, MANY were not so fortunate, no matter what CNN was trying to lead you to believe. People were dying, hospitals were packed, the country is was in a state of devastation.

And here's where I feel the need to address something that the mighty Gunfighter said to me in my comments of this post and which he may have thought I was "ignoring." No, friend. I wasn't ignoring it. He said something like, "our own government lies to us too." And it hit very, very close to home.

The news was our lives. We had to watch the news in order to know what was going on. We had three main sources of news: The Jordanian (Arabic) news, which we knew would be full of crap, because that's what their government was giving them. We heard day after day that Jerusalem had been obliterated and that Saddam was marching on to claim victory. But I could see out my own window that that was an absolute lie. Speaking of that, here's the view from my window. Not much could happen in the main part of Jerusalem without my being able to verify it from my view:

And so, that was the Jordanian news. Not really a source of news, but often a great source of entertainment.

And then we had American news--in the form of clips from CNN. Guess what, Gentle Readers. CNN lied. A lot. Again, I don't blame CNN, I blame the government and the LOADS OF CRAP that they were feeding to the news stations. This was a VERY bitter pill to swallow. We were the "good guys," right? Maybe. But we were also big fat liars. And THAT may have been the hardest revelation of this whole thing.

And then there was the Israeli (Hebrew) news. Honest, though perhaps a bit biassed, but always accurate when it came to destruction and death tolls and what was really going on outside my window. They were our most (only!) accurate source of news. And when your life depends on receiving accurate news, it was disheartening to only have one source.

Anyway, the war went on for about two months. Often we would be sent to the bomb shelter many times during the night. Sometimes we would get the night off. Sometimes the air raids didn't happen at night at all, but during the day. It was hard to lead a normal life, but we did our absolute best. We kept up in our studies, we kept a schedule. We even enjoyed exploring all of the abandoned tourist sites that would normally have been packed but were now left utterly desolate. And as my mother was a resident expert, we always got the best tour possible. We were too adventurous to be diminished by a little bombing.

It wasn't really terrifying, oddly enough. Very "high-key" and the whole thing kept us very much on our toes. Looking back it scares me more than it actually scared me at the time. The nightmares came AFTER the war, not during it. I'm not sure why that is...

On Purim, the Jewish holiday that celebrates Queen Esther and her liberation of the Hebrews, the war "ended" (though you will all remember that Hussein was left in power... which was, how shall we say, a little teeny tiny mistake. Thanks Papa Bush. You and your son are such a cute team...). Gas masks were returned, bomb shelters were re-sealed, life went back to "normal." Sort of. We were all eternally changed. And the death threats and bomb threats from neighboring villages didn't exactly stop... and being Americans, we weren't exactly considered "friends" by many. But still. The worst of it was over.

But then the nightmares begin and you forget to "key-down" when you've been so keyed-up. Any police siren would stop me dead in my tracks for years, because it sounds so much like an air-raid siren. The sounds of gunfire or anything that might resemble it would make my heart race out of control. During the war, I had literally had to ran for my life. For years after, I wanted to run, but I had no reason to run and I had no where to run to.

Anyway, whew! Flashback Friday was so serious today! Hahaha. Thanks for bearing with me!

shoving my stupidity down my throat...

2007-05-10T11:25:00.000-06:00

Many of you already know how I feel about the word verification thingies. Today's poll addresses this sensitive issue. Go on over to my sidebar and vote. I must know these things.

And, may I also ask, to those of you who use word verification thingies on your blog, why? Have you had experiences that made you implement one? Did you just think it was a wise idea? Do you just love to torture people like me? And for those of you who DON'T use them, why not?

In my blog's little lifespan, I've only received one Spam. And guess what? It was kind of entertaining. I mean, I deleted it and all, but for one brief moment, I thought, "hmmm, that's kinda funny!" But if it turned into a real problem, I would definitely go to a word verification system for comments (which would be a DRASTIC measure for me!)

And one last question: Does anyone besides me try to SOUND OUT the word verification? I don't know why I feel the need to do this, but I do. And sometimes they're really entertaining. And maybe that's why I always spell them wrong--I sound it out in my brain and then I spell it the way it OUGHT to be spelled, not the way it IS spelled.... I dunno. I think really I'm just dumb. Which is sort of a painful revelation to me...
***********
ETA:
Look. LOOK! I'm NOT STUPID!!!

You Are Not Stupid

You got 10/10 questions right!
While acing this quiz doesn't prove you're a genius, you're at least pretty darn smart.

Are You Stupid?

Apparently, word verifications are not the be-all, end-all indicator of brain capacity. AND THIS QUIZ PROVES IT!!! (Okay, but really. If you don't get ten out of ten on this particular quiz, then there may just really be something devastatingly wrong with you. Still it's what I needed today...) :-D

Identity Crisis

2007-05-09T10:10:00.000-06:00

I'm not alone. There's another Brillig. I know. I'm as shocked as you are.

Actually, his name is Steve Bosman and he seems to be a pretty decent chap. However, his site is called 'Twas Brillig*--the asterisk is apparently part of the title, so at least we're not IDENTICAL, right?

But here's the worst part. His blog has been around longer--a LOT longer than mine. Which means that he didn't steal my name.

I stole his.

*GASP*

Okay, in all fairness, we both stole it from Lewis Carroll (you can read all about it here).

As I said, Steve seems to be pretty cool, though he's certainly into getting his "geek" on--quite in tune with the world of video gaming and science fiction--not really a world I belong in whatsoever. But he also goes off on random rants that sound oddly similar to things I myself might go off on. And he's in England, and I only wish I were in England. (I spent three of my "growing up" years in England and I pine for it. Oh, how I pine for it.)

So, really, no one is likely to confuse us with each other. But it also wouldn't be the end of the world if they did.

As for me, I came up with the name 'Twas Brillig just on a whim, as I was making my blogging debut a month and a half ago. In high school I had done a few service projects that I wanted to do anonymously and so when something needed to be signed, I (again on a whim) signed it "Brillig." So that when people asked who had done it, they could say, "'Twas Brillig." (If you listen closely, you can still hear my 15-year-old self giggling over that.) So, 13 years later, when I decided to start up a blog, I just grabbed at whatever came to mind, and I've been Brillig ever since.

I like Lewis Carroll just fine. I've read all of his stuff and it's all dandy. But I'm not obsessed with him. In fact, he's not even one of my favorite authors or anything like that. I've had a lot of readers find me because they like Lewis Carroll or, more specifically, the Jabberwocky. And that's great! Welcome friends! But it feels a bit strange to be paying hommage to an author/poet who I am not exactly obsessed with. Haha.

With all of that said, though, I do actually really like the Jabberwocky poem. I love that it's nonsense and yet it makes perfect sense all at once. And I guess that that's where I'm hoping to go with this blog.

(Some days, though, I think it will very likely be a little more nonsense than actual sense...)

So, how did you come up with the name for your blog? I'm sure many of you have explained this many times already, but humor me and do it again!

Have you by any chance heard of the Blogger awards?

2007-05-07T22:13:00.000-06:00

Oooh! Oooh!!! I have a great idea! While you're all anxiously, nay BREATHLESSLY, awaiting my next post, why not go vote for me.

And to those of you who have already voted for me, THANKS!!!! Again, I want you to know that I'm not going to win it. Okay, you already knew that. But I want you to know that I know that I'm not going to win it. But it would be SO COOL not to come in last!

Grey Matter

2007-05-07T10:00:00.000-06:00

My brain is oatmeal. Sticky, gooey, flavorless oatmeal. I'm not quite certain about why, though I suppose it's very possible that it has a lot to do with the fact that I've been awake all night long with a fussy baby several times in the last week. Also, I suspect that the mind-numbing process of house-hunting is starting to get to the little grey cells. And anyone who tries on a regular basis to take four psychotic children to Church and then try to keep them quiet the whole time knows how damaging that can be on the brain.

And because I'm super, I'm gonna share the oatmeal with all of you:

1. I'm fully aware that Scooby just opened a bag of marshmallows that he's eating for breakfast because his lazy mom is sitting here at her computer, unwilling to get up and think of something with a speck of nutritional value. Eat on, kid. You probably won't get that good of a meal for lunch.

2. After a gruelling time at church yesterday due to alarmingly rowdy children, Hubby looked at me as we were loading the kids into the van and said, with a hint of desperation, "Okay. Which one of us is getting the *snip-snip*?" It's still making me laugh. (Apparently he hasn't heard that I'm planning to rip out my uterus and sell it on e-bay.)

3. My life would be so much easier if I sold my uterus on e-bay.

4. I won't ever find my dream house in my price range. In my mind, I'm taking the best things about every house we've seen and combining them into one. I highly doubt that that "one" exists. I'm feeling like a big ol' snob. But I don't care. I want luxury living and I don't want to "settle" but I refuse to be "house-poor" too.

5. Because of #4, I will probably still be in my mother-in-law's basement a year from now.

6. #5 just gave me a heart attack.

7. Scooby and Lil' Dude both need to go to the doctor for "well-baby" checks and immunizations--they are both late on those-- and Fluffy needs to go have her various exams and shots for Kindergarten. I think I would rather rip every last hair out of my head rather than brave the doctor's office with all the kiddos. I've done it a thousand times, but right now I'm just really not up to it. I have no idea when I'm going to get around to it. I'm such a super mom.

8. I have Barney on downstairs for the boys and a Barbie movie on upstairs for Fluffy. From where I'm sitting, I can hear them both. They sound really funny combined.

9. Diapers rule. Potty training is over-rated. It's so much harder to go anywhere with a potty-trained child than with a diapered child. Plus, potty trained children have accidents. I'm feeling accidented-out. It's too late for Fluffy and Bubba, but with the younger boys I'm not going to potty train them until they're like 12. I hope the other kids don't tease them too much. Maybe I should look into homeschooling.

10. I need a shower. I probably won't get one today.

11. I need a nap. I probably won't get one of those either, unless falling asleep during Barney counts.

12. Hubby and I watched "The Secret" the other night. I'm still trying to wrap my brain around it. While I think that a bunch of it is a load of crap, I think that there's also some real truth in it. What they call the "universe" I call "God" and what they call "believe" I call "Faith" and what they call "ask" I call "Pray." When you make those little adjustments, I think there's a lot of truth in it all. But it's still a bit far-fetched. God loves us. But I don't think He always gives us exactly what we want, no matter how much Faith we have.

13. Sometimes I want stupid things. Thank goodness God doesn't give me everything I ask for.

14. Kate was in town last weekend. I still haven't written anything about it or posted pictures of it, including the pictures of us sneaking into my house--you know, the one the Hubby and I built and then walked away from. As teens, Kate and I used to stalk boys. As grown-ups we stalk houses.

15. This post has taken me nearly two hours to write. And not because it's been deep or required a lot of effort! I don't get to just sit down and "blog" because there are so many needy little people all around me. I've changed diapers and cleaned up accidents and even given the kids food besides marshmallows and broken up fights and found things to keep each one entertained, all during the time I've been writing this post. I know. I'm awesome.

16. It's time for me to start my "blog rounds." So many blogs to read, so many comments to leave. I love the blog world. Every time I click on one of my bookmarked blogs, there's something interesting or funny or insightful to read or see. The internet is cool. I feel so bad for everyone who lived in the last 5000 years without it.

17. Bubba just came running down the stairs carrying a block of cheese and a gigantic butcher's knife. There's nothing quite like seeing your 4 year old running with a gigantic butcher's knife. Rest assured that I have since confiscated the knife and cheese...

18. There's gotta be a better way to cut cheese than with a butcher's knife.

19. The little grey cells are about to explode and then there will be oatmeal everywhere. Just add some milk and sugar and it won't be so bad. And now off I go.

Who's the Soapiest?

2007-05-06T15:19:00.000-06:00

I know, I know. I owe you a Soap Opera Sunday today. I hate to say that it's probably not going to happen, as today has turned uber-crazy. So, if you wanna play, why don't you write one of your OWN favorite Soap Operas on your blog and leave a link for it in the comments. I'll copy/paste my favorite one. Kinda like a contest. Or like "Brillig is Lazy and wants someone else to write a soap opera for her." So, yeah. You're all tagged--if you wanna play. Please, someone play!!! I know you all have MUCH juicier stories than I do!!!

Hugs and kisses to all.
********************

ETA: I've been working on my link list lately. I've really tried to put everyone there that I read. But it's just possible that my overly exherted mommy brain may have missed someone. Let me know if I missed you! It was inadvertant, I swear! Don't be shy, now. Just tell me.
*******************

E again TA: Hahaha. I see that everyone's life is a bit busy. You mean, you weren't all willing to sit down and just start writing about your favorite soap opera at a moment's notice? Hahaha. I get that. So, in the meantime, I nominate Sugar Kane as the soapiest, because in the month and a half or so that I've been reading her blog, she has had TWO big ol' humongous real life soap operas. Here's to you, Sugar. You keep me from having to buy novels. :-D

Who needs alcohol?

2007-05-04T10:14:00.000-06:00

Welcome to Flashback Friday, friends!

You asked for more Matt (you remember, my gay best friend who would come up with ridiculous things for us to do all the time and somehow I always went along with them?) so here's more Matt.

So, it was my freshman year of college. Matt comes running into my apartment--by then he never knocked anymore.

"We are going to Cedar City," he announces.

It was already getting dark outside and I wasn't sure I was up to the three hour drive.

"What are you talking about?" I ask sleepily, hoping he'd get the hint and leave me alone.

"There is a Shakespeare competition going on and WE are going to go watch it."

Yeah, a Shakespeare competition for HIGH SCHOOLERS. And not just any high schoolers, but kids from OUR old high school, where we still knew a lot of people. I felt a bit too grown up to go hang out with kids who were still in high school. But I also knew that when Matt had an idea, there was no stopping him.

I probably started packing a bag. "Where are we going to sleep?"

"In my car!" he joyfully proclaimed. (Meaning, his mom's station wagon.)

"NO NO NO!! Matt, NO! Seriously??? Matthew, we need a better plan than that." I only called him "Matthew" when I was annoyed...

"I don't have any money, do you?" No. I didn't. Fine. We'd sleep in his car. I wanted him to believe that he was asking just too much of me, but my non-stop giggling betrayed me. I was kinda looking forward to an adventure.

So we dashed out the door, with me leaving lame excuses for my roommates (my dorm was part of an exclusive in-depth foreign language study program and we weren't exactly allowed to leave... I know. It was all sorts of screwed up... I can't tell you how many times I was "visiting a sick friend" or there was a "family emergency" and so on).

On our way out of town, Matt pulls into the hospital. "Matthew.... what are you doing....?"

"Trust me," he said with that ridiculous grin that made him so completely UNtrustable. So we got out and walked through the hospital. Suddenly Matt whispers, "Stand guard here in the hallway." Okay... He dashes into a hospital room and comes back out a minute later, giddy in his joy and laughing too hard to stop and tell me what was going on. He grabs my hand and runs down towards his car, dragging me with him.

We get to his car and he starts pulling things out of his pants and shoes and shirt. Surgical gloves. Piles and piles and piles of surgical gloves. "Here, find a place for these! The glove compartment! Shove them into the glove compartment!!!" So I shoved the gloves into the glove compartment, squeezing them into every nook and cranny and was barely able to close the little door.

