Thanksgiving 2010 (Also known as: Gluttony is Awesome)

Guess what? So it turns out that there is this crazy thing called "The Internet." And on "The Internet" there are these wacky things called "Blogs" where people keep a record of their everyday lives, showcase their family activities, and post for all the world to see on a daily basis.

Did you know that?

Isn't that amazing?

(One would think I'd never heard of it, the way I've been posting around here. Or NOT been posting.)

Well, I am back. I had a most excellent Thanksgiving, and will now proceed to bore you (The Aforementioned Internet) with photos and updates of my goings on. Feel free to click off and hunt for free p@rn unless you are:

a) a relative (and even then I might understand)
b) one of the 16 people featured in the pictures
c) a stalker who can't get enough of me, no matter how boring my posts become

We had quite a crowd here for the holidays, and it made my heart sing with joy. There is nothing more fantastic than sharing the sacred gluttony that is Thanksgiving with people I love. We had two of the Husband's brothers, their families, and the in-laws come to stay (for a total of 16, ranging in age from 64 to 14 months).

There was much eating. A lot of card playing. A couple movie viewings. A little sleeping. And definitely some more eating.

(There was also a computer virus, a flood in the car, and a minor vehicular accident. But who's counting the bad things, anyway?)

The best thing I did all Thanksgiving day (besides eat my weight in coconut cake) was hand my camera off to a brother-in-law. I tend to find myself preoccupied on days like this with the cooking, and do not always remember to do the picture taking. I am so grateful.

What would my crazy stalkers have to look at otherwise?

It was the best weekend, and my house seems far too quiet without all of them here. Anyone ready to come back?

Best. Thanksgiving. Ever.

Thirty-seven

Yesterday, I turned 37.

The Husband was out of town, and, knowing this, we had already planned to celebrate over the weekend. I was fine with it; after all, a birthday past the age of 20 is really just another day. But the children could not stand the thought of an actual birthday day passing without fanfare.

So Mack got up and made me french toast and sausage for my breakfast. Of course, he also remembered as he was plating it up that he needed to be at school early, and did I mind finishing cooking my own sausage when I got home from giving him a ride? And, oh, yeah, we need to leave like RIGHT NOW, MOM!

I didn't mind.

And it was still delicious when I got home 20 minutes later.

Hannah had a special card hidden in her room, something she had worked on for days and days. It was beautifully decorated, thoughtfully worded, and still applicable for next year's birthday, as she thought I was turning 38.

I didn't mind. I loved it anyway.

Chase had one of his specialties all ready to go: the birthday hug. And he proceeded to squeeze my soft, squishy middle no less than 13 times before going out the door, and easily that many times when he got home. Of course, he was hoping to schmooze his way into being able to light the match that lit the candles on my cake.

I didn't mind. I'll take a hug from my big, jointy boy anyway.

The birthday dinner was leftover spaghetti, and the birthday cake was made for me by my lovelies. It was topped with neon green frosting, sprinkles, and only three candles, but it was delicious.

And you know what? I wouldn't trade this birthday party for all the glamorous, grown-up parties in the world. THIS is the meat that life is made of. The crooked cake, cold sausage, and leftovers are what make my life greater than the sum of its parts. These are the things I will remember when their babies are making a birthday party for them. This is the story I will laugh about on the phone with the Husband tonight, when he gingerly asks if I had a good day.

This is the good stuff.

A happy birthday, indeed.

Irony

Hannah came running in, her cheeks flushed and her face set. She sighed, an exasperated release of air coming from her tiny chest.

I waited, stifling a grin.

She sighed again, looked at me and rolled her eyes, just willing me to beg it out of her.

Practiced in the art that is Hannah, again, I waited.

Impatient, she burst out, "Mommmmm! The boys called me a tattle-tale!"

I am not sure which offended her more - the boys' description of her; or me, doubled over with laughter, rolling around on the floor, unable to punish them for their keen ability to hit the nail right on the head.

Trying desperately to turn the glass upside down

I am not a glass half-full kind of girl.

I would like to be, but it is just not in my nature.

For example: A bad haircut can dissolve my seemingly rational self into a puddle of tears that lasts several hours, and continues every morning for oh, say, about six months or so.

Also? I am the person that will always react first, and think later.

I frequently resent the consequences of my own choices.

And I even pout in bad weather and cast blame on the universe for its conspiracy to ruin my life.

(Why, yes, I am a treat to be married to. Thanks for asking.)

In short? I'm a two-year-old temper tantrum in a 36 - almost 37 -year-old body. So naturally, when a minor [albeit highly annoying] medical issue* crops up in my life, I do what every sane, rational, intelligent grown-up would do:

I cry and feel horribly sorry for myself. For weeks at a time.

Turns out? I'm really, really good at that. Might be my best talent even.

