One good turn deserves another.

I need caffeine today. And a good snack.

Yesterday, Sam came home from work (let's be honest...he golfed most of the day away) and maybe the whole golf thing made him feel like he wasn't very productive for the day, and as a result he came home with his black box of power tools and a mission in mind.

"Our house sucks. Everything is falling apart."

Now, I have pointed several small things out to him over the course of the last year, "Honey, if you get around to it, this moulding needs to be nailed again." Small things. And I am quite sure he hasn't heard me most of the time, what with the TV droning on...

But, when he gets it in his head to fix things...that is my cue to take the wee ones and disappear. Things fly. Wood-chips, screwdrivers, curse words...it is best to just clear the area. Sometimes I stupidly get excited at the prospect that some of the little things are actually going to get done. But most of the time, like yesterday, it just makes more work for me.

I wish he would stick to my plan.

He didn't. He cleaned out my pantry. Now some men might actually be helpful in this reguard. Sam? Sam doesn't cook. Not even a little. Maybe oatmeal. That is it. Once, I sent him to the store to buy some Karo syrup. "It's in the baking aisle. It is called corn syrup. It is a clear liquid."

He came home with corn OIL. Wesson. Try making Carmels out of that!

So I do all the cooking. And my pantry is arranged how I like it. It may not make sense to anyone else, but I know where things are. I have cake mixes, brown sugar, evaporated milk and powdered sugar in one area. That is the baking stuff. I have canned soup, spaghetti-o's, and Rice-a-Roni in one area. That is my "quick dinner" area. It makes sense to me. And on the top shelf are all the things I rarely use, cause I can't reach the top shelf without a ladder.

So, he cleans the pantry. He moves all of the top shelf items down. "Do we need this? We never use this."

"Yeah, we do. That is the holiday platter that I use to cart cookies around for the Christmas parties."

"What about this?"

It goes on and on, until eventually I justify everything that is stored ON THE TOP SHELF THAT NOBODY USES! I just had to walk away.

So this morning, I go down to see what the damage is. All the top shelf items are now on the bottom shelf. [????!] And all the canned good are on one shelf. All the box items are on another shelf, lined up smallest to largest. So you have Rice-a-roni, next to a muffin mix, next to a cake mix, next to a box of cereal. I can't find anything.

What's more, is that now the whole kitchen is a pit. There are tools lying all over the floor, and bent nails, and sawdust. And the dread black power tool box is right in the middle of the floor. So I get to clean up and haul all thic crap out to the garage before I can even pour the kids a bowl of cereal.

So off to the garage I go. And I notice what a mess it is. And an idea forms. He is so nice to help me organize my work space! I should do something for him!

I think I am going to go clean the tools in the garage.

I think I will organize them from ugliest to prettiest. And I think I will take them all off the dreadful institutional looking pegs and place them into gingham-lined decorative baskets. And it really is silly to have so many sets of sockets, after all we never use them. I have my work cut out for me.

I bet he will be surprised!

a near future $1000.00 expenditure

My husbands Jeep needs new tires.

I think he is kinda excited about the prospect of tire-shopping. Sometimes I don't get men that way. Me...I would hot-glue the tread back on if I could.

I hate spending money on crap like tires.

Simplify.

I have this friend, and her house looks like a craft boutique.

Her walls are adorned with meticulously “random” distressed shelves. On the shelves are jumbles of cutesy knick-knacks, stuffed with more [tinier] knick-knacks. There are plate racks and bakers racks, festooned with trailing ivy. There are hand-made tea-dyed pillows on every chair and flat surface, stitched with heart-felt sayings and quotes. There are throw rugs, and throw quilts, and she always, always has a scented candle burning.

And in the midst of all the colorful clutter there is a hand-made sign. It is black and cream crackle paint, and it is huuuuuge. And it has one word on it:

“Simplify.”

(In Times New Roman, italic, ‘cause us scrappers know our fonts..)

I have to control the urge to ask her if she even knows that sign is there. Maybe it was a subliminal message tacked up on the wall by a frustrated cleaning lady. (‘Cause ain’t nobody going to dust all that crap themselves..)

So I have been thinking a lot about the irony. And about simplifying my own life. So last night, when I was hating making lunches for the kids I was thinking how I could simplify the nightly ordeal. They never eat the good stuff in their lunches. Well, they do eat the good stuff, just not the healthy stuff. So why do I feel compelled to represent all of the food groups? They don’t get eaten. I had a really great idea. I got a disposable Tupperware, filled it full of Cap’n Crunch, and filled a thermos full of milk. I even included a plastic spoon, cause I am nurturing like that. That’s it. Lunch. And maybe dinner. Easy-peasy.

I think it will be a big hit.

Dear Slimfast-
Define "sensible."

A good lesson

I am a fence-sitting member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. (http://lds.org/) Part of our sunday meetings consists of a class where we study the teachings of past Presidents of our church. We are given a manual, so the good kids can study and read before-hand--to add their insight to the lesson. I am not a stellar student. I think I may have adult ADD anyway, cause my mind wanders during the lessons, and I just don't "get" things half the time. I taught the little kids in our church for so many years, that I am thrown off when they don't break up a long lesson with a fun song, or finger-puppets.

So I sit on the rebellious "back row", with some friends. The first sunday of the new year we got the new manual, with this picture on it.

So my friend Laura and I proceed to have a conversation about this photo. Why do people from this era always look so pi$$ed off? There are no smiles. It is hard to imagine them being nice and kind, when every photo I have seen everyone is wearing this trademark scowl. Was life really that hard? Maybe there was only one photographer, and he was like the soup-nazi on Seinfeld. "No smiles for YOU."

Then Laura said something that was so poignant it will stick with me forever--

"He looks like he just needs a nap, and a snack."

