I'd like some condiments for this foot in my mouth, please

This weekend, we attended the baptism of a very good friend's daughter. This dear friend had family coming from all over the country for this special event - family of hers that I was reacquainting myself with, and family that I was meeting for the first time.

So I am sitting in the chapel, waiting patiently for the event to commence. I am thoroughly enjoying myself as I make small talk with those around me.

I turn when I notice a tall, handsome man approaching the pew where I am sitting. He starts chatting with the family on the bench next to me, who I know to be relatives of my good friend.

I reach out my hand to this tall stranger and say, "Oh, you must be Stuart's Dad. It's so nice to meet you."

He smiles, chuckles and says, "Um, no. Actually I'm Craig, his brother-in-law."

HOLY. FRICKIN'. CRAP.

I cringe and felt the oxygen sucked from the room as I realize that I have just mistaken a man in his early 40s FOR ONE IN HIS MID-70s. I reel with horror at my most ridiculous mistake yet, and immediately look to see if it would be noticeable if I crawled under the bench to hide. Better yet, I think, would be a shovel with which I could dig my own grave, and hide in my shame for all eternity.

The Husband, ever on my side, leaned over and told Craig that the only fitting rebuttal is for him to turn and ask me when my baby was due.

Touche, dear Husband, touche.

The very youthful victim of my verbal faux pas

Honestly. How did I mistake him for a man in his 70s? I don't know what I was thinking at the time those awful, irretrievable words came flying out. I have no excuse but my own stupidity.

Fortunately for me, Craig has a sense of humor. Throughout the rest of the day's festivities, he joked and laughed about his old and infirm state. He even smiled and posed the next day while I took some pictures of his darling - AND VERY YOUNG - family.

I think from here on out, I will keep my big yap shut.

These feet of mine don't taste as good as they used to.

Stealing Opa's most excellent idea

My middle son, Chase, has a slight obsession with all things military. And when I say slight, I mean he would literally sign up and head off to war today, armed with his vast knowledge of weaponry and battle, if the armed forces would let him.

When we see soldiers anywhere in uniform, he immediately runs up to shake their hand, and almost tearfully thanks them for their service to our country. I've written before about how he wanted to donate all our money to the marine corp veterans outside the grocery store. And he gets giddy with excitement when he sees recruiting centers and it's all I can do to keep him from just asking if he can sign up.

Because, "You never know, Mom. They might have changed the age limit!"

Heaven help me.

So you can imagine what Pearl Harbor was for him, then.

When he saw this vintage poster in the gift shop, he knew he had to have it.

My problem was how to hang it once we got it home. I did not want the four-thumbtacks-in-the-corners-approach, as I knew within weeks it would be shredded and warped.

Also knowing how my boys play in their room at night, the last thing I would allow was a giant-sized piece of glass hanging over their beds, just waiting to be shattered with a football. A traditional frame would never work.

So, what to do?

Thankfully, I married into a resourceful family. Opa had the idea in years past and we successfully adopted it here. You get a piece of foam board about the size of your poster (or larger, and just cut it down with a t-square and box cutter). Mount your poster ever-so-carefully using spray-on adhesive. You need about six pairs of hands for this step, as you want to ensure it lays smooth and flat without any air bubbles or premature adhesion.

Once that is done, wrap the edges in black tape, and voila! A gorgeous piece of military history that makes my little soldier so very happy.

I think it actually looks pretty cool and am now wishing we had picked up a few more.

Wait! I will volunteer go back and get them. Yeah, that's it. Send me!

Oh, all right. I'll stop.

Maybe.

Last trip post, I promise

I know you are all probably so sick of this vacation that you saw the title and clicked off to hunt for free porn. Nothing like days and days of someone else's boring vacation pictures, right?

Right.

Well, too bad. At least for one more day anyway.

I end the Seattle/Hawaii Trip '09 with some stats and (of course) more pictures. To give you an idea of our endeavors over the last 13 days without writing down every detail, here is some data that is pretty representative of the fantastic experience we had:

• Total number of flights: 7
  
• Total number of bags checked on flights: Zero, thanks to my awesome packing
  
• Total number of hotels we stayed at: 5
  
• Estimated caloric intake per day by me alone: 9,678 thankyouverymuch
  
• Pounds gained while on this vacation: I am sure at least 8.
  