Only it doesn't take very long and my kids are affected by it, and in puddles of tears themselves. My husband feels helpless and worried that this beast who has come to visit is his new wife.

And at the end of the day, I still feel angry and sorry for myself with the same problems that I had when I woke up. That isn't exactly the way I want to go through life.

So, I'm doing what most of you probably learned long ago: I'm sucking it up and focusing on the good things in my life. Like the fact that I have this awesome man who loves me (in spite of me) and works very hard to support my ridiculously lavish lifestyle. I have three beautiful, healthy, happy children who just want a mom that doesn't cry all the time. I have a wonderful home with all the comforts anyone could ever ask for (and then some). I have friends who love me and bring me dinner and diet cokes. I have family who call ALL THE TIME to see if I'm okay.

And in spite of the fact that the universe probably still has it in for me weather-wise, I think it's safe to say that I'm doing all right. My life is a good one. And I'm going to be okay.

Just wanted to say it out loud.

[*Yes, I am okay. No, I don't want to talk about it. It's truly not a big deal and I will be fine. Thanks to you sweet internet friends who noticed my absence and checked in on me. You all rock.]

A word of advice (the re-run)

[Originally posted April 3, 2008. And still hugely embarrassing]

Let's just say you are in your mudroom, putting in a new load of laundry. You have just finished working out, and are still wearing your exercise clothes. You notice they would fit nicely in the load you are putting in the washer. You then realize that you have nothing else to put on at the moment, but figure you can make a mad dash upstairs. After all, your daughter is in the basement happily singing along to Disney's latest brainwashing tool High School Musical, and your boys are at school. Plus, you were just about to jump in the shower anyway.

DO NOT, under any circumstances, listen to the voice in your head that tells you this is a good thing to do.

It's not.

For as your jiggly, white, naked body is sprinting up the stairs, the doorbell will ring. And you will notice the goofy smile of the UPS man, peeking through the glass on the side of your front door.

And he has just seen you in all your naked glory.

I mean this advice generally, of course. It's not as though anything like this has ever happened to me in real life.

Definitely not today.

And definitely not, say, about an hour ago.

Directions to Where I am (the re-run)

[Originally posted June 20, 2007]

Start in Salt Lake City on the very day that Nixon proclaims to the world, "I am not a crook." Have an older brother who keeps waiting for you to go back where you came from. Be adored by your Grandpa and have him set aside special gifts just for you. Find yourself the princess of quite a lot until that red-headed brother is born and steals your thunder. Love him in spite of this. Be immersed through your Mama in classic Broadway shows such as "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers" and "Cats". Learn at an early age that you cannot sing. Sing anyway. Be the only girl in a family of four boys. Realize you can run just as fast as the boys can. Embrace your tomboyishness.

Go to kindergarten proudly with a plaid lobster on the front of your jumper. Love your bearded kindergarten teacher who makes his own banjos and guitars. Laugh a lot. Talk so much that they stick you in a special class to help less "social" kids acclimate. Fly from the swings on the playground into salty, coarse gravel. Feel the freeing wind in your hair as you run. Fall off a skateboard and scratch up your face. Run through the sprinklers in your front yard. Try not to cry when your dad goes hunting and comes home with a deer. Go camping with your family at Trial Lake. Be given a box of chocolates in fourth grade by a boy. Have sleepovers with girlfriends and spend hours whispering and giggling. Grow tall early on, and find (to your dismay), that you are taller than all the boys most of your life.

Fall down while roller skating and severely break your arm. Have the first of six surgeries on this arm. Discover how grueling physical pain can be. Spend hours climbing the tree in your Grandma's front yard, collecting the "witch nose" pods that grow there. Pick fresh vegetables from her garden and listen to her Jazz Singer record over and over. Cry the first time you hear this record after your Grandpa dies. Sleep over at the cabin with all your cousins. Dance your heart out to the Footloose soundtrack. Savor the juicy sweetness of ripe peaches. Eat hamburgers at Hires. Go home and cry when boys begin flipping back bra straps and you are caught without one. Feel very womanly the next day when you arrive at school wearing your first bra. Be a little disappointed that no one ever tries to flip yours again. Never really make peace with your many freckles. Discover your love of literature.

Go through the awful stage where your body gets ahead of the rest of you. Be called ugly and fat by mean boys, and believe it for many years. Stuff your bra. Kiss a few very awkward boys. Fight with your parents. A LOT. Slam doors. Cry more than you want to. Pour your feelings into a journal. Feel so unsure of yourself that you wonder how you'll survive. Get on an airplane for the first time right after high school. Go to Chicago and win nationals in FHA. Go to college. Like a lot of boys. Learn to begin liking yourself. Send several boys off on missions, proclaiming your devoted and undying love for each one. Live with six girls and be glad you never had any sisters. Discover that you are a runner.