We had a very pleasant drive, talking and gossipping and swapping boy stories and laughing till we cried, which was our way. At one point, he looked at me and said, "your eyebrows need help." Yeah, they did. "Let me work on them tonight, okay?" Now that was one area that I DID trust him in. He could make me beautiful. He always did.

We pulled into Cedar City, but got completely lost. Hard to believe, since there were about four streets all together in Cedar City at the time. But we were lost. And so Matt was pulling all sorts of stunts trying to figure out where we were, including a billion illegal u-turns and running red lights. Finally he pulled over, turned his lights off, and went to ask for directions. He came back a second later, still a bit lost, and headed to turn right, but changed his mind and turned left from the right turn lane on a red light. Through all of this, I was, of course, SHRIEKING!!! And then the sirens joined me. We were being pulled over.

"License and registration, please," said the friendly cop. Matt goes for his license, and I go for the registration. In the glove compartment. I open the little door, forgetting what I had worked so hard to cram in there, and POOF. Surgical gloves explode out and fill the whole car. The cop just stares on in bewilderment.

"Uh... his dad's a doctor," I said, because for some reason it made the whole thing seem a little bit more logical. Because OF COURSE doctors keep surgical gloves stockpiled in their glove compartments. I watched Matt's face turning purple--he was trying so hard not to laugh. So was I. We were both holding our breath and digging our fingernails into our arms and anything else we could think of.

"Do you know why I pulled you over tonight?" asks copper.

"No, sir," Matt said with pure innocence.

"I'm pulling you over because you don't have your lights on."

And that was it. We both completely lost it. Matt collapsed against the steering wheel and I collapsed against him. Since we'd entered Cedar City, we had done ten thousand illegal things, but we were being pulled over for forgetting to turn the lights back on.

Copper let us go with a warning--forgetting to turn your lights back on wasn't any big deal. WHY he didn't impound us for drunk driving, I'll never know. We weren't drunk, though I think that spending too much time together should also qualify as intoxication. I mean, really. At this point, I don't think there was much difference. The symptoms were all the same.

We never did find our "high school friends" that night. Matt pulled into the parking lot at McDonalds and we slept in the back of the station wagon there. SOOOO classy. But before we fell asleep, he said, "your eyebrows."

"Oh yeah. Okay. Have at 'em, boy."

But it was dark and his only instrument of torture was a disposable shaver. It was only a second later that he said, "uh... don't be mad...."

"WHAT?? WHAT DID YOU DO????"

"Um, I shaved your eyebrows off. Gone. They're all gone."

He then attempted to draw them back on. With black eye liner. It didn't work, but it was the best I had. I looked horrible. And here's the proof (this pic was taken a few days later, but the eyebrows are drawn with the same black eyeliner. BADLY drawn.)

Matt and I did eventually find our friends the next day. I don't remember anyone commenting on my eyebrows. Maybe high schoolers were too nice, or perhaps too intimidated at that point, to mock me.

And, before you ask, I NEVER DID FIND OUT what the surgical gloves were for. But, if I know Matt, he didn't waste them. He put them to a good (though very likely bizarre) use.

NOT AGAIN!!!

2007-05-03T09:52:00.000-06:00

Hey everyone! I know that you're never going to believe this, but I'm doing another interview today!!! Some of you are thinking, "doesn't she do one of these every other day or something?" And no, ~~Snippy~~ Gentle Readers, I don't do them every other day. Today's is #3 and, honestly, I thought I was quite finished with interviews. But, you see, when I saw that the mighty Gunfighter was doing the interviewing, I jumped on board. I simply couldn't pass up that kind of honor. And so, without further ado, I bring you his awesome questions and, perhaps, a mediocre answer or two.

Brillig,

Here are your questions... if I have asked anything too personal, feel free to ignore or change them.
{Personal? Hahaha. You've read my blog, right? I clearly don't shy away from the way-too-personal...}

Brillig, you have mentioned that you have lived in several different places. In the short time that I have been reading your blog I have identified the United Kingdom (or was it Ireland?), Argentina, and Israel/Palestine. Would you tell us where else you have lived, and how you came to live in those places? Were your parents employed by the government? Were they military? Were they missionaries?

All together, I've been to over 30 countries, but here are the ones I've lived in:

UK
France
Austria
Italy
Greece
Israel/Palestine
USA
Argentina

And no, not military or government. It was just for their jobs. (My parents are extremely adventurous people to start with--they would have found a way to travel without it being a part of their jobs.) My Father is an English Literature professor who was never very well-known in the United States but was considered the be-all, end-all scholar on various literary subjects in Europe. We spent a LOT of time there, while he taught, lectured, gave seminars, and researched. He also led several Study Abroad groups from the US to London. All together we lived in England for about 3 years, which makes England the place away from "home" that I've lived the longest.

My Mother is an Ancient History/Ancient Scripture professor. She led US-based Study Abroad groups in Jerusalem and we also travelled a lot (to Greece, Egypt, Jordan, and others) for her research and so on.

Being the youngest in the family, I was able to tag along on a lot of things that my siblings never did. But I was never allowed to be a "tourist". Even when I was very young, everywhere I went I had to study about it first and learn all there was to know about the history and the significance of the site and even the language where possible

Living in Italy, Austria, and Argentina were things I did on my own, for my own self--Not "piggy backing" on my parents. Italy and Austria were for intensive language study and, well, for an adventure. Some of my time in Argentina was spent with my parents, but the majority of it was as a missionary--something I volunteered for and loved.

Tell us about where you live now. What's it like? Tell us about the people that live there, and the things you and your family do for recreation. Tell us if you plan to live where you are forever, or if you have plans to change locations.

I live in the US now--Utah, to be specific. This is where I "grew up" oddly enough--we always had a house in Utah, no matter where else we happened to be living or travelling. I never expected to come back here. And I certainly never expected to like it. But I do. We own a home here, which we're desperately trying to sell, and we'll be buying another home here (about an hour away--closer to Hubby's work). So yeah, it's a pretty permanent home for now. As for recreation, my hubby and kids love to ski, but they don't get to do it very much. I take the kids to museums and libraries and parks. Nothing too exciting or out of the ordinary--which is, perhaps, the appeal right now!

Since my life revolves around eating… tell me about your favorite foods, what things do you cook well? What is your favorite comfort food? What kinds of food (if any) make you physically happy?

Much to my surprise, and the surprise of everyone who knows me, I'm one darn good cook. Hahaha. Apparently I make a fabulous roast, but I wouldn't know because I can't eat red meat (no, not a religious thing. I don't have the enzyme to digest it. When I try to eat it, I get very sick!) I make lots and lots of chicken dishes, because I can eat that. I love Thai food, Indian food, and Mexican food, and I cook all of that, but my personal favorite is Italian food. There's nothing on this planet that can't be fixed with a plate of penne.

Tell us about your religious background? Are you an adherent of any religion or denomination? Do you regularly attend services?

I am a devout member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (read: Mormon). I not only attend, but I'm often a teacher or speaker. Hubby is often in a leadership role. (Mormons don't have a paid clergy--the leaders have normal lives with normal jobs and then lead on top of that.) We have truly dedicated ourselves and our lives to it. I don't talk about it here too much--not because I'm the least bit ashamed or because it's any kind of a secret, but because I want everyone to feel welcome here. Because everyone is welcome here! I feel like I can reach a broader "audience" by talking about basic morals and everyone can be uplifted, rather than coming across as shoving my religion down people's throats and having people put off by it. That's not to say that I don't like religious blogs--I do! I actually read quite a few of them, Mormon and Not Mormon.

Tell us about your favorite authors/books. Are there any that had a profound influence in your life?
Well, growing up with a brilliant English Lit professor, literature has had a profound impact on me. By the time I was 12, I had read all the great "Classic" literature, and I have since re-read most of it, some many many times. Among all the great literaries who I love, I think that Shakespeare has had the most shaping-effect on my life. I grew up watching Shakespeare plays in London and Stratford-upon-Avon, and I always wanted to be one of the actors myself. The more I study Shakespeare, the more I believe that Shakespeare knew EVERYTHING! And that he knew real truths--truths that eons before and after him somehow missed.

And that's it, folks! Did anyone make it to the end? I wax a bit wordy, I'm afraid!!

And now I turn interviewer again on you. If you want one, just request it in the comments here and it will be provided in the comments (not via email this time). And then, naturally, if you're interviewed, you answer the questions on your blog and then offer to interview.

Nothin' a little MEME won't fix...

2007-05-02T08:24:00.000-06:00

Woah! There's been all together TOO MUCH SERIOUSNESS AROUND HERE!!!! Do you know what that means? That means that it is time to pull out some of the MEME's I've been tagged with, and that I've just been sitting on.

Who's ready for some Chinese ~~Torture~~ Freezetag?

See, I gotta do this one today because I've already been tagged for it three times (by Shauna, Gina, and Cherann.-- And Butrfly has been threatening the taggy tagginess too, so I gotta beat her...)

So, here's the scoop on this Meme:

I will write 10 interesting things about myself.
I'll tag 10 people.
If you've been tagged, you do your own list and tag 10 more people. ("No tag backs.")

Sounds simple enough--except for that whole "interesting" part...

I'm the youngest of six children (4 girls, 2 boys). My mother is the antithesis of "maternal" so I really don't know how she managed! I love coming from a big family and my siblings and parents are some of my very bestest friends.
I speak four languages (English, German, Spanish, Italian) but I have studied ten all together.
I have lived on four continents (North America, South America, Europe, Asia) and have spent significant time on a fifth (Africa).
I had all of my babies without a drop of pain medication. Three of the four were born at home.
Before you think I'm trying to be superwoman because of #4, you should know that one of the biggest motivating factors behind my decision for natural childbirth is that I'm extremely resistant to pain medication, so rather than ask for an epidural and discover too late that it wouldn't work on me, I decided to be prepared for a natural birth.
Even though I was a "straight A" student and considered "brilliant" (what a joke!!) I dropped out of high school about 6 weeks before graduation, to the utter shock and horror of my parents and my teachers.
I attended Brigham Young University on full-ride scholarship, despite #6.
I received perfect scores (36) on both the English and Reading Comprehension sections of the ACT--pretty hard to believe when I see all the typos I leave in comments and posts all over the place!!!!
My senior year of high school I had a leading role in all of the school plays except for one. And yes, I'm STILL BITTER about that one that I didn't get, even though it was widely acknowledged that I'd earned it. Hahaha. (That was eleven + years ago... How sad is it that I'm still bitter about that?)
For a time, I was a theater major in college. It wasn't until I changed my major to something else that I actually started getting into plays in college. I never did get a college degree, though, because I still haven't figured out what I want to be when I grow up!!

And now, to spread a little linky lovin'.

(Okay, I don't know what is up with the link-colors up there, and I know that if I took the time to fix it, I could. But you know what? I'm NOT GOING TO. But rest assured, gentle readers, they are all links whether they're green or purple...)

I tried to do a wide variety of linkies here, so that some of you can get to know others of you, because you're all FABULOUS! :D

(And yes, I realize that Super Des is, perhaps, on the list more than, uh, once. But see, I promised her a little extra linky love recently, so I had to deliver!)

Stumbling Blocks

2007-05-01T09:31:00.000-06:00

Others have mentioned the depths of despair and rage that home-selling can take you to. But, see, I'm very happy-go-lucky and ridiculously optimistic and little pebbles along the way don't get me down.

Until last night.

I think Hubby can count the times on his fingers that he's seen me cry--and almost every single time has been while I was pregnant or freshly postpartum (no, I'm not, so don't even ask, because there's no telling what I might do when pregnancy is insinuated.) I think last night counts as two. Hubby is a brave man. He has no idea what to do with a blubbering woman, but he handled himself with great dignity. He rubbed my back and listened to me blurt out stupid things during little breaks in my sobbing.

I've learned something about myself. I'm okay with hard work, I'm okay with having to sacrifice comfort and dignity, I'm okay with waiting and waiting for the right buyer to come around. I'm even okay with being broke because of it all.

But I'm not okay with being laughed at.

Hubby argues that I wasn't being laughed at, but rather that I was the recipient of "constructive criticism." And that, Gentle Readers, is a bunch of crap. This was an attack that was made personal and there was snickering involved--probably rather widespread snickering.

I screamed out, during this little breakdown of mine last night, that I'm doing EVERYTHING RIGHT!!! And when a trial is thrown my way, I get through it with kindness and patience. One blow after another, and I'm still a trooper. And rather than rewards, I get kicked a little harder the next time. And I act like a big girl and get through. So I get kicked even harder, as though the universe is searching for that one weak spot that will finally break me.

Okay, Universe! You've found my weakness! Kudos to you! You got me! Yes I'm a prideful, self-absorbed baby whose feelings have officially been trampled and broken. Now we all know. Well done.

And, suddenly, I'm NOT okay with the things I'd been okay with. The dream house being taken away from me? Nope. Not okay anymore. The sale price that has been lowered so low, despite all the money we've pumped into it? Not okay anymore. The hours of hard work I put in, and then the waiting and waiting and waiting? Nope. And, oh yeah, that baby that I lost, who I didn't even know at the time that I was pregnant with, who surely died from all the heavy lifting and painting and crazy hours I was keeping? I handled that with the patience of Job, even through all the bleeding and hormonal swings and everything else involved. I was so okay with it. But I'm just NOT anymore!

But that's not really me talking. Just my hurt feelings. Because I am okay with all of it. And I'll get through this one too. Funny that this would turn out to be the straw that broke my back. I guess I really am learning a lot about myself.

And that's probably the whole point.

To Bubba

2007-04-30T15:27:00.000-06:00

Four years and a little bit ago, I was massively pregnant.

At my 36 week check-up (four weeks before my due date), I was already dilated to a 4. This baby was coming any second now, or so I was told.

He was going to be born at home, in a birthing pool, with the world's most amazing midwife. She sent the birthing tub home with us for Hubby to set up, because I was about to have that baby.

At the time, we were living in my Grandma's basement. Perhaps it should be noted here that my grandma was evil. Okay, perhaps "evil" is a bit strong, but she was really really awful to me. But she had a fully finished basement and the rent was free (though if I'd had a credit card for blood, sweat, and tears, I'd have been maxed out). Grandma insisted that my baby would be born on her birthday--April 30. She would be 100 years old that day. It was the middle of March when I was told that I'd have the baby any second now, so I knew that Grandma would have to be wrong, and I was not the least bit interested in having my baby that day--not just because it was too far away, but also because I wanted my baby to have his own birthday and not have to share it with my psychotic evil Grandma.

But labor eluded me. Not even the twingiest twinge of a contraction.

And so we waited for weeks, keeping the birthing tub all set up, ready to be filled with water at a moment's notice, and constantly fighting with our then 16-month-old Fluffy--a very curious toddler with the need to explore anything and everything--trying to keep her out of the birthing tub.

Hubby would be graduating from college on April 25. I was certain we'd never make it.

But make it we did. I was 5 days past my due date at Hubby's graduation. For some reason, I donned a massive white maternity blouse that day and there are a million photos of me looking like a great white whale. So lovely. I looked ALMOST as horrendously uncomfortable as I was.