• Number of fish viewed while snorkeling: 756 or more
  
• Number of bloody wounds received from jagged coral while snorkeling: 2 (both mine)
  
• Bottles of sunscreen used: 4
• Number of people in our family who took hula lessons: 2 (all female, naturally)
  
• Number of people in our family who swam in a cage with sharks all around: 3 (all male, of course)
  
• Total number of days before I adjusted to the time difference: 9
  
• Number of days it will likely take me to adjust back: 14
  
• Dollars spent shopping: Much, much less than it could have been, dear Husband. Remember that in the days to come when you look at the bank statement, mmkay?
  
• Pounds of sand washed down our hotel shower drain per day: 3
  
• Number of former KSL weathermen seen at the Hawaiian Temple: 1 (bonus if you guess who it was)
  
• Number of times the natives called me 'Cousin': At least 27
  
• Minutes until I am ready to go back again: I'd say less than one. It actually hurts a little bit to think that Hawaii is still out there in this world, existing, without me in it.

And finally, because my little i-phone picture posts were so tiny (a pet peeve of mine), here are a few of my favorites so far. I have yet to barely wade through the hundreds and hundreds of shots I took, so these will have to do.

Aloha and mahalo

I can hardly bear the thought of getting on a plane and leaving this place, but the time has come.

My face is puffy and swollen from all the sun, my skin is pruned from all the water, and my pants are pinchy and tight from all the food.

Oh, I could write for days about the gluttony alone.

Instead, I will pack our bags and head for home with the memory of a fabulous trip and the relief that no one got sick (except for those few unmentionable hours on the Road to Hell).

Aloha, Hawaii. Mahalo from the bottom of my heart.

--Kiliki (Christie in Hawaiian)

Note to self

When your children want to buy ukeleles for souvenirs, it is a good idea to make them wait until the last day of the trip.

Instead of when you have FOUR DAYS LEFT for them to pleasure you with their plinking and plucking.

Oh the joy.

Giving up halfway to Hana

Let's just say the Road to Hana (or Road to Hell, as we are calling it) is now paved with something other than good intentions.

It is paved with the vomit of all three of my children.

It is a winding, one-lane recipe for car sickness with no room on either side to even stop and puke.

Solution? Let the poor babies hang their heads out the window and let loose on the side of the car.

Please don't tell the nice people at Hertz.

I am pretty sure I deserved this for going on about the blissful trip I was having.

That karma is such a beyotch.

Hate me yet?

Because I totally would if I were you.

We are here on Maui and cannot get enough of the beach that is right outside our room. The boys are snorkeling so much they have started to grow gills.

Hannah keeps picking flowers for me to tuck behind my ears. I'm pretty sure the hotel isn't liking that, but it makes her so happy that I am powerless to stop her.

The husband is totally off the grid and loving it.

I honestly do not think there could possibly be a more heavenly place on earth. Pinch me, please.

Good morning, indeed

It's five a.m. here and for the first time in my life, I don't mind getting up to see the sun rise.

I may never come home.

Aloha, internets

And we are off...will be posting from the road via the wonderful people who invented the i-phone.

In case you were wondering how the pre-trip diet went, I am happy to report that through a combination of near-starvation and strenuous exercise, I dropped four pounds in four days.

Which will probably be put back on at breakfast tomorrow morning.

Which I am totally fine with. Just don't tell my thighs. They will not be thrilled one bit.

Selfish, chubby thighs. Always thinking of themselves.

Don't have too much fun without me.

"Ugh, I think I can actually hear you getting fatter"

[Anyone know the classic movie where that line comes from? I do. And every time I watch it, it makes me laugh so hard a little pee comes out.]

To say the scale has not been my friend the last few days would be a bit of an understatement.

That damn thing hasn't been my friend for a good two weeks.

It really isn't shocking or unexpected. There have been more than a few rounds of cookie dough. There have been cakes and pans of brownies. There have been endless bowls of my fabulous homemade guacamole (a recipe which I really ought to share with you one of these days). And I'm not sure, but I think I may or may not have eaten 1,873 pounds of M&Ms.

I am feeling it and I am not happy with that feeling. To make matters worse, we leave in three days for a little vacay in Hawaii wherein I was planning on looking seductive and trampy on the beach. Not lumpy and fat on the beach.