Meet a smart, cute gymnast quite by accident. Date him for only six weeks before getting engaged. Find that no one around you is shocked or even surprised at the shortness of time - because it just feels so right. Marry this man early one morning, surrounded by all your friends and family. Decide you are finally old enough to no longer pretend to like roller coasters. Move for the first time in your life to Minneapolis so your husband can attend graduate school. Make new friends.

Wonder if it will ever be your turn to be a mother, and blink your eyes to find that you are one. Cherish your babies, each in their turn. Sing each one to sleep with show tunes and John Denver songs. Make chocolate chip cookies and lots of peanut butter sandwiches. Kiss them every night before you go to bed. Wish it wasn't going so fast.

Move from Minneapolis to Seattle to Boston to San Diego. Be thankful for good friends all over the country. Be preparing to move to Missouri for the man you love. Look around and realize that you lead a charmed life. Spend as many days as you can at the beach. Re-learn the painful lesson of what happens when you don't wear sunscreen. Relish the sound of your kids playing so well with each other. Know that you are loved. Take a sip of diet coke. Over the phone, tell your husband just how great your day was. Miss him a lot. Blog. Write this. Wait anxiously to read other posts like this one. You're here.

This post was inspired by my friend, Annie, and her own life roadmap. I was fortunate enough to meet Annie while we lived in Boston, and my life has been richer ever since. Now it's your turn - how do we get to you?

I know, I hate re-runs, too

I'm taking a much-needed blog break. Life has not been on my side lately, and it's time to regroup and find my center.

But I'm not leaving you empty-worded here at Stie's Thoughts. I'm going to pull a few oldies (but goodies) out of the archives and re-post them.

Never thought I'd be one of THOSE bloggers, but such is life right now.

I'll be back next week to regale you with all the boring details of my life.

I know. Try to contain your excitement.

__________

Today I was strolling up and down the aisles of my local grocery store. I kept meeting the same person in the middle of each aisle. Every time I passed this man, he smiled up and me and said, "Hello, pretty lady."

Which, thanks to my most thoughtful son telling me all that is wrong with my fine self, I was needing today.

With each passing aisle, and each passing compliment, my self-esteem soared. See, McKay, SEE? Strangers tell me I'm pretty. I can't be ALL THAT bad.

But our little game ended when I heard him say the exact same thing to another store patron. Sadly, it was not a trim, cute soccer mom that drew his attentions away from me. It was a balding, elderly man wearing a pink shirt.

Next time our carts passed, I eyed him more carefully.

He is mentally challenged.

And I, unfortunately, am still ugly.

[Originally posted October 3, 2007]

Have a spooktacular weekend...

Sharing my mad skillz

Internets, we are full in the swing of the ONE TIME each year when I go off my rigid, healthy, vegetable-laden diet and indulge in sugar-filled sweeties like these:

What? French fries are a vegetable, are they not?

Oh, shut up.

Well, I do make these gorgeous cookies every year for Halloween, and as part of blog tradition, I share them here with you, too. After all, you really should benefit from the awesomeness that is my dessert recipe book. As should your heinie.

I start with the top-secret family sugar cookie recipe, shown here:

Do not mock. EVERYONE always asks me for the recipe when I show up with a batch of Betty's. They are moist, soft, and just the right amount of sweet. I swear by them and make nothing else anymore. It has nothing whatsoever to do with the extreme laziness of my nature and my inability to wait while dough chills. Ahem.

Mix according to the package directions, and drop by spoonfuls onto cookie sheets. Bake as directed on the bag. (See, you're liking this, aren't you? No rolling out dough. No cookie cutters. No counters covered in flour. Yeah, you're welcome.)

While cookies are baking, combine all ingredients for the glaze and beat well:

2 3/4 cup powdered sugar
2 tsp. shortening
3 Tbsp. water
1 Tbsp. corn syrup
1/4 tsp. vanilla

Glaze should be fairly liquid. You don't want it solid like frosting, but it should be slightly thicker than the white glue the children use at school. Add water or powdered sugar to reach the perfect consistency. (Helpful, aren't I?)

Dye 1/4 of the glaze black and put it in a pastry bag with a small writing tip. Leave the remaining glaze white.

These cookies work best when frosted warm, so I recommend baking and frosting just a pan at a time. When the cookies are a minute or two out of the oven, begin to frost with white glaze.

Pipe a bulls eye onto each cookie with your black glaze:

Taking a toothpick, start at the center, and gently draw lines going toward the outside edge of the cookie. Repeat around the entire bulls eye until your spiderweb is complete.

Top with a plastic spider, and voila! Look who gets to one-up all the other mothers at the school party. (Don't even pretend you don't want to. We ALL want to one-up the other mothers. Shameful, but true.)

