Hot Oil

I was probably about 11 or 12 when one of my brothers taught me how to make pan deep fried french fries with fresh potatoes. Pan, oil, stove, potatoes. What could be simpler?

It was an awful lot of work for a few minutes of artery clogging awesomeness. It was worth it.

I haven't made french fries in this way in over twenty-two years.

I have scars that are reason enough for that.


Typically, about half-way through cooking the fries, the oil would need to be changed out. There's not much that will turn you off fresh french fries than bits of black burned stuff sticking to them.

We would pour the used, gross oil into a container, usually a juice concentrate can or something like it. It was a simple procedure, but one that needed to be carefully done.

I was in the middle of this when for some reason, perhaps my hastiness to cook more french fries or maybe a shaky arm, I poured hot oil on my hand.

I remember my thought process at the time. The kitchen had been recently upgraded and one of the rules was to not put hot pots or pans on the counters. It went something like this:

Ow. Hot.
Put the ow things down.
No pans on counter.
Put oil receptacle on the counter. No rules against that.
Pan. Stove.
Not on hot burner.
Now.
Down.
Turn.
Stare at Mom.

It seemed like I was looking at my mother for an eternity. I don't know why I didn't say anything to get her attention. I didn't even walk over to her. I didn't cry. I don't know what my face looked like, but it was probably something along the lines of calm shock.

On the inside, I was screaming.

When my mother finally looked at me, she assessed my expression (whatever it was) and asked me if I had burned myself.

I nodded.

She told me to wash my hand with soap and water.

I proceeded to do so with cold water.

Over the next half hour or so, I was impressed upon by my mother to alternate the application of cold and warm water baths to my burn. The cold to stop the burn, the warm to increase blood-flow to the area so it would heal faster. At least, that's what I recollect.

The cold water was wonderful.

The warm water felt like I was dunking my hand into molten lava.

I ended up with a blister the size of a mouse or a large cockroach on my left thumb. I couldn't bend my thumb or use it in any meaningful way. I was careful with it for several days, knowing that bursting it would result in more pain and possibly infection.

In spite of my best efforts, I did pop it while trying to open a car door. I'm most likely blocking the pain of that moment.

And so, I have a couple of small, hard-to-see scars on that thumb.



The internal scars seem to have lasted longer.

I still cringe when thinking about making deep-fried french fries.

The Dog Bite

I was lying in bed last night, and my brain wouldn't shut up.

The conversation went something like this:

Me: Ahhh... just find a comfortable position and sleeeeeeep...
Brain: Hey! Guess what?!
Me: No.
Brain: Guesssssssssssssssss....
Me: Ugh. Noooo..
Brain: I'm not tired! Yay!
Me: Well, the rest of me is. So, shut up and turn off.
Brain: We should totally get up and fill in those egregious holes in your novel!
Me: .....
Brain: You haven't played Diablo in, like, 2 days!
Me: It'll still be there in the morning.
Brain: I just came up with the best blog idea!!
Me: Sigh..
Brain: No, really! You're going to really like it.
Me: Fine. What is it?
Brain: SCARS! No, listen. It'll be epic!
Me: Actually, that's not half bad.


And that is the story of how my tired body gave into my insane brain. I'm going to write, installment-wise, about my scars. Again.

I don't remember how old I was when this experience occurred. The fogginess puts it somewhere in my 7 to 10 years.

I was the Animal Queen. Either my family named me that or I wished they had and I called myself that in my head.

I devoured everything I could read, watch, hear, experience, observe about animals. When I wasn't pretending to be various animals (funny and embarrassing story, that), I was informing everyone around me about the things I'd learned. I was the resident expert, at least in my residence.

I could identify which spiders were harmless and which were dangerous. I didn't mind picking them up in my hand (the harmless ones) and carrying them outside where they would escape the murderous intentions of my family.

So, if I wasn't afraid of a creepy spider, I certainly wasn't afraid of some old lady's cantankerous dog.

My mom was visiting a lady she knew. The reason escaped my self-involved pre-adolescent mind.