But, I've not lost heart. I am going to give the next three days my best effort and see if I can drop a pound or two.

Failing that, I'll just drown my sorrows in a super-sized tub of cookie dough, buy a muu-muu, and tell my trainer it wasn't my fault when I get back.

Sound good?

Shut up.

Making peace with my freckles

The other day, I was driving somewhere with all three kids in the car. I listened quietly from the front seat to their happy banter,relishing the back-and-forth between them.

That is, until I heard these words said by Hannah:

"I hate my freckles. I have so many of them and they make me look so ugly."

McKay responded with this:

"I hate mine, too. They make me look like such a little kid. I wish I didn't have any freckles."

Horrified, I realized they were repeating VERBATIM things that have come from my own mouth.

I glanced in the rear view mirror, frowning slightly at my face full of them, and took a deep breath. I jumped in and told them how much I love their freckles and my freckles, and how cute they look on all of us. I told them their freckles were angel kisses from heaven, and that it meant we were special.

That brilliant plan worked well until the one child WITHOUT freckles piped up and asked if that meant he wasn't special.

Crap.

Can't win here, can I?

Anyhoo, I have decided from here on out to publicly embrace my freckles, lest my children develop a complex and feel slightly unattractive all their lives thanks to me. I will stop complaining out loud about them. I will stop whining about them while flipping through People magazine. And I will try to stop comparing my skin to all the non-freckly skin out there.

We are what we are, and that's good, too. (Any one know which old musical that fabulous line comes from? It's a classic.)

It does not mean, however, that I will stop photoshopping them away every chance I get. Like this picture from last summer (when my hair was so gloriously long).

Before:

And after:

(Admit it, the after is so much better. Just don't admit it in front of my kids)

Psychological inkblots or fireworks? You decide

So. I have decided it was wise not to kill my boys over the basement flood, even though they might have deserved it. I also forgave them when, a mere day later, my boys were wrestling in the basement and my oldest child put a giant hole in the wall with his knee. (Yay, Dad! Another hole for you to fix on your next visit!)

I have not ruled out selling them to gypsies, however.

But for fun, I thought I'd show you some of my favorite fireworks pictures from this year and tell you how to make some of your own for next year.

I know, it might have been nice to have this information on, say, July 3rd. But what can I say? This is the best you can expect from me this week.

I love taking pictures of fireworks - it's like distorted, colorful works of art that come out gloriously different every time you click the shutter. You never know what you're going to get. Someday I may mount a few of these on canvas and find someplace cool to hang them.


First, your camera must be set to manual for this. For those of you who waste a perfectly good SLR camera by keeping it on the auto setting, turn the knob to the giant "M."

Also, if the previous paragraph applies to you, stop what you are doing immediately. Log on to Amazon, send away for this book, and pray I forgive you for your ignorance.

For those of you who actually know how to use your camera properly, you will be allowed to move on to step two.

Lower your shutter speed until it says "bulb." This is the slowest shutter speed setting and will allow you to manually hold the shutter open for as long as your little heart desires.

You can put your f-stop (or aperture) at whatever you'd like - I played around with mine and found that the wider apertures (or smaller f-stop numbers) worked better as it allowed more light in. I also had my ISO set to 100.

Then, just point at the fireworks and shoot, holding down on the shutter release for as long as you like.

I didn't take my tripod this year, and I wish I would have. Balancing the camera on my knees while shooting in the rain wasn't ideal.

But they turned out pretty cool - each one more different than the last.

And afterwards, it's totally fun to study each picture and find something in the lines, squiggles, and colors. Kind of like a homemade inkblot test of sorts. You can give them to your family for an enlightening night of psycho-analysis. (Get it, en-LIGHT-ening? Okay. Bad pun).

For the record, my children saw food in nearly every picture. What does that say about us?

Is it just me or does that last one look slightly like Daniel Craig? A little? No?

Fine. Party poopers.

A question on a summer Monday

Question:

What happens when your boys decide to build a fort in the unfinished part of the basement near the air conditioners, and they shove the condensation hoses away from the drain and point them towards the finished part of the house, where carpet, drywall, and other such things reside?

Answer:

A freakin' flood, that's what.