I did let the minions help this time, though that generally goes against my inner Martha. It is very hard for me to let go of the control and allow little hands to smudge and smear. But since they were for the primary kids at church, I figured it'd be all right.

[Disclaimer: I never let the minions touch things that will be fed to adults. That's just gross. So, friends who have eaten my creations, rest easy.]

See what I mean? You can't see it, but there is almost as much frosting on the boy's fingers as there are on the cookies. Gross.

Hurry now. There's still time to make these and show off your awesome skills. I promise you, they will help you win friends and influence people.

Monday confessional

In honor of the fact that today is Monday (and Mondays really are the black sheep of the Day family), I feel the need to share some of the dark thoughts that are lurking in my soul.

The soul that is particularly dark and cranky on this Monday. For several reasons.

First, having just spent a small fortune to have all the trees in my yard pruned and trimmed, plus a dead one removed, it is most disheartening to have a large branch break off during a freak thunderstorm yesterday. Because really? I just love spending money on stuff like dead trees. It's way more fun than on, say, furniture and clothes. Both of which could be purchased for the same price of stupid dead trees.

Second, is it just me or does anyone else find it annoying to log onto reader and see that the Pioneer Woman (though my hero she will always be) has written like four posts by eight a.m.? I swear. I can barely crank out two or three a week. That woman writes like eight posts a day. It's driving me batty. And not because I don't enjoy reading them. But because I feel the need to compete with everyone and every thing around me.

Third, I don't know what it is about the last few months, but I CANNOT. STOP. THE. EATING. It's getting way out of control and I need help. Please. Someone at church grab me by the extra-thick arms next week and tell me you are noticing how chubby I am getting and you wish I would stop. This gravy train has bought a one-way ticket to the next size up, and I am not sure how to stop it.

Fourth, I love the fall, but I really hate raking the leaves. And since we live in Del Boca Vista, every single one of our retired neighbors is out there, morning, noon and night. Raking, trimming, weeding, mulching. And, undoubtedly, pointing at our house and cursing. Not that I blame them - the leaves are piling up. But sheesh. How can one get in all the eating if one is supposed to be outside raking?

And, last, but not least, I am sick of my hair and need a hair suicide hotline that I can call. Remember two years ago what happened when I got sick of it? Please. Someone stop me before I do something drastic, like run into the salon, a Twinkee in each hand, and beg to get the Bruce Jenner.

Yeah. It's that bad.

Happy Effing Monday.

Home sweet home

When I saw this post over at the Nester, I knew I had to have one of my very own.

Only, I didn't want to pay big bucks for something I could create myself.

Because I'm crazy and controlling frugal and independent like that.

And since we've moved more times than most people in our 17 years together, this was the perfect accessory for our home. It took some time finding the old street names, but was a nostalgic walk down memory lane in the process.

Oh, the stories each street could tell you about me.

[Yeah. Me and my wild self. NOT.]

I mixed them all up order-wise and the kids had fun trying to assign each street name to its matching city and state.

I also put a photo of our current home behind the text and reduced the opacity, but it doesn't show up very well in the photos. I had the print mounted on a 3/4" standout with black edging, knowing that I wasn't going to put it in a frame. I wanted to hang the print in the basement, and that is a glass-free zone, so it works well as-is. Plus, I like the simplicity of the print all by itself.

I'm pretty happy with how it turned out.

And it seals the deal: We can't ever move again.

There's no room on there for any more street names.

Staging my own intervention

[the shameful evidence of my addiction]

I have always had a hard and fast rule in place for myself:

If I drink 48 ounces of water before noon, I allow myself the treat of a diet coke with my lunch. If I do not get that amount of water in before lunch, I have to drink water with lunch instead. And then I have to drink another 48 ounces of water throughout the rest of the day. (And pee every five minutes until bedtime).

It has worked very well for me, and has been something I've done for years. I feel great, love that I get so much water in, and really enjoy having the treat of a DC with lunch. I seldom have one at any other time during the day, and this has been a great system for me.

Lately, though, I've found myself changing that routine up a bit.

Instead of 48 ounces of water in the morning, I gulp a hurried 20 ounces down after a workout, jump in the shower, and head out to run errands. I might have accidentally, a time or two, purposefully gone out of my way swung by the drive-thru and snagged a diet coke on my way out.

What was accidentally a time or two has now become a full-blown craving, addictive appetite for diet coke. And not just ANY diet coke. McDonald's.

I don't know what it is about their brown, cancer-laden, calorie-free soda, but it is different than everywhere else. It is downright delicious. Even the Husband, who loathes diet coke, admits to the deliciousness that is the Mickey Dees. It is not the same - they do something different to theirs. And judging by the way it affects me, I seriously wonder if they are lacing it with crack cocaine.

Because now? I find that I want it ALL. THE. TIME.