I was beginning to feel desperate. I was so pregnant, so dilated, so READY to have a baby, but NOTHING WAS HAPPENING!!

On April 29, (9 days beyond my due date) I went in for a prenatal exam. When my midwife checked me, she was utterly astonished that I hadn't gone into labor yet. The baby was SO LOW and I was SO DILATED. She looked at me and said, "You don't even have to go into labor. This baby is already practically crowning. If you sat on a birthing stool, you could give birth to him within half an hour, without ever going into labor." I considered it for a moment, but decided that there's more to having a baby than just pushing the baby out. There were other things (I'm trying VERY hard not to be too graphic here) that needed to come out too, and they required a contracting uterus. I already had a history (with Fluffy) of placental retention and severe hemorrhage, so it was best to do these things the way nature intended.

The next day would be Grandma's birthday. I think we all knew that the baby was going to be born that day, so I came to terms with it. I even decided that it was actually pretty dang cool that my son would be born on her 100th birthday, right there in her home.

And sure enough. On April 30, 2003, after going to bed at midnight, I woke up an hour later with one giant contraction. 2 minutes later, there was another one. There was no gearing up, no practice labor, just one giant contraction and I was in full-blown "call the midwife, fill the birthing tub" labor.

Hubby called the midwife and then got to work on the tub. I called my mom, who came racing down to be with us. This was the first (and to this date the only) one of her 16 grandchildren whose birth she was around for. Having her there was amazing. As she held my hand and witnessed the birth of her baby's baby, so many of our own issues were healed.

Exactly four hours after that first contraction, my tiny little Bubba was born--with the bag of waters surrounding him still in tact. Ancient civilizations consider an in-tact bag of waters to be a sign that the baby would be an extremely noble person--a great warrior, a King, a Prophet.

Once he was born, I was told to get out of the tub immediately. I was bleeding to death. I lay on the plastic-draped floor as midwives and back-up midwives poked and pushed and prodded and injected me with this and that. Hubby was terrified I wouldn't make it. He handed the baby off to my mother in order to give me his full attention, and as I lay on the floor I watched her, singing and cooing at her newest link in the posterity chain.

Obviously, I pulled through, though the first few days of his little life were spent with me battling anemia and infections, including placental retention and mastitis.

A local news station heard the story of this baby born on his great-grandma's 100th birthday and came over a few days later to film a special Mother's Day segment about us. There we sat, on my grandma's couch--My Grandma, my Father (her son), me, and my baby. It was an amazing moment, those four generations, united finally by love and miracles, holding each other, laughing and weeping with each other, feeling like the world was a lot bigger than us and that families really are eternal. Bubba had performed his first outstanding feats--he'd united people who never thought they had any hope for unity.

And today my sweet little boy is four years old.

Tonight we will ring it in in true four-year-old fashion--chocolate birthday cake with Cars decorations, a new Thomas the Tank Train Table, and a pile of Hotwheels. Various grandparents and cousins will bring him clothes and books and silly things to entertain him endlessly. He's just as normal as can be.

But I, his adoring mother, see so much more: I see him changing the world. After all, he's already managed to change us.

Happy Birthday, my darling boy.

Thornbirds for Mormons

2007-04-29T12:17:00.000-06:00

(Okay, so not at ALL the Thornbirds. But still, a story about religious obligations leaving you unavailable for romance...)

And so I take us back to Argentina now.

My mom and I were giggling together one day. Once I reached a certain age, I did a lot of giggling with my mom. I was about 19 when I realized that I was no longer just her daughter, but her best friend. And we talked like silly girls talk.

I had sworn off romance of any kind at this point, just for my own sanity. My mom knew that very well, and so she was "warning" me about someone--an American who I "was forbidden to meet"--all very teasingly. She described this young man that she'd gotten to know--his name was Aaron and he was about a year older than me. He was interested in all of the same things that I was and was talented and very charming. I kinda rolled my eyes, I think, because my mom had not always been right on these things. Still, I tucked his name into a safe place in my brain and thought I'd find a way to meet him.

Probably about a week later, I was sitting in a church meeting where there was a musical number sung by a gorgeous young man. I couldn't help but stare--GAWK--at his gorgeousness. And I don't think my eyes ever left him. After the meeting, I had to meet him. So much for swearing off romance, right?

Oddly enough, he actually sought me out. He came over to where I was standing and struck up a conversation. When he introduced himself, it turned out that he was this "Aaron" that my mom had already warned me about. I actually caught my mom making faces at us while we were talking, and she shook her head and acted like "the world was coming to an end" and so on.

There was just one wee little problem. Aaron was a Mormon Missionary. For those of you who may not know much about mormon missionaries, they are just regular members of the LDS church who, for two years out of their lives, volunteer to leave their homes and schools and jobs and go to wherever the church sends them to teach the Gospel and do a variety of humanitarian services.

They are also strictly forbidden from having any kind of romantic contact with anyone whatsoever during that two year time. That includes even flirting. And so, the most intimate gesture allowed to them is a simple handshake.

Once they are finished with their missions, they go back to "regular life"--dating, working, schooling, etc.

And I actually admired Aaron a lot for what he was doing and I wasn't interested in ruining it for him or coercing him into breaking any rules, so I just left it alone. But I still found every excuse to run into him. And every time I saw him, I just liked him more and more.

I wasn't actually going to be in Mendoza for very long anyway. I was on my way to Buenos Aires for a year and a half. But, in my very over-dramatic way, I felt like fate had brought me and Aaron together, though not "together." And I hated to leave without saying "goodbye"--even though I had no indication whatsoever that he would be sorry to see me go.

Oddly enough, a few nights before I was about to leave, Aaron called. He wasn't actually calling me because that too was against the rules. He was calling for my dad. But my dad was out of town, so we chatted for a second. My brother was sending me a CD that, randomly, Aaron had sung back-up on. He wanted me to let him know what I thought of it when it arrived. "I'll write you from Buenos Aires and let you know." Pause. "Please do, Brillig." Pause. AAAAKKKHH!! WE WERE HAVING A MOMENT. And upon realizing it, we scrambed to get off the phone. No "moments" allowed.

And so we did write. Stupid, empty letters that said nothing about feelings or delved anywhere below the most superificial of small talk. But seven month later, his 2-year mission was over and he was back in the United States. And suddenly with that religious mantle lifted, his letters took on a very, VERY different tone. He went from, "the weather was nice in Mendoza today" to "I'm hopelessy, haplessly, and helplessly in love with you. I think about you constantly. I can't even look at other girls because I'm waiting for you to get home."

And so this went on for another year. I received piles of love letters from him--including some that would indicate that upon my arrival home, he fully expected to be asking me to marry him. I thought it was just possible that I was in love with him too--though I realized that I didn't really know him. But what little I did know about him indicated pure perfection.

And then, just a month or so before I would be coming home, he wrote, "Brillig. I have to tell you that I'm seeing someone. I don't yet know where it's going, but I thought it was only fair to be honest. But I want to keep writing you and I hope you'll keep writing too." Well, I wrote him back and told him I understood and that of course he should be dating and seeing other people and that I would be home soon and we'd just evaluate things and go from there.

When I got back to the United States, I had lots of things and people to worry about and while I expected him to call, I wasn't really waiting by the phone. About a week after I got home, I ran into an older woman from the neighborhood I'd grown up in. She asked me how Argentina had been and so on. Then she asked me, "did you by any chance know Aaron ____ ?" I probably lit up like a lightbulb and said, "YEAH! I DID know him!"

"He's marrying my daughter next week."

Gasp.

Good thing I was a theater major, right? I quickly recovered from my gasping, so I could pretend like that was such great news, and how wonderful, and all that good stuff. But I did say, "do you see Aaron a lot, then?" "Yes," she answered. "Super. Would you tell him that you told me all of this and give him my warmest congratulations?"

The next morning the phone rang. A very sheepish Aaron was calling to say that he was sorry I'd had to find out that way and so on. He was actually really great about it, and so was I. And really, upon self-examination I learned that he hadn't broken my heart. It was just a funny way to end things. As it turned out, we'd never kissed (though, believe me, I'd thought A LOT about kissing him!!!), we'd never held hands, we were never even alone together in person. But it had been, up to that point, the longest "relationship" I'd ever had with a guy.

Sadly, I recently found out that Aaron and his wife were divorced after she was caught engaging in multiple affairs. I've never talked to him, but from all accounts he was utterly devastated. I hope that somehow he can find peace and happiness--maybe by now he already has.

And there it is, folks! Another Soap Opera Sunday!

I'll take one of THOSE!!!

2007-04-28T11:26:00.000-06:00

In my google ads right now, it says, "FREE CHRISTIAN BALE." And then in the text it says, "sign up now for your free Christian Bale."

Mmmmmm, OKAY!

Newsies for Oldsies

2007-04-27T11:54:00.000-06:00

Oh, goodness. Today's Flashback Friday is slightly different in nature. Inspired by Fluffy, though it really has nothing to do with her.

You see, this morning I told the kids that they could watch a movie. So they started going through the video selection, and Fluffy pulled out... NEWSIES.

And suddenly the memories came a-flooding. Because, see, I was 14 when Newsies came out. And like ANY 14-year-old worth her salt, I saw Newsies FIFTEEN times in the theater. (This is not an exaggeration. I really saw it fifteen times in the theater. And I was not a wealthy kid by any means. I just set my priorities. And Newsies was a priority.)

And no, gentle readers, it wasn't for the story line.

I knew every moment, every look, every sigh, every smile. I knew him so well. I read everything I could find, I knew all sorts of random personal details about him (I STILL think of him on his birthday. HAHAHAHAHA.) Dear Christian Bale. Dear, dear Christian Bale.

I even signed my name with his last name. A lot. My journal is FULL of Brillig Bale. Sigh. Swoon.

Perhaps the funniest part of these memories is that Matt was always with me when I went to Newsies. Always. He, uh, wasn't "out of the closet" yet, so I didn't get it. I just thought he really liked to be with me. And so he would therefore sacrifice himself and go to Newsies with me.

(Years later, after the closet-exit, I looked at Matt and said, "Holy Crap. I totally get why you used to go to Newsies with me." We both died laughing. How it took me so long to realize that whole GAY thing, I'll never know. But that's a whole nother story...)

And now I'm 28. And I can't exactly say that I'm "over" Mr. Bale...

Fluffy started watching Newsies today, but she didn't really like it much. Give her a few years and then she'll like it. Oh yes, she will like it very very much. And then I will very likely sit down and watch it with her and we will both swoon incessantly.

A Day in the Life of Brillig

2007-04-26T22:30:00.000-06:00

Many of you have asked just what life is like with four children ages five and under. I thought I'd tell you about today--a typical day in the life of a mother of many small ones. Well, the first half of the day, anyway. And what makes any story better? Pictures, of course.

This morning I got up early because I needed to go to Walmart. It takes me so freaking long to get anywhere because everyone has to bathed and changed and fed. When I went to wake up Lil's Dude, I found that sometime during the night he's broken the cheap ol' crib we're using here at my in-laws, squeezed his way out of the broken side, and rolled around a bit on the floor. Naturally, after removing the plastic bag that had been right next to his face and getting the USED BANDAID out of his MOUTH, I took a picture. (His older brother, Scooby, whose leg you see off to the side, shares the room with him and has "decorated" it with some interesting foam things...)

Sigh. Well, I got everyone fed and then put them all in the bath. Fluffy is perhaps getting a bit too old to have to share the bath with her little brothers, but she sure does help me a lot when she's in there with them!

So finally we make it out the door. Seriously, this is a huge production. Four kids, four carseats with tricky buckles, etc. And we get to Walmart. Getting everyone loaded into the cart is almost as amazing a feat as getting them into the car is. And I'm never sure where to put the groceries, because I have absolutely no space whatsoever. (Bubba and Fluffy are required to hold on to the cart at all times, but they don't have to sit in it. Good thing, cuz I don't think they make a cart big enough)

After our walmart trip, we came home and I threw a pizza in the oven. A couple minutes later, I could smell it burning, so I ran back to the oven to see how it could possibly be burning. Ahhh. Bubba thought that if he turned the oven up to 500, his pizza would be done sooner. Yum.

So after making a pile of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, I went into the bathroom and found this:

Yes, that's my toothbrush. Yes, that's the toilet.

And so now I'm trying very hard not to contemplate whether or not my toothbrush has been in the toilet before--and I just hadn't ever known about it. I'd really, really rather not know.

And that brings you up until noon, at which point I put the camera away, but the craziness never ends. Many days are worse than this. I'm pretty sure that none are better. It is always, ALWAYS madness around here.

***By the way, stay tuned for Flashback Friday tomorrow! I won't be around until quite a bit later than normal. But I'll try to make it worth your time to check back throughout the day. :D

the house that got away

2007-04-25T10:01:00.000-06:00

"The greatest thing in this world is not so much where we are, but in what direction we are moving." - Oliver Wendell Homes

For the last five months, we've been building a house. And not just any house--our dream house. How I have loved this house. I have poured over every detail and lovingly handpicked everything from carpet to cabinets to hardware to light fixtures. It will be complete in ten days.

And yesterday, we walked away from it.

It almost hurts to say it out loud! I still can hardly believe it!

The reason that we're giving our builder: Our old house hasn't sold yet. We haven't had one person express the least bit of interest in it and we've dropped the price as low as we can possibly go. So the builder can keep our earnest money and sell our dream home to the next customer.

All of that is true, but it's not the reason that we're walking away. We knew that our house might not sell, and so we've been saving our money accordingly. We really won't have any trouble carrying two mortgages for a while (But sheesh, who wants to carry two mortgages!? What a waste!!!) But the real reason is that as we were preparing to put all that money down on the new house (the down payment needed to be deposited yesterday), our gut said no. Somehow and for some reason, this is not what we are supposed to be doing right now. It's that unmistakable gut wrenching that you just can't ignore--and you just have to obey. It's scary and bewildering, but ever since we decided to follow our gut, we have been at peace.

So what now? We are certainly not going back to our old house. We both feel completely and totally DONE with it and the neighborhood. It wasn't a bad house and it wasn't a bad neighborhood, it just isn't right for us anymore.

And so we're scouring the internet and the real estate world and spending all our time going through houses and neighborhoods, searching our guts to discover "is this the right one?" And in the meantime, I'm sitting here in the basement of my in-law's house with no end in sight. (My in-laws have been AMAZINGLY gracious. I can't even begin to tell you how wonderful they've been. Still, I'm ready to be matron of my own home and chef in my own kitchen and so on. And wouldn't it be cool to have a place for all my junk?)

But finally, I'm at peace. The right thing for us is going to come along. And I just know that I'll be so glad I waited.

La Entrevista

2007-04-23T09:20:00.000-06:00

I'm in an old abandoned warehouse with leaky pipes and the occasional rat. I'm in a hard metal chair and my arms and feet are tied. A wicked voice cackles and says, "Welcome to Jurgen Nation. We have some questions for you."

"No!!!" I scream. "No! You can't make me talk! YOU CAN'T MAKE ME TALK!!!!!" But suddenly Stacy shines a bright white light in my face, cackles again, and bribes me with chocolate.