Be back soon, I promise. Just as soon as I finish dealing with the water, the pulled up carpet, the soaking wet drywall, and general clean-up of the area. Oh, and as soon as I decide to let the boys out of their cage again.

They're only still alive because they didn't know what those hoses were for and I can't legally kill them for their ignorance.

Believe me, I wanted to.

Don't hate her because she's beautiful

Last week, I was lucky enough to get my hands on this gorgeous girl for a photo shoot. I'd had it on the books for a few weeks, and I was dying to get her in front of my camera.

And do you want to know the best part? She has no idea just how absolutely beautiful she is.

Which makes her just about the nicest girl you'll ever meet.

I know, right? I took about 450 pictures and spent four hours whittling them down to the top 100. They were all THAT GOOD. It had absolutely nothing to do with my photography skills, and was attributable entirely to her gorgeous self. She couldn't take a bad picture if she tried.

I like to call this one her sexy look.

Which kind of annoyed and grossed her out.

It's almost unfair - someone having skin this flawless. There was nary a freckle or a blemish to be found. In my next life, I demand to look exactly like this.

Thanks, Rachel. You are a darling girl and as nice as they come. I had a blast taking pictures of you.

Oh, and stay away from all the boys this fall at BYU. You might not realize your charm, my dear, but they most certainly will.

Breakfast in bed

A few days ago, I heard some clattering down in the kitchen. I flopped over and groggily looked at the clock, then immediately rolled over and went back to sleep.

I mean, if those kids of mine want to wake up at the crack of dawn and forage for their own breakfast? Have at it.

About an hour later, all three of them appeared eagerly at the foot of my bed, a tray balancing precariously in the hands of my youngest. I sat up, put my glasses on, and tried to graciously receive their thoughtful gesture.

There was a browning apple, cut and arranged into the shape of a flower, most happily by my oldest son. He practically burst with pride while he told me of the great effort it was to cut it up without slicing off any of his fingers.

I silently thanked their guardian angels for THAT small help.

There was also a (now) cold cup of what appeared to be hot chocolate. A quick stir brought up the many spoonfuls of hot cocoa mix that were residing on the bottom. My middle child noted with great joy how he successfully managed to boil the water and pour it into the cup without burning himself or anyone else.

I then not only thanked their guardian angels, but I began to see the whole morning as nothing short of miraculous.

And, lastly, there was a bowl of my favorite cereal, and I only know this because it was pointed out to me by my youngest child. It was pretty much unrecognizable as anything other than brown mush.

Her hazel eyes shone as she told me how she poured the milk ALL. BY. HERSELF. She then went on to say how she finished her part of my breakfast first and had to wait (somewhat impatiently) for the boys to finish theirs.

Translation: My cold cereal had been sitting in milk for about an hour.

I tell you this - it took everything I had to eat that cereal in front of their happy faces. I tried to disguise my gagging, and with each soggy bite it grew more difficult. I made it about halfway through and then convinced them that we should all go downstairs and eat together.

Somehow, magically, the cereal was gone before I made it downstairs.

I think the toilet really liked it.

The Week of Josh

Last week, as we do every year, we celebrated the Husband's birthday and Father's Day - all within a few days of each other.

He has dubbed it, "The Week of Josh," and makes demands for cakes, presents, and celebratory honor all week long.

I roll my eyes each and every year, groaning out loud, and wondering when it will ever be the Week of Stie. The children, however, jump with glee at the mere possibility of getting cake every day, and immediately start making homespun presents from clay, sticks, and rocks.

Which everyone totally wants for their birthday.

This year, however, the week of Josh was doomed from the start.

Business took him out of town on his birthday and the evening of Father's Day, something no man should ever have to do.

A search for the one present he actually wanted this year ended in disappointment as we discovered it will be back ordered for several weeks. (I have consented on this gift for a few reasons, one of them being that he'll just go out and buy it anyway, and the other because it just so happens to be the weapon of choice for my imaginary boyfriend, James Bond. Nothing wrong with bringing your fantasies to life, right?)

And just a few days shy of his actual birthday, his loving wife accidentally uploaded a system-crippling virus onto the family computer. Doing this resulted in hundreds of dollars shelled out to Geek Squad, and the eventual purchase of a new computer. A computer which everyone but the Husband will realistically use.