This lady had a dog, probably a terrier of some sort. One of those little dogs that my husband not-so-lovingly calls "yap dogs".

I wanted to go outside and play with it.

The lady said I could but not to pick up the dog because it hated that and would probably bite me.

I agreed, already laughing at the lady's warning. Somewhere in the mysterious depths of my mind I was thinking, "I will tame this beast and he will love me and let me carry him around because I am an expert in animals and he will sense that and everything will be magical rainbows and a chorus of animals will sing heavenly music!" Of course I felt I knew this dog better than his owner. She was a silly grown-up lady who saw her dog as a mere pet. I was the Animal Queen who saw him as the majestic diminutive little Lord of His Manor that he was.

So, I pet the dog a few times, until my anticipation of animal magicalness got the better of me and I picked him up.

I think the dog got about 4 inches off the ground before he realized that he hated me. I don't remember any kind of warning from the dog; a growl or attempt to escape. Though, I may have been hearing a chorus of heavenly animals and missed it.

The carnage may well have resulted in the dismemberment of my hand at the wrist. I think I actually saw red. Probably because I was bleeding profusely.

A trip to the emergency room left me with my hand intact and a bandage around my wrist.

I now have two scars on my right wrist, almost two inches apart, probably the exact space between that tiny canine's canines.

I'm pretty sure that event helped enforce my cat-person tendencies and my "yap-dog" aversion.

My identity as the Animal Queen, however, stayed intact.

Better than Sex and Honesty

Occasionally, honesty trumps my tact.

This happened more often when I was younger. It's entirely possible that my general lack of experience produced genuine surprise, and therefore truth, when something happened that I didn't expect. As I said, this happened more often when I was younger.

I sometimes wonder how my current experience would determine situations that I found myself in when I was younger, if they happened now.

For example:

I was invited to a baby shower when I was a teenager. I must have been about sixteen or seventeen. My first baby shower. Probably my first shower, period. (Har, har.)

We played the typical games and ate the typical treats. One of the treats was a perennial favorite, which goes by several similar names. Sex in a Pan, Chocolate Sin, Better than Sex...

I heard the ladies in the kitchen giggling over "Better than Sex" and I asked my friend what they were talking about. She explained about the dessert and told me it was called Better than Sex.

In my surprise, I recall going through several emotions in rapid succession. Shock, incredulity, disappointment and a little disgust.

Now, keep in mind that I had no experience with sex at that time of my life...

My mouth ran away with me, as it often did, and I said the first thing that came to my mind. After "WHAT?!?", that is.

"If they think that is better than sex, I feel sorry for them!"

My friend laughed and I was left with the sense that I had missed out on a joke. I think I also avoided the dessert on principle.

I got older. I got married. I was inducted into activity the dessert was purported to surpass.


And, now, I have to ask myself how I would respond if the situation happened today instead of back then.

Honestly...

I would say the same thing.

But, I would have some of the dessert, anyway.

Poor Decisions at 10pm

Years ago, I realized that making any serious decisions in the late evening was always going to result in something completely devoid of intelligence and/or safety.

This is why my evenings usually consist of mimicking a potato or other inert object.

Apparently, I was feeling frisky recently, because I suddenly had an idea that I put very little thought into and, therefore, sounded like the most amazing idea in the history of ideas.

With a nearly silent throat-deep cackle, I eyed my domesticated and miniature huntress on her perch next to the window. She was faced away from me and I immediately crouched, which must have been instinctual because there was no foliage or other cover to hid behind.

As I crept toward her, I watched her ears, knowing that she would hear me long before she would turn around and look.

Her left ear twitched and curved back toward me.

My husband, who was sitting in a recliner looking at his computer, calmly stated, "Her eyes are closed."

I didn't speak, knowing that this would alert my quarry.

I slowly closed the gap between myself and the furry bundle of carnivorous instincts.

When she was within reach, I lunged forward and, in that moment, another insane idea occurred to me: I would start screaming ecstatically, like a hyperactive banshee whilst simultaneously grabbing her around her middle.