"Fine," I whimper, defeated. "I'll tell you whatever you want to know."

(Okay, maybe it didn't QUITE happen like that. But I'm pretty sure there was chocolate involved, right Stacy?)

"Here are your questions. AHEM."

1. So, your blog is a month old! If you were a baby, you’d be walking now! Or…wait. Whatever. Bad metaphor. What, in this past month, is your favorite post that you really worked hard on and of which you’re most proud? Cut and paste, please. (Only don’t use real glue.)

Hmmmm. This is tricky. But I think the one that I'm most "proud of" is the one called "This Hate Cycle." The blog was pretty new (okay, it's still new) and while I'm generally a happy and silly kind of gal, there were stories that I was dying to tell that didn't fit into the happy and silly-ness. It took some courage to write it, because I wasn't sure what kind of audience it might appeal to and I wasn't sure I wanted to open up some of the darker memories. It's not that I wanted my whole blog to become dark and dreary, though, and I wasn't sure if I could have multiple personalities here. But somehow it's worked out all right. I know that some of my silliness will put some readers off, while some of the more serious stuff will not be interesting to others. And that's okay! Anyway, Stacy's instructions were to copy/paste, and on this I'm going to disobey... But if you wanna read it, just click here.

2. I love your stories and memories about you and your BFF, the lovely Kate of Kateastrophe. Maintaining a BFFship is so incredibly hard. What is the secret to your and Kate’s success? I know, of course, that one never really knows why something works - it just does - but what traits do you think you two share that just make you two fit?

It's pretty amazing, isn't it? I'm not sure what one thing has caused it to work for so long. Kate and I are actually extremely different people. And maybe that's what makes it work--we get that we're different, and we're okay with that. We've also survived a lot of catfighting, a lot of stupidness, and even that one time she made out with my boyfriend and then got me thrown out of BYU (Sorry, Katie, I had to bring it up, didn't I?) But there's been a lot of forgiveness on BOTH sides (cuz she's definitely got a list of the ways I screwed her over too...) and that's another key. One other thing that has really worked is that when one of us needs space, it's granted. I'm not always a terribly social person and once I got married and had kids, my social life pretty much came to a screeching halt because it just wasn't where my priorities were. She got that, and wasn't offended by it, and would still drop me a note or a call, but wouldn't make me feel like I had to call her back or anything. We also each have a TON of friends, some mutual, some not. That has helped us so that our friendship isn't "needy"--we don't depend entirely upon each other. That may sound dumb, but it's actually a really important part. If she thought that she was the only person I ever talked to and the only person I liked and the person I needed to dump all my issues on, I think she'd get burned out real fast (and vice versa, of course.)

Mostly, though, I think I just kinda lucked out with her. She's just cool, yo.

3. Think of all the boyfriends (using the term loosely) you have had in your life. Identify the third and tell us about it. Your answer should contain the following five wordish things: “philharmonic,” “frozen chicken breasts,” “vomit,” “Electric Youth perfume,” and “fishnet stockings.”

Haha. I'm trying to decide how "loosely" to use the term. Instead, though, I think I'll use the term very literally--the third boy that I was officially boyfriend and girlfriend with. There were many, many boys before him, but he was the third OFFICIAL boyfriend. Anyway, his name was Todd. He was incredibly hot. We were both going to school in Southern Utah, but we both came from up north. I wanted to go home for a weekend, and he had a car and was already heading north, so our roommates set it up. That's really how we got to know each other in the first place. Anyway, we started hanging out, and he was fun, though he had about the brain capacity of frozen chicken breasts. One day we just sorta made it "official" that I was his girlfriend--but he hadn't even kissed me yet. Weird. I'm still trying to figure out exactly how that happened--I mean, while I'm not the kind of girl who went traipsing around in leather mini-skirts and fishnet stockings, I still generally at least made out with a guy a few times before signing up to be his girlfriend. But that same night, after I'd somewhat committed myself to him, he finally kissed me. And for me, in that moment, it was over. Somehow I'd imagined that kissing him would be amazing, blissful, philharmonic. But no. It was the worst kiss ever. EVER!!! I realized that I would rather drink a gallon of Electric Youth perfume than have him or his lips ever come near me again. Even so, I stuck it out for a whole two weeks and finally dumped him. He was actually really cool about it--it was the best dump-session I'd ever had! My roommates and TWO guys I'd lined up for after the "break up" (oh my gosh, that's so embarrassing) were standing outside my door trying to listen in as I was dumping him. Hahaha. All they heard was laughter and friendship, cuz that's really how the whole thing ended. I never did tell him, though, that the main reason we needed to break up was that his kisses made me want to vomit into the empty cavity of his skull where his brain should have been.

(Okay, so I had to reach a little bit to get the words in. Sigh. I'm not quite as good at this stuff as you are, Stacy.)

4. Your a mother, three times over! Which one is your favorite? JUST KIDDING. What was your favorite part about being pregnant, as well as your least favorite?

Actually, I'm a mother FOUR times over--but I get that you were kinda drunk when you were writing these questions, so it's all good (and, for the record, my favorite kid is whichever one you forgot when you wrote "three" :D). My favorite part about being pregnant is the part where I'm GETTING pregnant. (Once again, Brillig is blushing...) It's really the only good part. Pregnancy and I don't really get along very well, but the very worst part for me was in subsequent pregnancies where I was puking my brains out and exhausted with that pregnancy exhaustion that nothing else seems to compare to, but as a mom you don't get to take time off. My kids are super young and close together (four in four and a half years and none are even old enough for school yet) so the older ones were still incredibly young and super needy while I was pregnant with the younger ones. I still had toddlers to chase, food to cook, poop to scrub out of the carpet, and so on. It was all worth it though--honestly! I'm not just saying that! I love being a mom and have a blast with my kids. They're so freaking awesome. But yeah. In my cases, pregnancy sucks.

5. You just received the death sentence (for being so gorgeous, natch). What would you choose as your last meal? The taxpayers are paying for it, so go buck nuts and describe in delicious detail, for I am hungry.

I KNEW things were screwy in Jurgen Nation! First of all, they're calling me gorgeous, and secondly they're killing me for it? Dude, I gotta get out of this place. Anyway, I'm SO BORING when it comes to food! Seriously! You're going to cry when I tell you that all I want is some really great penne pasta with a fabulous marinara sauce (all directly from Italy, please, and not too heavy on the seasoning--and NO MEAT BECAUSE THE MEAT JUST RUINS IT) with endless Dr. Pepper to drink and a huge variety of chocolate desserts. And, okay, a salad too. That's it. I know. Lame.

*********************

And now, gentle readers, as is the fashion with these things, I bestow upon you the opportunity to be interrogated by the lovely and fabulous ME. However, I don't quite have as much time as Stacy does (haha, Stacy, I'm just kidding. But really, I do have those four kids and all...) so how 'bout I interview the first three people who want one? And I'll try to be as thoughtful as Stacy was, but I do not promise to be as clever!

Confessions of an Ice Queen

2007-04-22T14:40:00.000-06:00

Okay--quick note. If you're here looking for Stacy's (of Jurgen Nation fame) interview for me, please check back tomorrow. The questions require a lot more brain cells than I currently have at my disposal...

So! Another week, another Soap Opera Sunday!

I was going to pick up where I left off last time--in Argentina. The next Argentine story is a pretty dang good one. But I can't pass up the opportunity to explain one more little tiny detail of the dreaded Christmas Formal, featured in my last Flashback Friday post. You've seen the pic before, but you're gonna need it again for the full effect of this Soap Opera.

Okay, you already know about Satan, my date. And you've heard a bit about Kate's date too. But there's one more person you need (and I use the word "need" VERY loosely) to know about. He's the OTHER guy on the back row. Ahahahaha. And his presence in our "date group" made that night, oh, just SO much more interesting than it would have been if it were just Kate's psycho date and, well, Satan.

Because, you see, that guy and I had gone to the exact dance (the Christmas Formal) the year before.

He and I had actually flirted with each other for pretty much 3 years straight by this point. Why it took us so long to actually go out and do something together, I'll never know. But what you need to know about me was that I was extremely innocent. And I was a very good girl, so while there was flirting a-plenty, I hadn't actually had a real boyfriend or (and now I'm really blushing) even kissed a boy for real. I was 16, by the way.

The guy, however, wasn't innocent... or what you might call a good boy. Not that he was terrible, or anything. He just didn't fit into the bubble of prudishness that I lived in.

My parents, however, almost had a total heart attack when this boy showed up at my house, scruffy-faced and earring-ed. Hahaha. I never even thought about how they might react to him! I just thought he was hot.

Anyway, date goes fine. We actually had a really good time. He was on his best behavior. And towards the end of the night, he was actually bold enough to put his arm around me, which I found kinda sweet. And I was totally into him. And while I knew he was into me too, he was keeping more distance than I'd expected--or wanted. (Though, looking back, I think he was afraid of ruining things, because I think he really did like me, and I was, as I said, rather a prude.)

So then he dropped me off at my house, and walked me to my door, and, well, I kissed him. I kissed him. I think that that was very unexpected... Anyway, it turned into an all-out make-out session, right there on my front porch. This was my first kiss...

(What I DIDN'T know was that my mother was waiting up for me and was incredibly worried about me.)

Suddenly, in the middle of full make-out mode, MY MOTHER KNOCKS ON THE WINDOW RIGHT BY MY HEAD AND ORDERS ME INSIDE. And I went inside--didn't even say goodnight to the poor guy.

I really don't think I've ever been so embarrassed in my whole life.

And boy did my mother let me have it. She thought that I'd been keeping all sorts of secrets from her and that I was some sex-obsessed heathenistic mutant. Great. So now I had a curfew. Now she had to meet my friends. Now she was gonna be on my back all the time. (The reality was, I was actually a REALLY GOOD KID! I know I said that already, but holy crap! You would be hard-pressed to find a teenager more angelic than I was.) (Also, she was too busy to actually have any idea who I was, or to do the checking-up on me that she threatened to do.)

ANYWAY, when I went back to school on Monday, I walked passed him in our Honors English class (see? A badboy in Honors English? You see why I was interested, right?) and he didn't look at me. Didn't talk to me. Didn't seem to notice me leaning towards his desk to say "hi."

"Fine," I thought. "Screw you." And it was actually kind of a relief, because as much fun as I had with him, I knew that I didn't really want to be his girlfriend or anything. So this saved me from having to have that particular talk with him.

The next thing I know, he's told the whole world his version of the story which somehow boiled down to the fact that I broke his heart, and I was the "Ice Queen" (a nickname that an amazing amount of young men throughout the school called me, even when I was making out with them) and yadda yadda yadda. Uh... he'd never called me, he never spoke to me, and now I'd broken his heart? I felt like I missed a whole chapter in our book, because none of it ever made any sense to me! Anyway, he managed to get that story pretty well-told, and "rebounded" with a group of Freshmen girls who, because of his story, hated me. A lot. (Those girls are now some of my very bestest friends and we actually think it's all pretty dang hilarious now, but at the time they made my life a living hell.)

Of course, since we were involved in all the same things in high school, life was pretty tricky. Even so, we both grew up a bit and got over the awkwardness and got on with life. But I did learn later that he had sorta kept pining for me throughout the rest of high school, but he couldn't bring himself to mention it because he was certain that I was over him. And he was right. I was.

So, happy Soap Opera Sunday, friends! Stay tuned for next week's installment, where I will once again tell you of my most awful and awkward moments, and you will laugh at me and my pain. That's what I'm here for.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DEAR BLOG!!!

2007-04-22T00:27:00.000-06:00

Oh my gosh! I just realized something! It's our birthday here at 'Twas Brillig! This blog has been around for EXACTLY ONE MONTH!!! I can't believe what a whirlwind of a month it's been! Thanks SO MUCH to those of you who have been here from the beginning--back when my blog was pretty much the standard issue "Blogger" blog. And thanks to everyone who has put up with my "Design A.D.D." when in one week I changed the template forty or fifty times. Hey, I was just trying to find out who Brillig really was. And, as it turns out, Brillig is actually a lot more ME than that other blog that has my REAL name on it. Funny, huh? By creating an alias, I discovered myself. Or something.

When I started this blog, I gave the link to just a very few people (all of whom have been amazingly supportive!) Mostly, I just wanted to start from scratch and see what might happen. I can't believe that in just a month's time, I have met SO MANY PEOPLE!!! I'm always amazed to see "comments" here, because I'm always amazed that people are actually reading my blog! And my bloglist in my sidebar has quadrupled in size since I first started. And I need to stress that these are all blogs that I actually read every single day--written by people that, in most cases, I've never met in person but who I consider to be my very good friends.

One month can change your life!

So, yeah. Thanks for making me feel so welcome here in cyberland. I had NO IDEA what to expect when I started this, and it has been nothing but awesome. So thanks for commenting so that I see that I'm not all by myself here. And thanks for reading, even when you don't comment.

(And thanks for searching for something on google and accidently ending up here and then reading a full paragraph before you leave and go back to finding what you were looking for in the first place. Cuz that's cool too... you make me LOOK a lot more popular on my sitemeter than I really am... And I kinda need that, cuz I'm kinda needy.)

Point is, Happy Birthday, Dear Blog. You mean so much to me.

Will you still need me? Will you still feed me?

2007-04-20T00:06:00.000-06:00

Welcome, gentle readers, to our second installment of Flashback Friday!!!

Today's flashback was inspired by my mother- and father-in-law last night (who we are living with, remember?). Hubby and I went on a walk together, leaving my in-laws home with our sleeping kids. When we got home, we found them both on the phone. They were talking long-distance to their best friends, Spud and Cheryl. From what I understand, the four of them have been bestest buds for years and years. There was much heartbreak when Spud and Cheryl retired and moved to the northwest, but good thing they've all got good long-distance phone coverage, right? I thought it was so cute, to watch these 60-year-olds wandering around, each on their own cordless phone, talking to and giggling with their best buddies.

It reminded me of my own best friend, and how years from now I can picture this exact scene with us.

And so today's Flashback Friday is dedicated to Kate*. You know her better as Walking Kateastrophe.

(*You could also consider it this way: If I'm going down, she's going down with me.)

Kate and I met in high school. I was a senior and she was a sophomore (which was a little weird, because the people I latched on to had always been older than me). Somehow, despite lots of catfighting around us, we became bestest buds.

The unfortunate part here is that all the really incriminating pictures of her (and, I suppose, of me too) are in her possession, not mine. But! I DO have the date dance pictures.

And an explanation of date dances in our little community is given at Kate's site, which I am hereby stealing, because I'm too lazy to write the darn thing myself:

You'll need some background . . . on the planet I grew up in, date dances were much more than just the dance. We had to ask and answer each other in creative ways and we had day activities with our group. So let's just say that if you didn't like your date? You were in for a bad, bad day. With all of his or her friends. And it could possibly go on for 15 hours or so, because most people also planned something for AFTER the dance. Oh, and it was INCREDIBLY rude to say no. The first person who asked you was the person you went with. Those were the rules.

And so, I present you with exhibit number one.