I know I have to get off the juice and cut myself back down to one a day, but, really? I kind of don't care. I don't drink, smoke, do drugs, or dance naked anywhere for money. If this is my vice, how bad can it be?

What say you, internet? Are you addicted to anything? Do you share my passion for the brown ambrosia at the golden arches? Should I cut it down to one cup a day? Or should I just go for it and indulge in my delicious addiction?

Discuss.

Inviting you into our bedroom

As I've mentioned countless times before, the Husband's job has [sadly] put him on a first-name basis with the security people at the airport. We get personalized Christmas cards from the hotels he frequents. He's gone. A LOT. And even when he's working at the office in-town, he has very long hours.

Needless to say, his life contains a lot of stress.

Fortunately for me, he unwinds in a very productive manner, which I find I am highly encouraging of.

Internet, meet my new king-sized big girl bed:

Yes, the Husband made that bed. All for me (and I guess for him, too). Let me repeat that: HE MADE THE BED. Made it. Like a mountain man. Or the Amish.

[He does have that secret dream to go off the grid.]

I found a bed that I liked online, showed him the picture, and he drew up plans and worked on it during the weekends.

I could not be more thrilled. We had been sleeping on a ghetto bed since before Chase was born, and it is so nice to finally have a pretty, grown-up bed.

Bedding is the Hanna quilt from Pottery Barn, and is oh, so lovely. Look at that stitching. I just love it:

Pillows are a mash: Some from Target, some sewn together by yours truly with fabric from Joann's:

The Husband has also made me a set of nightstands (which he's not finished staining yet) and he's currently working on a large set of shelves for books/knick knacks that will double as a TV stand.

Here is a picture of the master plan to give you an idea:

[Before]

After:

(Do you like how I put myself in there? Hopefully, I will have two hands, legs, and most of my bottom when I'm sitting on the bed in real life. Though losing the bottom wouldn't exactly break my heart.)

What do you think?

I'm pretty excited about it all.

Thanks, baby. You are the best.

Outsourcing

Ladies, I have accidentally stumbled upon the greatest, most clever plan, (though slightly bordering on evil genius) but sure to change mankind forever more. It happened with very little effort on my part, and just might prove to be the greatest discovery of all time.

You know, right after diet coke, of course.

What is said life-altering discovery, you ask?

This:

McKay has recently shown an interest in experimenting in the kitchen. He has scoured cookbooks for recipes and then begged to be shown how to make them. I've happily let him help and taught him what little all that I know. No one has ever quite looked at me as an expert in anything, and I won't deny the slight boost it has been to the ego. Plus, it's priceless to get some quality time with my biggest boy. He chatters on, I listen and smile, and in the end we have accomplished something more than just dinner.

But he progressed to the point where he really wanted to try some things on his own. With Pizza Hut's phone number on speed dial, I gave him the chance and stepped out of the kitchen. (Plus, it's not like I'd really do better anyway.)

As a result, last week he made three of our seven family dinners, one of which consisted of a roast, potatoes, carrots, and HOMEMADE CRESCENT ROLLS.

ALL. BY. HIMSELF.

(Yes. From scratch. And they were delicious.)

He has quite suddenly become very adept in the kitchen and I have willingly turned that task over to his capable hands (which, by the way, he is very religious about washing, thankyouverymuch).

In fact, early this morning before he headed off to school, he handed me a shopping list of ingredients he'll need to make tonight's dinner.

It's about the most fabulous thing ever.

I've always wanted a live-in chef.

Now which of the other two kids do you think I could turn into my live-in maid?

I am...

I am the kind of mom that says yes to yet another package of silly bands.
But says no when they want to play in the muddy rain puddles.

I am the kind of mom that always says yes when they beg for a treat at the store.
As long as that treat is not the Skittles.

I am the kind of mom that likes to read a story out loud to them.
But seldom finds the time to to do it anymore.

I am the mom who hugs and squeezes their dad in front of them.
Even when they pretend to be thoroughly grossed out.

I am the kind of mom that gets frustrated and cleans their rooms when they're at school.
But I never tell them what I throw out in the process. (And they almost always never miss it anyway).

I am the kind of mom that takes time for my own hobbies, dreams, and needs.
And I think that's extremely good for them.

I am not the mom who sits on the floor and plays legos or does puzzles with them every day.
But I am the mom that sits and listens, then dries their tears with encouragement and support.

I am the mom that has fresh-baked cookies and milk waiting when they come home from school.
I am not the mom who buys the Oreos.

I am the mom who loves these three with a fierce intensity that goes down to my core and sometimes nearly consumes me.

I am their mom.
And they are my heart.

Dear Chase

Dear Chase,

Please forgive me for the fact that this letter is two weeks late. What can I say? Life has not been on our side lately and it's been tough to fit it all in.