I'm sure you can imagine my little friend's reaction to this attack.

Her whole body spasmed and twisted between my grasping hands, whilst appearing to sprout additional limbs out of nowhere. She flailed and escaped my grip...

It was over in a split second and I was laughing.

Then I pulled in a hiss of breath as the pain registered in my brain.

Somehow, while that beast was flailing, one of its dozen limbs managed to slice into the skin of my palm. Even more impressive because her front limbs were declawed over five years ago...

My first addled thought after this late evening decision debacle?

That was totally worth it...

Immediately after the carnage.

She was relaxing less than ten minutes later.

This afternoon. The bleeding has stopped, but the pain still lingers on...

If Humans Reproduced Like Animals (G Rated!)

Like the title says, this blog is completely G Rated.. though, slightly disturbing. I hope you're as amused as I was making it, though.

My sister and I were talking recently and laughing at the idea of human beings reproducing or participating in courting rituals like animals do. I found the idea so funny, that I had to draw out what was in my head.

This first one is if humans reproduced like Anglerfish. Anglerfish males are born with no digestive system and are significantly smaller than females. They will fuse their bodies onto the female and will shrivel further until they aren't much more than a lump. The female will have the male conveniently available whenever she needs to fertilize eggs.

Here is my version:

Apparently, it doesn't matter what part of the body the male will fuse to. Can you imagine your husband fusing to your back? Neck? No thanks... The head was the funniest to me.... Though there was some potential to some "kiss my butt" jokes...

Some types of animals, notably clown fish, will switch genders when there aren't enough breeding pairs.

But if humans did it?

The other guy became a mushroom because I didn't want to draw him anymore...

During courtship, the male frigate bird inflates a bright red sack under his beak. The more impressive it is, the more likely he will gain a mate...

I like how she's sort of backing away from him...

My version.. hahah:

I'd just be tempted to run up and pop it with a pin!

We all learned about Asexual Reproduction in school... I doubt I need to put up this picture, but in case you need a reminder:

And if humans did it....:

When camels are trying to attract a mate, they drool profusely, often creating a thick foam and they inflate a sac in their mouths called a dulla. It looks sort of like a swollen tongue when not completely inflated. When inflated, it looks like a slimy, lopsided balloon...

I don't get how this is sexy... honestly.

It doesn't get any better with humans.... 

The Blue Footed Booby does a lovely dance for an intended mate. The brighter the feet and the better the dance, the better the chances for love!

I realized while I was making the human version that it's not far off from reality, actually...

Some species of Cuckoo birds lay their eggs in other birds' nests. When the cuckoo baby hatches, it will push any eggs or babies out of the nest so that it will benefit from all the food the surrogate parents bring.

Creepy...

Drawing a picture of a large baby pushing a small baby out of a crib seemed too sad...

However... I don't think I could have drawn a human variation that WASN'T disturbing.

For my last set of pictures, I think every woman could appreciate the tiny seahorse. It's the males that get pregnant and give birth to the babies. 

It's like a seahorse kangaroo.. aww!

No human birth pictures here... I don't even know how that would work.

So.. there you have it.

Aren't you glad things work for us the way they do?

Childhood Misconceptions: Discovering my Mortality on my Knee (Updated)

No, that is not a typo in the title.

I was supposed to die before my twelfth birthday. I knew it as certainly as you know that you will one day break down and eat something completely unhealthy and bad for you.

I must have been about seven or eight when I noticed a scar on my left knee. I was sitting on the toilet (I know. You didn't need to know that.) when I saw this scar staring up at me. I had no recollection of acquiring the scar. This is only disturbing in the fact that to attain a scar, you need to do more than just a little damage to your skin. I suppose it could have been something truly traumatic and that's why I don't remember, but most likely it was an injury that I didn't get tended to properly and kept re-injuring it until it became a scar. That sounds much more like me.

I wanted to take a picture of it for you, but it's barely visible to the eye, making it a pointless attempt, so I made this for you:

Isn't it beautiful?