(Kate is on the back row with the "red" hair. I'm in the front, sitting daintily upon my date.) What you need to know here is that in preparation for this magnificent date, all three of us girls dyed our hair red--sharing the SAME CHEAP BOTTLE FROM THE GROCERY STORE. Kate's hair went good and red, the other girl's hair had a reddish hew, and my black hair remained, well, black. I know. Shocker. And yet, I was early in my hair dying days and I was actually a bit surprised by this. Also interesting to note is that while my date was BY FAR the hottest, he was also about a whole foot shorter than me. Which is, I suppose, why I'm sitting upon him. (And YES my eyebrows were huge, and YES our fashion was freaky, and YES the hair is weird, and YES I'm sure you'll come up with plenty of other unpleasant things to say...) (Oh, and NO I DON'T know what was up with Kate's date's pants. And I really, really, really don't WANT to know...)

Let us now enter exhibit two:

Be afraid. Be very afraid. Kate is on the front row here (and no, I have NO idea what the crap she's wearing.... you'll have to take that up with her) and her date was a total and complete psycho. Seriously. He was completely nuts. And obsessed with Kate. And, well, CRAZY. You can tell by the weary expression on her face that this had been a very, very long day already. All she wanted was to go home.

And I am on the back row in the far right corner. DO YOU SEE MY DATE?? Does he remind you of someone? Someone named SATAN??? And, unfortunately, Satan-boy was thoroughly infatuated with me--something I never understood, but his infatuation almost defined my senior year of high school--and some bits of college too.

The moment we got home from that date, Kate and I called each other and talked on the phone for hours over them and their psychotic-ness, and how there really should have been a loop hole in the date dance rules: If a guy is psychotic, messed up, obsessed with you, or Satan, you should be able to refuse to date him, even if he's the first person to ask you to the dance. Alas, there was no such rule.

But somehow we survived all the dating madness and moved on to the marriage stuff. Here she is as one of my bride's maids 6 years ago (and 7 years after we first met). I'm obviously the one in the wedding dress and she's the blondey (it's not really a flattering angle for any of us, including Hubby who ALWAYS looks good. But my pic pickin's are slim, okay?):

(Okay, ladies. We've had this discussion and some of you have already learned the hard way that drooling over my husband only leads to pain and misfortune and the shorting-out-of-your-computer. And we ALL know that NO ONE wants to blog with a shorting-out-computer.)

I was at her wedding too, of course, but I was massively and gigantically and so UN-gracefully pregnant with my third baby and so she let me be an "honorary" bride's maid/matron thing. I pray that there are NO pictures of it...

And nowadays, we live very far away from each other. But we IM and call each other and keep tabs on each other pretty much constantly. And I FULLY expect to still be chatting and giggling with her when I'm sixty-four.

Lightning Strikes

2007-04-18T18:09:00.000-06:00

When I was 15, I found myself back in Jerusalem. I knew I'd be going back. I'd prepared myself. Jerusalem held a huge chunk of my heart, but it also held my worst memories--the stuff that nightmares are made of. Real nightmares, not just dreams.

But I was strong. I could be okay. I could smell the spices and hear the prayers and see the towers out my window. I was strong. Everyone had already decided that I was, so I must have been.

One night, as I slept in my bed, an explosion went off nearby. I leapt out of the soft realm of sleep into the harsh world. One explosion. Then another. And then the sounds of shattering glass.

I knew these sounds already. But these were close, much too close.

But where were the alarms? Where was the air raid siren? And why was I the only one who seemed to be aware that we were under attack?

My heart was racing, my ears were throbbing to the point that I could no longer hear anything but my own pulse. It was all up to me. It was all on my frail shoulders. This building housed nearly 200 people but no one seemed to be hearing what I was hearing. That realization was terrifyingly lonely and too overwhelming. But they had to be saved, and apparently they had to be saved by me.

I ran to the living room but from there the fear or the responsibility or both paralized me. I just stood there shaking and gasping for air, for time, for clarity.

And then another explosion.

Except that there was lightning with it.

And with a wave of relief, as though someone were pouring warm water over me, I suddenly understood that there was no bomb, no fire, no shattered glass. Just thunder and lightning and hail hitting the windows. I giggled, I guess, because maybe it was funny. But the giggles quickly turned into sobs of despair as I collapsed into a pathetic heap on the floor. I had just learned something about myself, something too unbearable: I wasn't over it yet. For all my preparation, all my rationalization, all my suppression, I just simply wasn't over it yet!

How could I not be over it? It had been years by now. And I was so strong! I cried and cried and prayed for forgiveness for my weakness. I was so sorry--so incredibly sorry. I was letting everyone down. It was unacceptable to act like this. I wasn't allowed to feel fear or despair, and here I was breaking all the rules. And I was so ashamed.

And I knew that I could never tell them that I wasn't over it. It was hard enough admitting it to myself, and then to God. And besides, to them, there wasn't ever really anything to get over. And it would be terribly, terribly inconvenient to them for me to suddenly let them know. They were all counting on me to be okay. And if I wasn't, then they'd have to deal with me, and what did they know about that?

So I resolved never to let them know. They would never know about the fool I'd made of myself that night in the living room. I would go on acting as though it had all just been an interesting history lesson. Emotionless, for emotion was weakness. And by now, I was so good at the role I had cast myself in and I had the whole script memorized. It wasn't going to be so hard.

And so I willed my pulse to stop racing and the tears to stop falling. I pulled myself up off the floor and walked slowly and deliberately back to my bed, back to being strong.

I had been awakened to my own frailty that night. But when daylight arrived, they would never know the difference.

Doubly Humbled

2007-04-18T15:18:00.000-06:00

(Yeah, right. As if anyone could humble me now!)

Just as soon as I pushed "publish" on my last post, I discovered that Jenny at Absolutely Bananas has also awarded me today. In her case, though, it wasn't actually because she knows anything about me (perhaps she would have held off if she did...) but rather because I answered a trivia question correctly on her site. (See, gentle readers? You never know when my head full of useless facts is going to win me an award...)

So now I have a SILVER to go with my GOLD. And yes, they will BOTH be proudly displayed in my sidebar, because heaven knows I'm not likely to receive any other awards any time soon!

Did someone call this THINKING??

2007-04-18T13:25:00.000-06:00

Wow. Uh... not sure what to say. As I do everyday, though I'm getting around to it a bit later than normal today due to fabulous shopping trip which will undoubtedly get a whole post of its own somewhere in here, I was scrolling through all my favorite blogs, one of which is Am I going mad... or am I just a mommy (with a name like that, shouldn't it be on everyone's favorite list?). And lo and behold, MoodSwingingMommy had nominated me for:

And if that wasn't enough, look at what she said:

Brillig seems to have lived all over the globe, and recounts her experiences with a great sense of wit and passion for life.

Could I be ANY more flattered? Seriously. How very kind.

And now the torch has been passed on to me. Here are the instructions:
1. If, and only if, you get tagged, write a post with links to 5 blogs that make you think.
>2. Link to this post so that people can easily find the exact origin of this award.

3. Optional: Proudly display the “Thinking Blogger Award” (and for all of you whiners and perfectionistic types, here is an alternative silver version if gold doesn’t fit your blog. Snob.)

The hard part for me is going to be deciding upon just 5. See, all of those blogs there in my sidebar are there because I love them. And I love them because they make me think. (Cuz if they made me stupider, I probably wouldnt love them, now would I?) But because I'm so obnoxious in my obedience, I will try to follow the rules. And so here they are, in random order...

1. Butrfly Garden. Butrfly is a smart and sassy woman with a great big heart. Her sidebar is full of links to charities and other worthwhile organizations and every Tuesday she issues us a "green challenge" to encourage us all to protect our precious planet. She seems to really believe that one person can make a difference and she's determined to be that person.

2. Walking Kateastrophe. Kate is a funny girl who comes across as very poised, but is apparently a big ol' clutz. She keeps a ticker on her blog telling you how many days it's been since her last "Kateastrophe"--always hilarious. But there's often more depth here than first meets the eye-- she'll have you in stitches one minute and in tears the next.

3. The View From Here. Gunfighter of The View From Here is extremely eloquent. He has a lot to say about race, fatherhood, kindness, and society in general. And, well, he just makes sense. I know he's gotten this nom before, but he definitely deserves it again. He's a daily "MUST READ."

4. Melissavina. Melissavina is the kind of girl you just wanna hang out with. She makes me laugh, but she also causes me to pause and evaluate the world around me. She has a way of saying things that makes you wish you'd come up with them, because they're so stinking clever!

5. Because I Must Blog. Worker Mommy, as she calls herself, is a delightful mother of 3-year-old twins and step-mother of two teens and she always has hilarious stories to tell. But she's also clever and insightful, and she asserts that she's "preserving her sanity one post at a time." She's relatively new and, from what I can see, relatively unknown. But I think she's one of the best kept secrets on the internet! You're missing out if you're not checking in with her every day.

All right, now. Ready, set, GO! Go read these awesome blogs! Increase your circle of friends! You never know who you'll meet, who might teach you something, and who will make your life a better place.

By the way, some of my dearest e-friends weren't nominated here, and it's kinda making me sad, because they're awesome too... so once you've exhausted my 5 nominations here, go check out the rest of the bloglist in the sidebar. You'll be so glad you did!

I KNEW I had a good reason...

2007-04-17T10:42:00.000-06:00

Hubby sent me this in an email a few days ago:

Why did you get married? I got married for love.... Others marry for more practical reasons:

And so I thought to myself, self, why did you get married. And I found the answer on Dancing Through yesterday.

How many people have your same name? These were my results with my maiden name.

HowManyOfMe.com

There are
1,069
people with my name
in the U.S.A.

How many have your name?

YIKES!!!

But THESE are my results with my married name:

HowManyOfMe.com

There are
5
people with my name
in the U.S.A.

How many have your name?

See? Before I met him, I was one of well-over-a-thousand. And then, I married him and now I'm only one in five! How cool is that?

(And somewhere in here, I need to take issue with my parents who, despite our painfully boring last name, gave us all painfully boring FIRST names. Mine wasn't even the worst! Two of my sisters have well over 2000 and another is more than 4000. And one of my brothers has almost FIVE THOUSAND!!! Seriously, Mom. Dad. A LITTLE ingenuity when it comes to naming your offspring goes a LONG WAY.)

Anyway, I KNEW there was a reason I married him.

Though, in all fairness, perhaps it also has something to do with the fact that he looks like this (though, typically WITHOUT the bright red nose) :

Woah. Get away from the computer. SERIOUSLY. Stop licking the computer! He's taken, ladies!!

And perhaps, just perhaps it has something to do with the fact that he's the kindest, sweetest, most responsible, most attentive, most amazing man in the whole wide world...

And perhaps it's because I'm so insanely in love with him.

Fine! Before you puke, I'll save the rest for some future Soap Opera Sunday. But just let it be known, that apparently I had a few good reasons.

A screeching halt, part 2

2007-04-16T13:42:00.000-06:00

There used to be a different post here. It was a post about my indignation at some of the horrendously inappropriate responses to today's tragedy at Virginia Tech. I think that perhaps my indignation at those responses led me to... well... respond inappropriately. So, while I stand by what I said in my original post here, I'm removing it for now and tucking it away somewhere safe for future--and more appropriate--times. This wasn't the moment to bring some of that stuff up.

For tonight, let us mourn with those who mourn and comfort those who stand in need of comfort.

I'm keeping the comments from those of you who already commented here, because what you had to say was absolutely appropriate. Thanks. I have the greatest e-friends.

a screeching halt

2007-04-16T12:33:00.000-06:00

This blog will come to a screeching halt today. I have nothing funny to say and I can't find it in my soul to be insightful. I'm horrified by the news and I pray for the victims and their families. Thanks to Jessabean for letting me know. In this bubble I've created for myself, who knows how long it would have taken for me to hear.

Soap Opera Sunday!!!

2007-04-15T14:26:00.000-06:00

Welcome, all, to our first ever installment of Soap Opera Sunday!!! Someday, I think I'll understand what it is about the internet that makes us want to take our embarrassments and proclaim them to the world...

Today's soap opera comes directly from a letter written to Matt--yes, the same aforementioned Matt from my last post. (Matt was the recipient of lots of soap opera-y stories from me, poor thing. But before you feel TOO bad for him, please realize that HIS life was the biggest soap opera known to mankind. And WHO does you suppose sat patiently and listened as he figured out girls, boys, girls AND boys, and finally, just boys? That's right. ME.)

A little background. I was a ridiculously boy-obsessed 19 year old girl and I was in middle-of-no-where-Argentina--something that had happened quite suddenly. There was a lot of chaos upon my sudden departure from the US and I left a wake of confused (and perhaps indignant) loved ones behind--including a boyfriend that I was "supposed to marry". But eternally boy crazy, my first serious matter of business was to find a group of guys to flirt with and have adore me. And there were plenty who adored me, poor saps, but I rarely adored back. Until the day I met Cristian...

(And now we join our letter to Matt, already in progress.)

I was in my institute class when HE walked in. I couldn't help but just stare at him, and he stared right back. When the class ended, everyone headed to the bus stop and I walked with them all, even though from there I just usually walked home rather take a bus. When Cristian realized that I wasn't gonna take a bus, he announced that he'd walk me home. Cute, right? And, by the way, it's a flippin' long walk! But I have no where else to be, and I enjoy the solitude of a nice long walk. And on that day, I didn't mind the company of a nice long walk. Haha.

Needless to say, the boy is gorgeous. But it wasn't just his look. He has actual personality. He's funny and flirty and charming, and he doesn't come across as so totally innocent and naive, like everyone else I've met here. And I find his lack of naivete incedibly attractive. And, by the way, there was no question in my mind that he was totally into me too.

I ran into him again at a seminar a few days later. This seminar was apparently a huge deal--it seemed like everyone in Mendoza was there. My parents were the speakers, of course, so rather than sit by myself, I looked for someone to sit with. I saw Cristian with an open seat next to him and asked if I could sit down. "Sorry," he said, with total ice in his voice. "It's taken." Weird. So I went, and sat down by myself. Hundreds of people in this room were there to adore my parents, and I was sitting by myself. And sure enough, the seat next to Cristian was occupied soon... by an incredibly beautiful girl.

So the next day, I decided to audition for the prestigious (okay, prestigious for these parts) Coro Del Instituto choir. And, fine. I admit that I knew that Cristian was in this choir, but I promise that it wasn't my only reason for auditioning. I also knew that I would simply DIE if I didn't make it in. The audition was public--held in front of the whole choir and staff. Yikes! But mercy smiled upon me and I think it was probably the best audition I've ever had and I landed the seat of Lead Alto with flying colors. Phew!

Anyway, Cristian looked amazing, as usual, and I caught him staring at me and smiling my way for seriously the whole 2 hour rehearsal. Apparently he hadn't forgotten about my existence. However, the chica from the other night was there too (a soprano of course. Gag.) and she was, shall we say, less than fond of me. In fact, ALL the girls here seem to hate me. But she seems to outdo the rest in their blatant hatred. Wow. Aren't I gonna have a blast in this choir! Well, choir practice ended, and everyone was just hanging out, but i watched Cristian and chica slip out. Hmmmm. Naturally, I followed. It didn't seem weird, or anything, because they were walking the direction that we all had to walk to get home or to the bus stop. The path goes right through the Plaza de Indepedencia, which is not only a pretty park, but a notorious make out spot. Shoulda tipped me off. But no. I was still determined that he was into ME. As I was walking, a few of the guys from the choir came up behind me and walked with me. And sure enough, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Cristian and chica gazing "meaningfully" at each other and then... yeah... making out.