Such a life lesson. Everything seems better after a nap and a snack. So, that is my challenge for you this week. Treat yourself to a nap and a good snack. I am off to take one now.

Ode to Cadbury Mini-eggs

Tiny egg, how I love your delicate candy-coated crunch;
and your silky smooth chocolate that melts on my tongue.
I can only love you but once a year,
it leaves me restlessly burning for more.
Please don't make me fat when I eat the whole family- sized bag-
in secret.
I still hate the gym.

Frumpy

I have a nine year old. He is almost ten, but same difference, really. I have been really, really struggling with him lately. I love him, but I don't like him much.


Look at those teeth. He swears he brushes them. I think he probably has to use a comb to "brush" them now.

He is trying too hard to be "cool" and failing miserably, at least in my opinion, who knows--maybe he is the freaking "king turd" in the fourth grade??! Maybe they are all like this? Personally, I think it should be perfectly legal for fourth grade teachers to smoke crack supplied by the school district as an incentive to put up with this crap. Anyhooo...he was on a roll, a barrage of those witty one-liners "I know you are, but what am I..."--remember those? He thinks they are original, and I guess he has put his own twist on them--cause he does them in these voices...sometimes a horrid english accent, and other times we are graced with the voice of Stitch. For hours. Enough to make you want to stab your own eardrums with an ice pick just for the quiet.

So, I finally lose my patience and crack, and say "DUDE--you are such a nerd!"

And he looks at me and says "*I*am a nerd? At least I don't wear pants clear up to my waist."

So there ya go. And yeah, my pants might be a little high-waisted for today's standards, but geez, excuse me for needing help holding my gut in. And this observation coming from a kid who wears size twelve slim pants with his belt cinched up 'til the waistband puckers--just to hold them on his skinny nerdly butt.

I used to look that way too--'til I gave birth to him (and the others), I freaking gave him good genes!

But not the nerdly one--that came from his Dad.

Words of Wisdom

If you see a pair of underwear on the floor, and you aren't sure if they are dirty or not...DO NOT SNIFF THEM to find out. Just assume they are dirty, and throw them in the clothes hamper.

This was one of my Hall of Fame layouts. It was hard to show, so I had my SAHT (stay at home toddler) model it for you. It is one I did for a freebie. It has transparency "windows", and you are looking at shots of both sides of the page.

Ignore that the SAHT is wearing a night-gown. It is her daily attire. She calls them her muu-muus. The split second we walk in the door, she changes. The girl has a grip on being comfortable!

The gym thing

For those of you who have been following my plight of going to the gym...I have an update on my journey. A real eye-opening epiphany.

I was sweating my heinie off on the eliptical machine, and a pert and shapely girl noticed my determination and dedication to healthy living, and could see that I *needed* to move up to that next level. So, I had the pleasure last week of working out with a certified fitness professional! (personal trainer.) Strapping, muscle-bound personal trainer hands me a file. The first step is to fill out a paper, disclosing all kinds of personal information. I had to make sure that much like my personal savings account, Sam would not have access to my file. He assured me that everything would be confidential. So I told the whole truth, my weight, my eating habits, everything. And after squeezing a stainless steel hand-device as hard as I could, I was told that due to the scientific scale? I fit comfortably in the "obese" category. Trainer told me *we* had a lot of work to do. We. I was thinking *I* was pretty tired from doing all that squeezing....

So squatty pimply-faced trainer runs me through all these machines. Now, prior to this, the only people I have seen strapped to these machines are people that should not go to the same gym as me. The ones that look good in spandex. The ones that you can almost hear the machine applauding them, and feeling proud to have such eye-candy dangling from *their* metal bars. I could hear the machine as I approached. Groaning. Oh, wait, that might have been me. So I worked muscles that I haven't spoken to since high school. And dumb-a$$ trainer says "how do you feel?" And me being on my honesty kick tell him--"I feel like $hit, actually. I think ALL the energy I had for the WHOLE DAY, was just used up on that pulley-holdy thing." He didn't know if he should laugh, and I was too tired to start him off, so we just left it at that.

We proceed to the desk, and he tries to hard-sell me his services. As a personal trainer. He asks me what my fitness goals are. I told him I didn't have any. I really don't want to set myself up for more failure in life.
"You have to have *something* you want to work for."
"Nah, not really."
"Well, swimsuit season is coming up, don't you want to look good in a swimsuit?" he says.
"Dude, I am sooooo beyond looking *good* in anything. I guess if I had a goal, it would be so that when I carry a mountain of laundry up my stairs my heart no longer flips around in my chest like a dying fish." (how's THAT for a goal)
He could immediately tell that out little session was over. I was feeling a little pissed off about the squeezy hand fat tricker machine that told me I was obese. Offended at the fact that he assumed that I did not currently look good in a swimsuit! And mostly I was tired, and my muscles hurt,and I was sweating that trickly sweat that tickles.

So we parted ways--and as I left he said, "Make sure as soon as you get home you eat some fruit to replace your lycopenes, and some protein to help your muscles re-build." I just winked at him. I already had it covered. I have a mountian dew and beef jerky in the Suburban. Health nut that I am.

And so today....I went back to the gym. A few days of depression and wound-licking, and not being able to move well, and I went back. And in the parking lot there is this jacked up truck. It looks like a monster truck, there was actually a small ladder to get up to the door. There are powerbar wrappers on the dashboard, and one of those calvin peeing on chevy or ford stickers in the window. Classy. And the best---the best part of all was the licence plate frame.....

you ready.....






"It is my duty, to rock your booty."


So I am thinking, that is a pretty heavy weight to carry around. To have it be someones DUTY to rock my booty. I guess that guy found his fitness goal. Rock on.