Top that off with the trip made to the Apple store wherein the loving wife was also purchased an i-phone. Ahem.

So, for his 37th year, the Husband generously shelled out a large sum of money to make others happy, put his own birthday wishes aside, and cheerfully ate a large slice of the driest birthday cake in history.


While the many layers seem enticing and delicious, it was, in fact, not.

Happy Week of Josh, baby. In spite of indications otherwise, you are extremely loved. It is the generosity of your spirit, your soul without guile, and your constant thought of others that makes you who you are.

And, um, here's hoping I do a little better next year.

Epiphany

We are thick in the throws of summer around here (though you'd hardly recognize it with all the thunderstorms plaguing the land) and I have had a few epiphanies.

The most important being: I really like my kids.

I know that should not come as a new realization, but should be a natural, ever-present thought in a mother's mind.

And it is.

But sometimes it's hard to remember when you're constantly surrounded by the noise, nagging, and needs of three little ones.

This morning (and on several of the mornings lately) I have had the company of my oldest son on my runs. He's eagerly laced up his shoes and we've hit the streets together in the early hours. I was selfishly worried that the quality of my workout would suffer as a result of my young companion (I do eat all that cookie dough, you know), but that has not been the case at all.

This kid can really hold his own.

No one ever told me the elated sense of pleasure I would feel, having this little person suddenly big enough to physically keep up with me. Easy conversation, the back and forth between us is as natural as can be. He talks to me. Tells me things he's feeling and working on in his little 11-year-old world.

As the miles between us and home build up, I realize the distance between he and I shrinks drastically.

Back at home, the others have made strides of their own, as well.

Last night, the light beneath a door led to me discover Chase, still awake and reading. So wrapped up in his book, that all sense of time was lost. The urgent desire to see how it all ends was keeping him from sleep. His tired eyes sparkled as he told me of the book he just could not put down. I smiled as I shut the door, and left him to his happy ending.

This boy, the one who struggled and cried when he was learning to read. His letters constantly transposed and his eyes tired from the strain - often he was left in a puddle of anguish. And often I was left in a sea of worry.

I'll tell you what - I'll let him have that late night of reading any day.

And let us not forget the princess. She, who is sometimes the neediest and most loud voice of all. The girl who has been self-appointed as a one-woman tattling machine has lately been less consumed with what others are or are not doing, and more interested in her own pursuits.

I cherish the sleepy, rock star hair that strolls into my bedroom for an early morning cuddle under the covers. I love the sound of her voice, soft and scratchy, as she tells me of her hopes and dreams for the day.

She plans big, this one.

Always wanting to grab life by the horns, and so impatient when there are trifles like breakfast and showers standing in her way.

But I have also caught her watching me lately. Observing the way I perform this little job called Mom, and forming her own ideas of the way she'll do it herself one day. Makes me stand a little taller and strive to be that much better. To be more patient. To love more, and be cross less. To cherish, instead of just tolerate. To teach, and not just discipline.

Life is a series of peaks and valleys. And right now, I feel sheer gratitude for the mountain top I've been standing on. Here's hoping I get to stay here for a while.

Because I really like the view.

More baby love

A few weeks ago, I had the absolute pleasure of shooting this little pumpkin:

Meet baby Maya. All eyes and smiles, this one. She cooed, babbled, grinned, and was more cooperative than all three of my children combined.

All that while she was needing a nap.



I know, right?

It must be impossible to get anything done around the house with such a gorgeous girl emitting the baby love. If she lived here, I know I'd probably just sit and stare at her all day. But since I can't, I enjoyed her as long as I could, and fully bonded with her mama, Melissa, who is my newly adopted sister.

I love adopting myself into other people's families. It's so fun for me.

Posting may be a little bit sparse this week, as Hotel Stie is busy hosting the parents. We're trying to squeeze in a little fun in between all the chores I've had my dad doing this week.

Don't you just wish you could come visit me now? Come only if you have skillz or babies.

Or if you like Yanni.

Identity theft, i-tunes style

Dear i-tunes Hacker,

While I am sure you think that you are completely clever for hacking into our i-tunes account, let me burst your bubble -- clever, you are not.

It is beyond annoying, my program writing friend, that you changed our password so that we were unable to access our own account. And the genius level intelligence you possess must have helped you come up with the idea of giving us a new fake email address so that we would not receive notifications of your stolen purchases.