I was totally crushed, but couldn't let on because of the guys I was walking with. But I took the bus home, for once, because all I wanted to do was get home fast so I could bury my face in a pillow and sob for about an hour.

*sniff* Doesn't it make you wanna bawl, gentle readers? (And by "bawl" I of course mean PUKE.) Sigh. I suppose it just wasn't meant to be. Hahaha. Anyway, this story had to be told first because, while it's not the soapiest of my operas, it lays the groundwork for some very soapy ones indeed. So stay tuned for next week's episode! And with that, I bid you all farewell.

'Twas Brillig News

2007-04-13T09:56:00.000-06:00

Special announcement, gentle readers!

As I've been going through all these boxes of old junk for the last few days (years? It so feels like years) I discovered boxes of old photos and piles and piles of old love letters. So.Stinking.Embarrassing. And because I wouldn't want to waste such treasures, we here at 'Twas Brillig (okay, there's no "we" here. It's just me) have decided to implement Flashback Friday (featuring stories with pictures) and Soap Opera Sunday featuring true and hilarious stories from all the boy drama of my high school and college years. And, oh goodness, there's a LOT of material there. I chose Sunday, even though I know that actually most of my blogger friends do their blogging while at work and therefore aren't around much on Sundays, but Sundays are slower days for me around here AND it will give you all something to snicker at (hopefully!) when you tune in on Monday mornings.

And so, let the Friday Flashback begin.

Once upon a time I was in college and my bestest friend was my dear Matt. Matt adored me. He thought I was so beautiful (he's gay...) and he loved to dress me up and show me off. We had been friends almost our whole lives, minus a couple of awkward years in high school. But when college came, we couldn't bear to be parted for more than a few hours at a time. Hahaha.

Matt also had some strange power over me. He would come up with these absolutely ridiculous plans and somehow I would always go along with them.

Which brings us to today's Friday Flashback.

One night, in the middle of the night, Matt came to my dorm to get me. I was in my pajamas, and could I please change first? No. There was no time for that. Sigh. So I threw on some flip-flops and followed him out the door.

He had a very important mission for us, but he would explain it when we got there.

And, where was "there"? Our local grocery store. And the mission? To buy crackers and cheez whiz, sit down at the handy table right there in the grocery store, and invite strangers to come and join us for cheese and crackers and get their pictures taken with us.

Look at me. Don't I look like a nice girl? NOT like the kind of girl that would be sitting in the grocery store in her pajamas, inviting strangers to come and eat cheez whiz with me? Do you see the pain etched on my face? The pain screaming out to you, begging you to find a way to make the crazy gay man let me go back to my dorm and go to bed?

But really. The craziest part about this whole thing is that people actually sat down to eat cheez whiz and get their pictures taken with us!!!!

Here's to you, Matt, and all the crazy things you made me do. Matt-stories are bound to become a regular here on Flashback Fridays.
***********
Oh, and one more bit of news. I was apparently nominated for:

If you like what you see here, like, at all, then click on the logo to vote for me! Yeah, we all know I'm not gonna win the thing, but it sure would be fun not to come in last place!

Cola Wars

2007-04-12T12:49:00.000-06:00

Could it really be as simple as this?

I lived in Israel/Palestine/the Holy Land--whatever the heck you wanna call it--twice, both times for a significant period of time. I saw more hate, more anger, more terror... Oh, I can't even begin to describe it. Suffice it to say that I lived right in the middle of two groups of people who hate each other and, as far as I can predict, will never, ever find any sort of reconciliation.

And the first time I lived there, it was in 1991, during the great Cola Wars. You know, Coke vs. Pepsi.

Nowadays, I'm in the middle of "moving" which means that I'm going through millions of old boxes and finding old things I'd entirely forgotten about. Last night I stumbled across these soda cans. The red one is a Coke, in Hebrew. The other is a Pepsi, in Arabic. And this was back in the day where once a cola company got their foot in the door, they had the cola monopoly in that country. But Israel/Palestine/the Holy Land was a very complicated place because it wasn't really a "country" to many and to others it was virtually TWO countries, so the cola wars had an interesting task on their hands. In the end, in one half of Jerusalem (the Jewish half) you could buy Coke, and in the other half (the Palestinian half) you could buy Pepsi. And often, it seemed like the side you were "rooting" for (as though all these people's lives were some kind of trivial sport's event) was the side who sold your cola of choice.

Pepsi and Coke seem to have made up somewhere along the way, since you can now buy either product in either section of Jerusalem. Maybe the cola wars really will change the world-- one caffeinated, kidney-shriveling sip at a time.

Tres Cositas

2007-04-12T00:52:00.001-06:00

I wasn't going to do this until tomorrow, but seeing as how I am holding a VERY WIDE AWAKE baby right this moment, I guess I might as well take advantage of the time, right?

So, I was "tagged" by Life As I Know It for this lovely Meme. And so, without further ado...

Three Things That Scare Me:
1.The dark
2.when it's too quiet
3.This.

Three People Who Make Me Laugh:
1. That gorgeous guy I married
2. Those crazy kids he gave me
3. Basically that whole bloglist in my sidebar there which, granted, needs to be updated but is still full of real gems.

Three Things I Love:
1. Blogging--reading my old standby's and gathering new friends
2. The recent sunshine
3. Chocolate. WAIT!!! I MEAN CARROTS!!! I PROMISE!

Three Things I Hate:
1. hospitals
2. wars
3. idiot presidents who get us into wars that we have no business being in

Three Things I Don't Understand:
1.unkindness
2.how hubby can eat three times as much as I do, and it can all be deep fried, and I'm the one who gains weight.
3.How my baby's nose is so tiny, but can produce infinite amounts of mucous.

Three Things On My Desk:
1. my digital camera
2. A copy of The Book of Mormon
3. dinner (i.e A Tomato)

Three Things I'm Doing Right Now:
1. Holding Lil' Dude
2. shivering because it's frickin' cold in this office
3. typing one-handed

Three Things I Want To Do Before I Die:
1. Run a marathon
2. Take my children all over the world, the way my parents took me all over the world
3. Write the Great American Novel

Three Things I Can Do:
1. Speak four languages (English, Spanish, German, Italian)
2. Become pregnant just by looking at Hubby for too long (no, that's not an announcement, just commentary on my fertility in general)
3. Write up-side-down flawlessly. It's a gift. Jealous?

Three Things I Can't Do:
1. Eat red meat (I'm missing the enzyme to digest it)
2. Vote for a Republican
3. get the stupid "word verification" thingies right on the first try

Three Things I Think You Should Listen To:
1. your mom
2. your kids
3. your sweetheart

Three Things You Should Never Listen To:
1. Rush Limbaugh
2. That little voice inside your head that says you're not good enough
3. Most of the music that my husband listens to

Three Things I'd Like To Learn:
1. At least three more languages (French, Russian, Chinese)
2. How to make millions of dollars without lifting a finger
3. To develop an efficient, abundant, affordable, and eco-friendly fuel source

Three Favorite Foods:
1. cheese
2. baked potato
3. avacado

Three Shows I Watched as a Kid:
1.Silver Spoons
2.Who's the Boss
3.Growing Pains

Three Things I Regret:
1. Not changing Lil' Dude's diaper before he made us both icky just now
2. Not getting into the blogging world sooner--it's good for my soul, somehow. I wish I'd been doing this for years.
3. Not exercising during all those pregnancies, because it is making this whole weightloss thing very tricky.

Three People I'm Tagging
1. My Sister Laduwa, not because I think she'll actually do it, but because she's brand spankin' new at this bloggin' thing and it may just be the jump-start she needs.
2. My dear friend Kateastrophe because I know she will do it, and because pretty much everything she writes is awesome.
3. Anyone who joined my blog circle recently who hasn't done this Meme--it's a great way for me to get to know you better! Leave a comment here with a link to your blog so that we can all find you!

And with that, dear ones, I bid you all goodnight. I hope. Lil' Dude's still awake. Doesn't he know it's 2:30 a.m.? Doesn't he know that Bubba will be up in about four hours, jumping on my bed, reciting his long list of urgent needs to me? Sigh. Oh well. A girl can dream, right?

Oh the Drama!!!

2007-04-11T13:08:00.000-06:00

"I don't want to LIVE anymore!!!" exclaimed my not-quite-four year old Bubba as he melted onto the floor in a pool of misery.

Where does he get this crazy dramatic streak?

Poor kid. His mother is SUCH a tyrant. See, I brought home spaghetti noodles last night and cheerfully told everyone that we would have spaghetti for lunch today. There was much rejoicing. Their dad doesn't like spaghetti, so they don't get such "treats" very often at dinner time.

(Some kids don't get that spaghetti is a "treat" you know. But I never take such things for granted. My mother fed us raw almonds, tofu, and spinach all the time. Oh, what I would have done for a bowl of spaghetti!)

(My mother still eats that way, which is why, at 63, she has the body of an 18 year old...)

ANYWAY, just now Bubba decided that he didn't want spaghetti. He wanted chicken nuggets. Oh, how he HAD to have chicken nuggets. And I, his wicked tyrannical mother, would not budge. "I told you all along that we were going to have SPAGHETTI and you're gonna LIKE it!!!"

Which brings us back to the beginning of my post, where he melted into a pool of misery and exclaimed that he no longer wanted to live.

(On a side note, don't you think it would be an interesting research study to find out how many people no longer wanted to live just because their lunch options weren't what they had hoped for?)

So, of course, I had to show him and Fluffy all the joys of spaghetti, which started with the "uncooked-spaghetti-noodle-held-between-the-lips-and-used-as-a-sword" sword fight. And it worked. They loved the game. Forgotten was the need for chicken nuggets. NOW he had a reason to live.

And then they stabbed me with spaghetti noodles and I, like any good mother would, flailed around the kitchen in true thespian style and woefully denounced them a-la Mercutio with "you've made worm's meat of me" and "a pox on BOTH your houses" and so on.

And somewhere it occurred to me that Bubba might, just might get his dramatic streak from me!

Nah.

Did you notice...

2007-04-10T12:07:00.000-06:00

...that after my last post, all of my google ads are about bulimia? Hahaha.

I Poisoned Them All

2007-04-10T00:51:00.000-06:00

Well, I didn't really. But it would be a much better story if I had.

You see, on Easter Sunday, I went to an awful lot of trouble to make an absolutely exquisite meal for my parents and my husband's parents. NO pressure there, right?

And it was delicious. Oh, I can't even tell you how divine it all tasted. Especially for me, since I've been dieting for some time now and I'd almost forgotten how anything besides lettuce and celery tastes... But for this momentous occasion, I tossed the diet (along with my smaller waist size) right out the window and partook of all of the heavenly feast.

A good stuffing was had by all.

And then.... that night... I couldn't sleep. My stomach was churning and burbling. And finally the churning and burbling became too much...

Cue puke fest.

And as I sat there, hunched over the toilet in all my loveliness and bile, wretching every last ounce of somewhat digested mush, it occurred to me that I had probably poisoned them all. My parents, my in-laws, my husband, my kids, and myself. We were all done for--all because I'd tried to make a nice meal. DONE FOR, I say.

At first, I thought of all the money I stood to inherit. But then I realized that I would be a goner too. The only person who stood to profit was Lil' Dude, since he hadn't eaten any of the exquisiteness, but instead had settled for a bottle of Enfamil (whose number one ingredient is "corn starch solids" AKA SUGAR. Dude, HE should be the one dieting, not me! Anyway...)

As I realized it all, I waxed a bit Lady MacBethian*. I was murdering them all and my son was to be put on the throne, as it were. And I was thrilled for him. I almost wished I'd planned it. And I wouldn't be stupid enough (or alive enough) to sleep walk and tell everyone about my evil deeds.

Alas, in the morning I was reassured by all that I had been the only one partying at the puke fest. Apparently my body couldn't remember how to digest all that deliciousness. Just as well. It means that I probably didn't gain much weight from all that deliciousness either. So neener neener.

Of course, when I asked my Dad if he'd gotten sick, he replied that he hadn't...

and then he made "the joke."

Because apparently if a woman of a certain age is throwing up, the only explanation is that she must be pregnant. Yup. It's a conspiracy. Men, older women, and children can puke all they want to and won't be taunted with the "p" word. But if you're a female 20-something and puking, then surely you must be pregnant.

Haha, thanks Dad. Hilarious. You know, the kind of hilarious that makes me want to reach in through my belly button and rip out my uterus and sell it on Ebay. THAT kind of hilarious.

That's the kind of hilarious that's gonna get you all poisoned. Seriously. Don't test me. I've already proven myself capable.

And Lil' Dude will make a lovely monarch.

*By the way, yes I KNOW that Lady MacBeth was murdering everyone to put her husband on the throne, not her son. I wasn't saying that I was doing exactly what Lady MacBeth was doing, I was just saying that I was adopting her attitudes. And, seriously, don't try to go head to head with me when it comes to Shakespeare. It won't go well for you...

The Easter Bunny (and other lies we tell our children)

2007-04-09T09:42:00.000-06:00

I went to Walmart on Friday night, hoping to get an Easter dress for Fluffy. It's a tradition that I like a lot because with her birthday being in December along with Christmas, she gets plenty of winter clothing, but not much Springy/summer-y stuff. And, since I get her something, I have to get something for the boys (this year it was hotwheels cars) and they always get a basket with enough candy to be obnoxious and on my nerves for a few weeks....

Walmart. Crazy. Oh my gosh, so crazy. I had no idea. Women who would have otherwise seemed like normal, rational human beings were scouring through the bottom of barrells reaching for the last princess sparkly plastic egg set or whatever the crap they had to have so desperately that they were willing to sacrifice all respect, decency, and logic to obtain. There were also no easter dresses left, so after going to Target and Kohls, and dealing with the same insanity there, I walked away with a little cotton summer dress that was not at all what I'd been wanting to get her, but cute and cheap and, well, a dress.

But amidst the craziness, I had to ask myself, as I have asked so many times before, why is it okay to lie to our children on special occasions?

I go to great lengths to make sure I NEVER lie to them. I want them to be able to trust me, to be able to believe me, to be able to count on me.

But then, when it comes to the easter bunny or santa claus or the tooth fairy, all I DO is lie. And for what? To pretend like it's really a bunny who brings them candy and hotwheels cars and easter dresses? IS IT REALLY SO ESSENTIAL THAT THEY BELIEVE IT WAS A BUNNY AND NOT ME???

My parents didn't believe in lying to us (maybe this is where I get it?) so they would tell us the truth and then explain that it's just fun to pretend like it's a bunny or santa claus or whatever. I think it made their lives SO MUCH EASIER and I don't think I was scarred by their honesty. In fact, as I got older, I admired them for not being willing to lie. And holidays were still so wonderful! It didn't take away from the magic of Christmas or anything. At least I don't think it did...