You had a great birthday this year, though your wish list was a bit tough for me initially. You did not ask for easy gifts like Legos or Nerf guns. Oh no, not you. What you wanted was a real lighter used by a soldier on the beach at Normandy during World War II. And armor from ancient Rome.

Not necessarily items one can pick up at the local Target, if you know what I mean.

But I did surprise you with those old magazines and an antique camera, as well as a few more modern delights. The look on your face when you opened them was priceless. Your joy was evident and I have caught you several times tinkering and exploring your new toys. I still shake my head in awe that an 11-year-old boy would ask for such antiquities, not to mention be thrilled to death to receive them. Man, I love your individuality, kid.

Speaking of your quirks, when I went back through my photo archives to find some pictures for this post, I noticed that you are wearing the same shirt in practically EVERY. SINGLE. PICTURE I have taken of you in the past year. I know I wash that shirt twice a week, but that's because you wear it twice a week. It's your favorite and the new shirts in your closet can never match up. First thing out of the laundry, that shark-caging souvenir tee from Hawaii graces your bony shoulders.

You are who you are.

And I wouldn't trade your quirks for all the riches in the world.

You make our life very interesting, Chase. You keep us on our toes with your wit and intelligence. It is never dull around here because of you. One of my favorite things to see is your one, lone dimple, lit up by a huge smile, topped off with your sparkling baby blues. Your happiness is contagious. Your laughter fills the room and spreads to everyone around you.

You inspire me to be a better mom. May I one day be worthy of the gift that is your incredible spirit.

Love,

Mama

You're all winners in my book

Wow. You internets know me better than I thought you did. I am highly impressed.

The lie amongst the truths?

I did exercise (though only once, and it was rather painful).

But since I love you all to bits and pieces, I decided to enter everybody into the contest anyway. Because you were all so nice to play along. And your guesses totally made me laugh. Courtesy of random-dot-org, the winner is:

idahocuzin said...

It's the GLASSES!!!!

September 27, 2010 10:03:00 PM CDT

Send me your address and a little ditty is headed your way.

Now, for the stories.

Dishwasher: Still broken. New one got delivered yesterday, but the geniuses at Best Buy forgot to tell me we needed a side mount kit since they can't screw it into the granite counter tops. Will be hand-washing dishes (and cursing) for another week or so. Grrr.

Chase's finger: No stitches needed; they used the glue to stick it back together. He's got a very cool scar and has hopefully learned when NOT to use a pocket knife in the kitchen.

Glasses in the toilet: True. And very gross.

McKay's bloody toe: Also very gross. Healing nicely thanks to me forcing him daily to soak it in anti-bacterial wash and then bandage it up. Just call me Nurse Ratched.

Garage door: Fixed and working like a charm (about the only thing around here that is though).

Sword Cake & Turkey dinner: Chase's birthday feast pick. It totally rocked. I was exhausted but felt like super mom. And, yes, I washed all those dishes by hand, too.

Getting kicked out of a fall festival by a cop: Tragically and horrifyingly true. I had a senior portrait session at one of my favorite parks here last Saturday. Unfortunately, it was the one weekend a year where they have this festival, and a policeman very rudely asked us to leave. I'm still unclear why. We weren't in the way or trying to pose our pictures on the middle of the craft tables or anything. But whatevs. We had mostly finished up, but it was pretty embarrassing in front of my client. Never had that happen before. Hope to never repeat it.

Thanks for playing. You peeps are the best internet friends a girl could ask for...

Trying desperately to find the humor in it all

The last few weeks sort of kicked my trash. I've spent more time in tears in the last two weeks than I have in the last two years.

But I'm over it and moving on. Today is a new day (and all that crap). So we're going to play a little Monday morning game that is a favorite of seventh grade parties everywhere:

Truths and a lie.

Below, you will find a list of things that actually happened to me this week, and one thing that didn't. Pick out the lie, tell me which one it is, and every correct answer will be thrown into the mix for a prize of some sort.

Last week:

My dishwasher breathed its last (resulting in me hand-washing the dishes EVERY. DAMN*. DAY. while waiting for the new one to arrive).

I took Chase to urgent care for a cut on his finger that he received while slicing banana bread with a pocket knife (because using a normal knife like a human is clearly beneath him).

I dropped my glasses in the toilet (after, not before).

I had to bandage McKay's bloody toe after he stubbed it and ripped the nail clean off.

I did not exercise at all.

I went to drive a carpool to the church and found that the garage door had broken a spring and would not open, resulting in the kids and I being stranded.

I single-handedly killed 96 fruit flies (honestly, where are they coming from?).

I made a huge, traditional turkey dinner and a sword-shaped cake, all on the same day.

I spent $150 on co-pays at the doctor's office in one week.

And I got kicked out of a fall festival by a policeman.

So take your guesses. Which is the one lie in all these terrible, awful, no-good truths? Contest ends Tuesday at noon.