Which, by the way, MORON, did you think we would not notice? We, the people who pour over our bank accounts and credit card statements anyway, because there are people like you out in the world?

I could say that I hope that you really make the most of those two-fifty dollar gift cards that you purchased illegally with our credit card, and the thousands of others you've done this to, but I am fairly confident you will not.

Geeks like you have terrible taste in music.

I have no doubt that you are doubled over in a fit of girly-like giggles over your cleverness. You will laugh, I am sure, while you wipe the cheese from your giant bag of Cheetos on your favorite Star Trek shirt, then yell up and ask your mother to bring you some more mountain dew. She probably will, but be assured she is fervently praying that you will get your fat 30-year-old self out of her basement one of these next years, and is utterly and completely sick of you.

So, ha ha, funny man. Laugh it up. You may not ever be caught for this little escapade, but know this: KARMA IS A @ITCH, and one day, she will come calling.

Angrily yours,

Stie

Best. Night. Ever.

Me, pictured here with Oma's new Latin lover, Ender Thomas

Last Saturday, Oma and I headed downtown to attend the Yanni Voices concert. I had very few preconceived notions about this event, but was excited to go, given that I was handed free tickets. I remembered Yanni from the early 90s when one of my college roommates had a CD that would periodically be played around the apartment, and I always found his melodies soothing and peaceful.

All I thought I knew about Yanni changed less than a minute into the show.

SWEET. FANCY. MOSES.

It was absolutely one of the most phenomenal music experiences I've ever had. The 'voices' are artists that have put lyrics to Yanni's compositions. The songs vary; from melodic instrumentals, to Italian-sung perfection by soaring tenor, Nathan Pacheco, as well as Latin beats that got us out of our seats to dance. I was blown away at the sheer, raw talent on the stage; both in the singers and the musicians. It was haunting and sensual; the kind of music that you felt leave its mark on your soul.

I will never forget it.

After the show, we were invited backstage, where we got to meet Chloe, Leslie Mills, and Ender Thomas. They were gracious and charming, and just as beautiful up close as they were on the stage.

Which really isn't fair. I mean, beauty and talent? I must have been totally absorbed in pre-earth reality t.v. when god was handing those things out.

(me, Chloe, and my friend, Maren)

(Me and Leslie Mills)

I have become obsessed with the new Yanni Voices album, and would encourage all of you to get one and do the same.

And if you're lucky enough to have them come to your city, BUY A TICKET, MAN. I'll tell you what, if I could hear this live anytime soon? I'd be all over it in a heartbeat.

For your viewing pleasure: I leave you with my new boyfriend, Nathan Pacheco.

Seriously, does it get any more delicious than that?

Don't even think about stealing him. But please, go buy the CD. It's the only way I'll share him with you.

Weekend recap

This past weekend was absolutely spectacular.

Spectacular, if you don't count the vomit, fevers, and general plague that has inflicted two of my three children, that is.

Sort of like saying, "Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?"

Lucky for us, these visitors were patient and fun, in spite of our less-than-stellar state of health.

We loved having Oma and Opa come visit. There was a forced photo shoot (by me), a treasure hunt, a World War II war medal internet search, and plenty of embarrassing stories told about the Husband.

Because the best thing about his mother? She remembers absolutely EVERYTHING and the kids cannot get enough of it. Who can blame them, what with juicy nuggets like the infamous tale involving a very manly pink baby blanket? Or the one where the Husband's face was left looking like hamburger meat after a bike crash?

What they don't realize, however, is that someday I will be proudly telling stories to their children, too. I think it's only fitting that I begin with this one.

Maybe by then I will have forgiven them.

But we took advantage of the near-perfect weather and headed to the town pool, where we sat poolside for hours. Those that were unwell, sat pitifully in the shade of a large umbrella. Those that were well, did lots of this for their captive audience's viewing pleasure:


Those that were named Stie did lots of this, merely for her own pleasure:

We truly loved having them here. It was a fantastic few days, and we're already wishing for more.

Coming later this week: The Yanni concert review, which introduced the world (and Oma) to her new Latin lover, as well as identity theft, i-Tunes style.

Trust me, you don't want to miss it.