My husband grew up much more traditionally with a mother who still tries to convince her 30 year old children that Santa is real. She's darling and sweet and an excellent mother and her children obviously weren't scarred for believing in fairy tales.

So, I guess maybe there really isn't a right way or a wrong way. But when my daughter was told by a little boy on the playground the other day that there was no easter bunny and watching her defend the "truth" of the easter bunny with all the might that her little soul could muster, it sure felt wrong!

What do you all think?

BUY ME!!!

2007-04-06T15:03:00.000-06:00

Great plans for the weekend? No? I have an idea. COME AND BUY MY HOUSE!!!!

What's sexy, sassy, big enough for your entourage, with fabulous lake views? MY HOUSE. COME BUY. SPECIAL PRICE FOR YOU!

How could you go wrong? 3200 sq. ft. 5 bedrooms, 3 full bathrooms, fully landscaped yard. You know you want it. You KNOW you do.

We're, um, starting to feel the encroaching panic. In one month, we will be the proud owners of a brand new house. We will also be the downtrodden owners of our old house.

Fortunately, we have saved up for this eventuality and we'll be okay for a little while with both mortgages. But not for too long. And you know what would be smokin' sweet? Is if someone were to buy our old house, oh, say, RIGHT NOW!

It's not that it hasn't been shown approximately a million times, it's just that no one has made an offer. No one says it's overpriced or ugly or dirty or anything like that. I just isn't the house for THEM. Sigh. It makes me feel powerless, because if there were something WRONG with it, I'd fix it. In the meantime, I just wait.

These are the things that keep my husband up at night. He's so wonderfully responsible (and a big fat pessimist...), so something like this concerns him because he's already picturing us carrying two mortgage payments six months from now. That won't be very good. And, due to said responsibility, he can't sleep for the terror that this possibility brings.

So, come on over and buy my house. Seriously.

It's a Pig's World

2007-04-05T13:10:00.000-06:00

All animals are equal, but pigs are more equal.

I guess I was sheltered, because my dad is so good to my mom. He adores her. He empowers her. He is thrilled for her when things go well and comforts her when things are hard.

And then I stumbled into the best marriage a woman could have. I don't think I necessarily deserve it, nor do I credit it to any smarts on my part. My husband adores me, empowers me, is happy for me, and comforts me. He knows I'm not perfect (believe me, he knows) but he loves me anyway and goes to great lengths to make sure I know it.

I didn't realize that these two amazing men are such an exception. Really, I think it was just recently that I realized that even the civilized world is full of, well, pigs. And I'm not talking about the physically or sexually abusive ones. No, those ones ought to be dragged out into the street and shot. Instead, I'm talking about the emotionally abusive ones. It's so much harder to measure emotional abuse. There are no apparent scars, no trips to the hospital, no screams from the pain.

You already have someone in mind, don't you! You probably know a whole bunch of pigs! These are the men who tell their wives that they're fat and unattractive. These are the guys who demand a spotless house at all costs, or else (while never lifting a finger to help). These are men whose egos must be constantly stroked, but who only criticize and belittle in return.

Sadly, my circle of sisters and friends is chock full of women who are married to pigs.

Among my favorite pigs to despise is my friend's husband Joseph. Every day he does something to make me furious. Here are just a few of his charms:

While she was pregnant with her second baby she was incredibly sick, puking all the time. He insisted that the house be spotless and that his dinner be ready by the time he got home, regardless of how sick she was. She told me about one day that he came home and dinner wasn't ready because she was hunched over, ralphing in the sink. He stared at her disdainfully and said, "HELLO? Is my dinner almost ready?"
He recently announced that she is too fat and he's not attracted to her, yet he demands sex all the time...
Because of said fatness, she MUST lose weight. He will pay her $100 for every inch she loses. (By the way, she's NOT fat, but he is VERY MUCH SO.)
He's jealous of the kids because sometimes she pays more attention to them than she does to him. She is only allowed to pay attention to HIM.
When she and I got into politics one day, it was clear that I wasn't the traditional Utah Republican. "Oh, PLEASE don't tell Joseph," she said. "He won't let me be friends with you anymore!"
He was laid off from his job, so she went to work, but was still required to take care of the kids and the house. The church began donating clothing, food, and even money to help pay the mortgage until he got back up on his feet. He used the money to buy a ginormous-screen TV. He didn't look for a new job. He sat around watching TV and playing video games while criticizing his wife for not making enough money and for not keeping the house clean enough. This went on for a whole year.

I could go on and on about Joseph, because he's a real winner, and I could also go on and on about most of the losers that my friends and my sisters (mine and my husband's) married. But you get it already--there are a lot of pigs.

But here's the part that I don't get. If you ask my friend about any of this stuff, she just defends him. To no end! She calls me to complain about him, and then she defends him when I commiserate with her. She is miserable, demeaned, belittled, cheapened by this relationship, but she will stay in it and allow him to be as big of a pig as he wants to. "Besides," she says. "God doesn't condone divorce."

Fine. Don't get divorced, if that's what you believe. But don't put up with Joseph's crap, either. Give him the choice to change and help him in his changes, but if he doesn't, then get the heck outta there. Because God certainly doesn't condone emotional abuse. She must really, really hate herself to believe that this is what God wants for her. And sure, Joseph might enjoy it for now, but she isn't doing him any service in the long run by enabling this behavior.

And in the meantime, she and Joseph are raising two tiny little piglets, so that the next generation can have their fair share, too.

Scooby dooby doo, where are you?

2007-04-04T13:14:00.000-06:00

Scooby learned to do two terrifying things this week. Each is terrifying on its own, but together they just might be the end of the world.

He learned
1. To get out of his crib by himself
and
2. To open closed doors.

Please keep in mind that we are living in my in-laws' basement while we wait for our old house to sell and our new house to be finished.

Yesterday morning, I awakened to the sweet sounds of little Scooby POUNDING on my Mother-in-law's piano upstairs. Yikes....

Then, when I put Scooby down for a nap, I put Bubba in the bath tub and went to go get some stuff out of the kitchen. Upon my return, this is what I found:

(Yes, that is Scooby fully dressed, having jumped in to join his brother.)

And then this morning topped it all off. I was awakened by Lil' Dude crying this morning, so I went into his and Scooby's room to check on him and discovered that Scooby wasn't there. I started looking around for him all over the basement. Couldn't find him. Went upstairs. Couldn't find him. Starting to panic now, realizing that there are so many things in this not-exactly-childproof house that he can hurt or be hurt by, I started yelling his name.

I finally found him asleep on the doormat by the door that leads to the garage.

He was completely naked, except for a diaper, soaking wet--drenched and sticky from something (unknown at this point)--and trembling from the cold.

He had obviously been thirsty, because he had gathered every bottle of everything, from soda to household cleaners, and the one bottle he had managed to open--Cherry 7 Up (which was incredibly lucky, considering the options) had been spilled all over him and the floor. As I approached him, he awoke with a start and began screaming and screaming. I knew that my mother-and father-in-law were still sleeping, so I tried to keep him as quiet as I could while I cleaned and comforted him. Poor baby. He was really startled and had obviously been through a great ordeal.

So, my father-in-law put a lock on Scooby's door, so I can lock him in his bedroom. It seems cruel. At the same time, though, it's for his own safety. Poor kid. This is a very hard age!

Distractions

2007-04-03T14:14:00.000-06:00

This was a dream come true for my parents.

My parents were great adventurers. They had pretty much seen everything and been everywhere. But this one last stop meant the world to them.

They were distracted. And who can blame them? How often is a lifelong wish granted?

Obviously, if you'd asked either one of them, they would have adamanty professed that the safety of their youngest daughter was more important to them than anything, including this. And I believe that they meant it too. But somehow they were so excited and distracted by their dream that they didn't see my camel driver slipping away with me.

I watched in horror as my parents continued on towards the great pyramids, and I was being taken somewhere else. Logic would have told me to scream and make a scene, but I was a stupid teenager and it didn't even occur to me that that was an option. I just froze and rode the camel to wherever it was being driven.

Fortunately, I wasn't just stupid--I was lucky, too. How many little girls live to tell such a story? I wasn't hurt. I wasn't even touched. My camel driver didn't want me, he just wanted money, which I didn't have. But my daddy did, and if he would kindly take me back to my family I would see that he got paid. Miraculously, my driver took me back to them.

They didn't even know I'd been gone.

And now, I'm all grown up. I, too, get distracted. We all do. We sacrifice what matters the most for what's distracting us in the moment.

My distractions include chocolate, entertainment, vanity, laziness, convenience, being in "too big of a hurry" and so much more.

What distracts you?

ch-ch-ch-changes

2007-04-03T00:59:00.001-06:00

You click on my blog. The page loads. But wait! Something here looks different! Are you in the right place?

Rest assured, gentle readers, that you are in the right place. It's just that I get antsy really easy. Also, my sweet husband just so happens to be a professional web developer and slowly but surely he's managing to crack through my unbelievably thick skull to show me a thing or two. Bear with me. I'm learning. I'm trying. Really, I am!

(Did you notice my cool rotating pics of my kiddos? Didya? Didya? Please tell me how cool it is. PLEASE! You have absolutely no idea how long it took me to figure that out. Seriously. I need the positive reinforcement, people...)

Interrogations

2007-04-02T10:09:00.000-06:00

The Lovely and Illustrious Sugan Kane graciously interviewed me this weekend. She gave me my own personalized list of questions to answer. Now, I have here-to-fore shied away from "memes," because I don't really think anyone CARES that my favorite color is green or that I prefer chocolate to just about anything else in my life. However, in this case, these are more thought-provoking and more interesting and I thought it would be fun! So, without further ado, here we go:

1. What's been the biggest challenge in caring for four children all 5 years and younger? Goodness, the biggest challenge? There are SO many, but none of them very significant. Now, before I sound like I'm complaining, let me assure you that I am NOT. These children didn't just beam themselves into my life, nor were any of them "mistakes." Hubby and I planned every single one of them. That probably surprises some of you, but it's the truth. (And, for those nosy inquiring minds, there are absolutely no plans whatsoever for future offspring, thank you very much.)

Anyway, back to the actual question, I think that one of the biggest challenges is when someone is sick. This weekend, for instance, Lil' Dude began throwing up. A lot. I took him (and the other three kids in tow, of course--chaos ensued, as usual) to the doctor, who looked at him and told me that he had a gastro-intestinal something or other and that he was highly contagious and to expect all of my kids to get it.

And sure enough, a Puke Fest Was Born.

Along these same lines, a couple months ago, Lil' Dude was hospitalized for severe RSV. The other kids weren't allowed at the hospital. So somehow I had to juggle a baby in the hospital and three very young and needy children at home. I think this was the hardest time yet. Hubby and I were running completely ragged. We weren't getting any sleep. The baby wasn't getting better. I was trying to be everywhere at once and trying to meet the needs of a very sick baby without compromising my time and attention to the three healthy kids at home.

(Lil' Dude in his hospital gown. How cute is that? Who knew they made hospital gowns in, shall we say, "petite" sizes!)

But we made it through! We always do!

2. What is your dream holiday? This one is hard, because part of me would really love to get away from the kids and have a nice relaxing time. But the other part of me would miss them terribly. So I really don't know. But I think I'd love to just go away with Hubby for a week to somewhere warm and full of history and interesting things to see and learn. So let's go with Italy, and just the two of us.

3. Which freebie would you choose:
A] new home, equipped with maid, cook, and wait staff
B] college tuition for your children Funny you should ask. We are actually building a brand new dream home of sorts--it will be done in a month. I don't mind cooking and I certainly don't need a wait staff (though the maid would be AWESOME). So I guess I'd choose college tuition for the kids. We have been actively saving for their college, but what if one of them were to be accepted into an Ivy League school or something? We'd never be able to afford it, but I'd hate to deny them such an amazing opportunity. So, B it is.

4. Who would you want to play you in the movie version of your life and why? Angelina Jolie. Hahaha. Because, see, she's hot and edgy, yet still considered a humanitarian and a great mom. I guess that's how I'd like to be seen. Plus, if she's in it then it will be a huge box office blow out, leading to fame and fortune for me. See? Everybody wins!

5. If you could spend a year living in any era which would you pick and why? I thought about this one a lot over the weekend. I'm fascinated by culture and history and there are so many eras that I could maybe spend a DAY in, but not a whole year. See here's the problem. I'm just too loud and obnoxious and opinionated. I could never live in a time when women weren't allowed to have their opinion heard. So, with that in mind, I would go with the Sixties, because I would have enjoyed being involved in the marches of the Civil Rights movement and Vietnam protests and so on. Plus, I'd do pretty much anything to be able to have seen the Beatles live!

Thanks a ton for the questions, Sugan Kane. And now it's my turn to become interviewer! Woohoo! Those of you who'd like an interview, go ahead and mention it in the comments. I'll put my personalized questions for you in my comments, and then you answer the questions on your own blog. A good time will be had by all.

This Hate Cycle

2007-03-30T14:46:00.000-07:00

I came to you with an open mind--too open. Not being a part of this particular conflict, but just an impartial observer, I wanted to learn about both sides. I was learning BOTH languages. I was studying BOTH cultures. I knew that this was all bigger than me, but somehow I thought maybe one day I'd be able to help resolve it all.

I was only 12 years old. So were you.

We weren't friends, or anything. We'd never met before. It was your assignment to show me around your school. I think we both thought that we could be friends.

You walked me through the hallways and discussed what you did at school and what you learned. You were learning Algebra. Hey, me too! You were learning biology, literature. We had so much in common.

At some point, we came to a glass-enclosed display. All I saw was cloth, stained and torn. I looked to you for an explanation.

And then your eyes changed. You grew dark, angry. It frightened me.

"Three weeks ago, three innocent men were killed. They are martyrs. This is their clothing here--the clothing they were wearing when they were brutally shot. You see their blood on their shirts. You see the bullet holes. We keep this here to remind us of our enemies and their wickedness. It reminds us of their unprovoked brutality towards us. They must be conquered. We must prevail."

My breath caught in my throat. I considered telling you that you were wrong. Your eyes challenged me to do so. Thank heavens I didn't--I likely wouldn't have made it out of the country alive.

But I had been downtown the day those men lost their lives. These men, whose clothing hung here in a shrine, were no heroes. They had mercilessly slaughtered nine truly innocent people--three of them children--before the police had finally arrived and stopped them with their bullets. These three men were not martyrs, they were murderers.

"But you're just children!" I said, instead. I had been forced to see blood, bullets, bombs. But I didn't think that all children should have to. Certainly not at school!

"How else will we learn?"

And there it was--the great unbridgeable difference: My schooling taught me history. Yours taught you lies.
I couldn't blame you for believing the lies. It was all you had ever heard. I couldn't blame your friends, your parents, your teachers. It was all they had ever heard.

And now I was terrified. I couldn't breathe. I had to leave. Your hatred, though not yet aimed at me, was suffocating and I couldn't be there anymore. This place, this evil place, where children were taught to hate, was imprisoning me and I had to escape. I wanted to beg you to escape with me, though I knew you never would. I wanted to rescue you from this conflict, but you were too deeply entrenched. So I left you there.

We knew we could never, ever be friends.