*Don't worry. I've already given the jar a quarter. It was totally worth it.

The post that was (and then wasn't)

So there was a little post up yesterday, and after receiving more hate mail in five minutes than I have in my entire life, I decided to take it down.

Not because I let other people dictate what I say on this blog.

But because I had a horrible day yesterday, and after sobbing on the phone to the Husband about it, the last thing I needed was to sit down in front of my computer and be berated by strangers.

By people who clearly do not know me at all. By people whose intent is to hurt and to hate.

Neither of those things are my intent.

Nor will they ever be.

My sense of humor simply may not be your thing.

If that is the case, my advice to you is this: STOP READING.

To the rest of you fine people: Thanks for all the sweet words you leave here. They mean more than you will ever know.

Further proof of our Napoleon obsession

Last night, I had a friend coming over to get some updated corporate head shots. With the backdrop and lights set up, I snagged the first kid I could find to pose for a few shots while I tested the lighting.

With no staging or awareness of my Kip post yesterday, this is what he gave me:

Remind you of anyone?

And, yes, I do believe he was imagining himself weightless in the ocean, surrounded by tiny little seahorses.

That was it. That was the one. I think that's going to come out real nice.

Stay home and eat all the flippin' chips, Kip!

Last week, McKay got his braces on.

In case you lost count, that makes TWO children in orthodontia. (Ah, money. How I miss you. We used to have such good times at the mall.)

But I find that braces totally suit my boys' smiles. Gives their crazy teeth a purpose. Makes their smiles seem much more full of promise, instead of just snaggily and crooked in those mouths of theirs.

Lately, though, every time I turn around, I get what we have dubbed, The Kip Face.

For those of you not versed in Napoleon Dynamite speak, I am referring to the scene where Kip and Lafawnduh share a milkshake across the table and he looks up at her through his eye brows while raising them up and down, and smiling like a hyena.

It's oh so suggestive and alluring.

[Turn your sound off though for this clip. The music makes you want to kill yourself. And you really only need watch the first two seconds to get the gist of what I'm talking about)

Meet Kip. And Kip.

Brothers bonded forever by their love of stupid movies, braces, and their need to make their mother crazy.

Seriously, though. How cute is this boy? It's a good thing I like him so much.

J. Golden Stie?

Yesterday I gave a talk in church on personal revelation.

I think it went rather well.

Except for the part where I accidentally and inadvertently said crap from the pulpit.

And, no, not proverbial crap.

I said the actual word crap.

My oldest son told me he immediately looked around the room to see if his teachers were hanging their head in shame and disgust.

My daughter told me she felt I would have to give a quarter to the swear jar.

My middle son was too busy reading Calvin & Hobbs to notice.

Do you think it means they won't be asking me to talk again for a while?

I do hope so.

P.S. Those of you confused by the title, see this article. J. Golden Kimball was a prominent leader in the early days of our church who liked to swear from the pulpit. He's a legend of sorts and it took all my power to convince the husband NOT to name any of our children after him.

Him

I watched his hands as he worked, sawdust floating around him in the air. Big, strong hands. Hands I know well.

Hands that held mine continuously through three deliveries, even when I squeezed so hard he feared a broken bone.

Hands that gently supported three newborn heads, each in their turn, as he pulled back the blankets to peek at their beautiful, squishy faces.

Hands that have reached out to wipe many a tear from my freckled cheek.

Hands that rub his chin when he's lost in his thoughts.

Hands that carry his suitcase when heads out the door for yet another business trip.

Hands that tap the steering wheel in his car while he drives and sings along with the music.

I love those hands.

And I love the man attached to them even more.

He took a much needed day off a few weeks ago. Work life has been crazy for a while now and I was so relieved when he decided to take a break. It was a real treat spending the day with him.

Just he and I.

It hasn't been just us for quite a long time.

As I sat in the garage watching him work, I studied this man of mine. And I came to the conclusion, for what must be the millionth time, that he's one of the good ones.

They say that a good marriage is the ability to fall in love over and over with the same person.

I'd say it just happened again.

The sad, irrefutable truth

Teenage Stie, in all her scary, big-haired, mini-skirted glory

When you're a teenager, you sneak out of the house so your mom won't see you wearing a mini skirt.

When you're a mom, you sneak out of the house so your daughter won't see that you're not wearing the gaudy, homemade princess necklace she crafted for you.

When you're a teenager, you stay up late partying with friends and can sleep in until midday.

When you're a mom, you stay up late doing laundry and cleaning toilets and have to pull yourself painfully out of bed early in the morning.

When you're a teenager, you wear clothes that look cool, regardless of their comfort factor. [Pegged jeans and shoulder pads, anyone?]

When you're a mom, you wear clothes SOLELY for their comfort factor.