I never said that the other side was right, but you are so very wrong.

And now I'm 28, as are you, and I think of you from time to time. I'm married. I have children. We live a safe, comfortable life. And you? Did you survive your hatred, or has it killed you yet, as it has killed so many of your countrymen? Is your life full of terror? Do you have children? Do you teach them what you were taught? Of course you do. You don't know anything else. If you live long enough to raise another generation, that generation will be consumed with the same hate.

Someone has to break this cycle. I no longer think that it will be me. I can't. I don't understand. I feel helpless and hopeless. The more I learn, the less I know.

But I make an oath, here and now, that my children will never learn any form of hatred from me. And if that's the best I can do, it will be a lot.

Muscle Guy Three

2007-03-29T22:01:00.000-07:00

Here's my cute little Fluffy in all her cute little fluffiness.

As I understand it, many children have imaginary friends. I never did, but that's because I was way too logic-driven from a very early age. I guess I sorta assumed that since I didn't ever have an imaginary friend, my children wouldn't have them either.

HAHAHAHAHA

(That was one of my very few complaints about my own mother--she just assumed that my siblings and I would be just like her and it really threw her through a loop when we weren't. She would buy me clothes in colors that would have looked great on HER, but TERRIBLE on me. She sent me to schools that would have worked for her but didn't work for me. She tried to dissuade me from making certain career choices, simply because they weren't the right choices for HER. And here I go, assuming that my children will be just like me, which they aren't.... But I digress...)

Fluffy has an imaginary friend. Actually, she has an imaginary husband. (Where does it talk about imaginary husbands in the parenting handbook? WHERE???)

She talks about him ALL THE TIME. By name. And what's his name?

Muscle Guy Three.

And how on earth did she come up with that name?

I HAVE NO IDEA!!!! NONE AT ALL!!! She just started talking about him one day. In great detail. She knows him so well. I kinda think she knows him better than I know my own, real, flesh-and-blood husband.

For the first few months, Hubby and I snickered. It was so cute, so silly.

We don't snicker anymore. Muscle Guy Three is part of the family now. Seriously, we're so accustomed to him and stories about him that we don't even flinch. I ask her how Muscle Guy Three is today and she answers me in a very civilized manner. It's very matter-of-fact for all of us now.

Soon she will go to Kindergarten and it will be interesting to see how her friends respond to her stories about her Husband... I hope they won't be too cruel...

Did you have an imaginary friend when you were a child? If you have children, do they have imaginary friends?

As I sit here, staring at the computer,

2007-03-29T14:21:00.000-07:00

I see her there. I see her name as it pops up as she signs onto instant messenger. I know that she sees me too.

She was once the dearest sister anyone could have. Ten years my senior, she adored me, defended me, gave me a voice when others thought I was too young to deserve an opinion.

I don't know when she became angry. Actually, as I think about it, she's always been angry at someone--it just wasn't ever aimed at me.

Months ago, at our happy family reunion, she'd had it with me. Right there in Disneyland, in a very loud way and in front of all my siblings and all our kids, she made it clear that I was no longer welcome to speak to her. She was no longer interested in me or my children or my opinion. She walked away, dragging her kids and husband behind her, and has not spoken to me since.

My attempts to apologize for whatever it was that I did have been ignored or, worse, ridiculed.

Life is too short for this! We mean too much to each other!

So I sit helplessly, staring at her screen name, knowing that I can't be the one to make contact. I just wait, knowing that she sees my name there too.

Storing Stupidity

2007-03-28T23:15:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, I was at a grocery store going through the check out. I handed the cashier a nice, perfectly organized bundle of coupons. As if I weren't standing RIGHT THERE, she turns to a fellow cashier and says, "you know, these people come through with coupons and I just want to say to them, 'get an education!' Seriously, they're so pathetic."

Uh.... First of all, being a cashier like her at Albertsons CLEARLY requires a higher education than what I have. Secondly, only DUMB people use coupons because SMART people choose to buy their cereal at full price. And, lastly, I WAS STANDING RIGHT THERE!!!

Similarly, though a lot worse, my dear friend Kate was joyfully spending lots of money in Vegas a few days ago. She asked a sales lady if they had a certain pair of pants in a larger size. *I pause here to define "larger." We are not talking about a gigantic size, here. We are talking about a perfectly healthy, normal, socially acceptable size--and somewhat smaller than MY current size...* Anyway, the sales lady said that no, they do not carry that size anymore. Later, Kate was in a dressing room in the same store and overheard the sales lady saying, "yeah, Corporate doesn't carry the FAT sizes anymore. I guess they don't want FAT people shopping here." Snicker, snicker. Kate, of course, heard every word.

Sales people can be really dumb. Clearly.

Have you had things like this happen to you? This is a chance to share your worst stories! Also, how did you handle the situation?

And then she found a rock and hid under it for the rest of eternity

2007-03-28T09:53:00.000-07:00

So, I got all the kids ready to go and even put on my new sassy jeans (yeah, I took back the shoes and got new jeans... so much for buying groceries, right?)

Well, as it turned out, Hubbadubba was taking us to dinner because he'd been given a gift certificate. It was to a Mexican restaurant in Orem, about half an hour away. There are, of course, approximately a billion Mexican restaurants in Utah, so we didn't think anything of the fact that we'd never HEARD of this particular one.

We pulled up to the "restaurant" which was a little hole in the wall of a strip mall where everything was in Spanish. Everything.

As we were getting out of the car, Bubba peed his pants. With some pants, you can hide the wet spot. Bubba was not in those pants. He was in the pants that reward a little pee a with a great big wet spot. I wasn't sure what to do, but I really had no other option than to take him in to the restaurant, wet spot and all.

We walk into the "restaurant" which had about 6 small tables set up, 4 of which were fully occupied by very burly, drunk, Hispanic men.

Let me pause here to say that I am not of those people who has a problem with Hispanics. At all. I did volunteer work in South America for a year and a half and I speak Spanish fluently.

However, in this situation, my little family of six felt pretty little, very young, and COPIOUSLY white.

And, of course, we had all eyes glued on us from the moment we walked in the door.

The menus? All in Spanish. I had to translate for Hubby and the kiddos. A waiter, who remarkably spoke pretty good English, came over to us and we ordered. It took forever, but eventually our order was in.

In the meantime, the kids were gorging themselves on the free chips and salsa. Scooby was in a high chair with no straps to keep him in, so he was climbing all over the table and throwing menus onthe floor, etc. I was working so hard to keep everyone and everything under control. I didn't want to be one of "those moms" who goes to a nice restaurant and sits back while the kids turn it into a disaster area. Fortunately, this WASN'T a nice restaurant. Still, I was determined to keep the kids under control. Then the baby started screaming. Hubby picked him up and discovered a total diaper blow out. Again, I had no handy change of clothes, so now I had one pee-soaked child and one screaming poop-soaked baby. And then Scooby, climbing out of his high chair, grabbed the salsa and guzzled it. What do you suppose he did next? Well, he screamed his brains out, of course, because the salsa was HOT.

Our waiter walked by, and Hubby decided to ask what he should have asked in the first place, which was, do they take this gift certificate. The waiter looks at it and said, "No."

WHAT???

They don't take gift certificates anymore because of gift certificate fraud. Too many copies. Hubby points out all the security seals on this particular gift certificate--watermarks, security seals, etc. in an attempt to prove that this one was NOT a copy. The waiter was unimpressed. "No, we do not take any gift certificates." "Well, then we won't be eating here," Hubby announces. The waiter shrugs and says, "okay!"

I nearly died. Really. I think my poor, pathetic life began flashing before my eyes.

"Excuse me?"

And now, in all-out tantrum mode, "NO!!! WE'RE NOT LEAVING!!!! WE'RE SO HUNGRY!!!"

We grabbed them and pulled them out the door, leaving our blurry-eyed, burly Mexican friends to stare at each other in awe and say, "what in the Giminy Christmas was THAT???"

Indeed. What WAS that?

So, we went to Taco Bell, where we didn't look like freaks at all, in comparison...

The devil's in the details

2007-03-26T11:53:00.000-07:00

So, I bought these shoes on Saturday night. I thought they were so darling. I had Bubba with me and I was kind of in a hurry anyway, so I didn't bother to try them on. After all, I KNOW my size, right?

So, I wore them to Church on Sunday. I put them on for the first time as I was walking out the door. "Youch," I thought. But, I knew that in the next few minutes my feet would adjust to them.

Nope.

The next three hours of my life were absolute hell. Hell at Church? Yes, indeed. Especially because I was teaching the third hour. Which meant that everyone in the room COULD SEE me hobbling around on these shoes. I looked like a 10 year old girl wearing her first pair of heels...

Take a good look at them, because this is the last time you'll see them, as they are headed back to the store from whence they came.

Get Clean Towels and Boil Some Water!!!

2007-03-23T20:05:00.000-07:00

Okay, I know I've posted a million times today, and those of you have me on google reader are probably ready to kill me right about now. But, as you can see, this is still a very new site and I'm trying my darndest to get it up and running. So, lucky for you, I'm pretty much posting everything that comes to mind right now! hahaha

So, yesterday while I was at my Relief Society meeting, a VERY PREGNANT woman came up to me.

"Hi!" she says. "I heard that you had your babies at home!"

"Three of them, yes," I replied, not sure if she was going to admire me or condemn me to hell for such "endangerment."

"Oh, that's so great. Can I have your phone number? I don't want to go to the hospital too early when I go into labor, but I'm afraid that if I wait TOO long, I might end up having this baby at home and I'd need your help, since you know all about this and you live so close."

I was flabbergasted.

Just because I have given birth at home does NOT mean that I automatically know how to deliver a baby!! That's like saying that since I had surgery on my kidney stones I can now perform the same surgery on someone else?

As if my midwife hadn't gone through years of schooling, hundreds of births, and an extensive liscensure process. And as if I just happen to have oxygen and pitocin and other possible necessities lying around my house that I could stick in my trunk and bring to her birth.

However, I was taken off guard just enough that I said, "Um, sure! Call me anytime."

Hahahahaha. YIKES!

Try THAT, boys!

2007-03-23T18:26:00.000-07:00

So, yesterday was a terribly busy day.

Besides getting all four kids (the oldest of whom is 5) fed and bathed (which should count as a full day's work) I had a meeting with the Realtor who is selling our old house (yes, the hot one). We hadn't found a babysitter, so Hubbyhubs and I had the kids with us. After that meeting we had ANOTHER meeting an hour away about our NEW house--a construction meeting thingy. We were flabbergasted to see that the whole thing is framed out, the roof is on, and the windows are installed. They were working on the electric when we got there. Our once far away dream is becoming a reality! There was much traipsing around the construction site with all four kids in tow, including one who peed his pants. Sigh.

From there, Hubs dropped me off at his car which I took out to our old house while he took the kids "home" to his parents' house, where we are currently living. I spent THREE HOURS going through crap in the basement, sorting, arranging, etc.

Then I went to my Releif Society meeting(a women's group devoted to service and kindness and empowering women) and mingled and giggled and had a nice little well-earned break from the crazinesses of real life.

Then I went BACK to the old house and continued the basement project. Didn't leave until after 11:00 p.m. Got "home" at about midnight.

And WHY does any of this matter?

Because I did it all in sassy three-inch heels, thank you very much!!!

Soon, they'll encourage us to shoot our friends while hunting...

2007-03-23T15:19:00.000-07:00

I know that just about everyone I know and love (besides my dear husband) received some degree or another from the illustrious Brigham Young University (including both of my dear parents, who were professors there and retired from there). This is not meant to be an offense to you... I'm just becoming less and less interested in your University.... which is difficult... since they've been on my very-dark-if-not-completely-black list for some time now...

I just heard the SUPER DUPER news today--Dick Cheney himself is going to be speaking at BYU's commencement this year.

Our dear Vice President was available, of course, because NO ONE ELSE ON THE PLANET WAS INTERESTED IN BOOKING HIM!!! Seriously, people! Dick Cheney? The guy who tried to convince the American public that TORTURE was okay? The guy who stands beside our dopey president as he breaks one federal or international law after another?? The guy who leaked info about a CIA agent?? And does ANYONE besides me remember Haliburton???

Oh, but wait. He's a Republican. And this is, after all, the land of the Blind Republican Sheep. He could eat your children in front of you, but he's a Republican. Therefore, we must admire him and shout his praises. And maybe even teach a few Sunday School lessons about his endless virtues...

The Saga of the Hot Realtor

2007-03-22T09:10:00.000-07:00

Okay, as many of you know, I'm building a new house, which means that we're selling our old house, which means that Hubsters and the kiddos and I are living with my mother- and father-in-law. There are so many stories to be had here...

So, the realtor that we've hired to sell our house is, well, really hot. Which is awful, because he looks like he's about 15. HAHAHA. He's not, of course. He's married and has a kid. Still, he's got to be a few years younger than my 20-something self. What's funny, though, is that because he's so hot, it's TERRIBLY uncomfortable for me to carry on a conversation with him. I don't know why that is. If he were ugly, it would be no problem. But since he's hot, I feel like I'm somehow breaking some vow simply by speaking to him. Hahaha. This is so embarrassing...

Anyway, the point is that TODAY my old house will go on the market. Hubby-loo and I worked our keesters off getting it ready to sell for the last couple of weeks. Our hot realtor has not been all that excited about our old house all along. Not that I blame him--I'm moving because I don't like it either!

However, yesterday he walked through the newly cleaned, painted, and recarpeted house and he was so freaking impressed! WOOHOO!!! He wants us to raise the asking price significantly!!!! YIPPEEE SKIPPPEEE!!! I finally feel like the last few weeks of agonizing work will actually be worth something. Raising the price, though, will require my signature all over again, which will require that I speak to Hot Realtor in person, which is already making me feel anxious! I'm so, so pathetic.

A Special Shout Out

2007-03-21T14:21:00.000-07:00

This is a special shout out to the guy who was driving the BMW behind me last night at around midnight with your brights on. And the bumper riding was awesome too. I hope it was as special for you as it was for me. All fifteen minutes of it. Thanks again.

We've Moved!

2007-03-21T13:39:00.000-07:00

Welcome, gentle readers, to our new site. This one just, well, suits me better. I was gonna post a link to the old one, for my new viewers, but then I decided that I actually really liked the idea of a fresh start. Thanks for following me over here. Let's have some fun!

'Twas Brillig

2007-03-20T11:01:00.000-07:00

Hubby: 'Twas Brillig? I don't get it.

Me: You don't get what?

Hubby: I don't get the name of your blog.

Me: You know--"'Twas Brillig, and the slithey toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe..."

Hubby: I still don't get it.

Me: The Jabberwocky? Lewis Carroll? Alice in Wonderland? It's a poem full of non-existent words, but as you read it you completely understand the meaning and the feeling of the poem. It feels like the words mean something, even though they're really just nonsense. It's funny, artistic, and mystical all at once.

Hubby: Okay, that's kinda cool. But I don't think anybody's gonna get it.

Me: Really? I just sorta thought that everyone would get it! Maybe I'd better find a way to let them know, just in case...

And here's the full text of the poem, just in case you're interested...

JABBERWOCKY

Lewis Carroll

(from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872)

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.