Pegged acid-washed jeans and freakishly matchy-match-socks Stie & date
(whose face has been changed for his protection)

When you're a teenager, you freak out when your brothers walk into your room because you think no one respects your privacy.

When you're a mom, you find yourself unable to even pee in solitude because your children are always chattering on the other side of the bathroom door.

When you're a teenager, you have braces, pimples, and feel awkward almost all of the time.

When you're a mom, you have cellulite, under-eye bags, and feel only slightly awkward at the PTA meeting when you look down and realize you are still in yesterday's ponytail and your sweatpants.

Most scary & awkward of all the Sties: Middle School short-haired mullet Stie. Yikes.

When you're a teenager, you fight with your parents for control over your life.

When you're a mom, you fight with the world for control over your child's life.

And when you're a teenager, you eat everything in sight without fear for the future.

When you're a mom, you have to hide in the closet while snarfing down the last of the good chocolate...for fear the children will see you and want some.

Mom Stie: The Happiest (and possibly cutest) of them all

P.S. Have you seen all of the fabulous sessions happening here? Stop by and take a peek. Exciting stuff, people.

She's got the look

Ah, Cheeky. What do you do in your sleep to create such fabulous hair styles? The perfect combination of tangles, ratting, and volume -- effortlessly.

I can't tell you how many perms, cans of Aquanet, and hours in the bathroom it took me to achieve that very same look in 1986.

Somewhere in the world, Bon Jovi is weeping with envy into his handfuls of mousse.

A fish out of water

[The victim of our murderous crime]

The past several weeks have seen the birth of a new obsession for my boys: Fishing.

They saved their own money and bought themselves fishing poles. They have researched gear and equipment ad nauseum. And when the idea to fish in our friends' backyard pond came up, I was not the least bit surprised. They even succeeded in getting the friend's daughter in on the project.

The planned Saturday finally arrived, and they found themselves with poles in the water as the sun arose. Within a few hours, they were back at my door, a huge catfish in hand. Excitedly, they talked over each other, sharing the story of how Chase had reeled the giant beast in. I looked down at the poor creature and noticed that he was still breathing. Noting wistfully that the Husband was out on an errand, I told them that they needed to knock it out so that it wouldn't suffer.

First, they smacked the fish against a tree. Still breathing. Then they tried the sidewalk. Still breathing. Even beating it over the head with a rock -- STILL BREATHING.

And the blood. OH MY HEAVENS, THE BLOOD.

This thing was dripping blood everywhere from what should have been its fatal head wound. Blow after blow, they tried to put the poor fish out of its misery.

and still it breathed.

It was Jaws, only in our backyard, and without the help and skills of Richard Dreyfuss.

I looked up to see tears forming in Chase's eyes, and knew that this was breaking his heart. Taking a deep breath, I swallowed the bile in my mouth, went against every fiber of my being, and offered to help them gut the fish. I knew exactly what was going on in his head and how this was hurting him - almost more than it was hurting the stupid fish. I also knew that if we didn't finish this to completion, he might not recover enough to ever eat meat again.

With my good kitchen knife, and no idea whatsoever what I was doing, I went to work.

And let me tell you, it was awful. This thing had a giant backbone that was nearly impossible to saw through. There was blood and guts all over my hands. You know that scene from Goodfellas where they are chopping the guy up using Joe Pesci's mom's kitchen knife? Sort of like that. Only not. Because we didn't actually kill anybody. But it was a bloody, stinky, traumatic mess.

And I'm pretty sure I might not ever be able to eat meat again.

I quickly extracted enough meat from the fish to make a meal and took it inside to cook. Finding the fattiest, deep fried recipe that I could, we cooked that baby up. It had to be delicious to help poor Chase forget the murder he had just committed.

And it was.

Though later that night, walking past the boys' room, I found Chase curled up and weeping in his bed. I put my arms around him, and his body wracked with aching sobs as he said he could not get the image out of his mind. His blue eyes looked into mine, pleading with me to help him understand how he could be so cruel. He vowed never to hurt anything ever again. In fact, he said he was not going to join the military because he didn't think he could kill a person.

I hugged him tight, fighting back my own tears, and I told him that he has just learned a skill which will enable him to someday feed his family, should the need arise. I told him that heavenly father created the animals for us to eat, and that he had done nothing wrong. I pleaded with him to forgive himself and told him over and over that he is not a bad person.

I think he believed me.

Though it will probably be a long time before either of us can eat fish again.

It was time for a facelift

Well, what do you think of the new look around here?

Stayed up way too late last night tweaking and changing - trying to figure out what I even wanted the little old blawg to look like, and ended up with this. Took me a while because I don't speak nerd html. Honestly though, who does?

But it may change; it may stay this way forever. We shall see.

Anyway, be back later today (hopefully) with a fish story you won't believe.

Happy first of September.