So, I gave myself shorts so that you wouldn't be scarred (haha) by a drawing of me on the toilet. And, I put myself outside on a beautiful green lawn to further enforce the idea that I'm definitely NOT on the toilet. This drawing is from my own perspective, looking down from, apparently, an incredible height. Don't pay attention to the weirdness of my cut-off foot. Yes, I really am that white.. and I apparently have a orangey-flesh outline to my skin.

So, anyway. You notice the scar on my knee? The one that looks like an 11?

I was convinced at this tender age that this scar was somehow a portent. The universe or God or my miraculous body was trying to tell me that my days were numbered. Perhaps this was when I started to understand mortality and that I wasn't somehow invincible and permanently youthful.

So, there on the toilet.. uh, lawn... I started to feel woeful for my life. I was going to die sometime on or around my 11th birthday. I felt really dramatic about it.

I would never have kids or even get married.. heck! I'd never even go on a date! Just think of all the things I wouldn't get to do...

I was secretly gleeful that I had something to be morbidly upset about.

I didn't tell anyone.

Boy, would they be sad when I was ripped from this life during my formative years. All those people (I think I knew about 20 people aside from my family) would just be traumatized for life that they had been deprived of my existence.

I remember feeling unique and wise for a while after that. I had been instantly aged by the knowledge of my own demise. Suddenly a Sage.

I don't recall if I envisioned the ways I would die. I probably figured that I would die of a broken heart.. yes.. broken heart, while plunging off the biggest cliff waterfall on Earth, on the back of the last Unicorn in existence battling the last Dragon in existence, my tears and long, beautiful hair streaming behind me like a banner of innocence and tragic love.

(Update) At my sister's request, I drew this part, too.. I call it: Epic Death

And then I forgot about it until sometime after my 11th birthday and I started thinking, "Okay, it'll be soon... No one knows what a tragic little life I have..."

Then I turned twelve and was briefly confused by my continued existence. Maybe I wasn't really twelve yet. My parents and all the medical professionals attending my birth had somehow got the year wrong.

But the years continued on, further mocking my tragic vision of myself.

In the end, I felt okay about it. I think as I was trudging through my teenage years, I realized that dying at 11 would have been rather terrible, even more terrible than High School.

Though, not by much.

If you liked this blog, I'll share another Childhood Misconception soon.

Battleground: Shower

When Ben and I first got married, we thought it was hilarious to play pranks on each other in the shower. I'm sure it had a lot to do with being so young and immature. What can I say? We did a lot of growing up together.

It started out pretty simple. One of us would stand on the toilet and peek over the shower curtain at the showeree and stare like a creepy stalker. Then gales of laughter would ensue when the person in the shower would startle or let out a squeak of surprise. It didn't take long before the one in the shower would splash water on the peeper.

This quickly escalated into the one outside the shower filling a cup with cold water and pouring it on the one taking the shower and running away cackling. Of course, while it was funny to play the prank, it was near infuriating the be the target.

I think the pranks stopped shortly after this next story:

I was taking my shower and at the moment before Ben attacked, I had been closing my eyes, turned toward the shower head, washing my face. When I finished and opened my eyes, there was a hand reaching around the shower curtain at me. I screamed and skittered backward. Well, I tried to skitter backward, but slipped and started to fall. Two strong hands gripped me, slippery as I was and steadied me. Next thing I knew, my husband had come into the shower completely clothed and hugged my shaking, dripping wet body. He was laughing mainly out of surprise over my reaction as he apologized several times. I was quick to tell him that he was getting wet standing in the shower with me. He said he didn't care. Even if I had known it before, my husband's love and concern for me and my safety was reinforced in my mind at that moment.

As I've said, the pranks pretty much stopped at that moment. The creepy peeping and general silliness still show up occasionally. We're both okay with that.

Though, Ben's concern for his showering wife hasn't abated over the years.

This morning, I was just about to get in the shower when I beheld a spider racing madly around the bathtub, trying to get away from the steaming water. Pathetically, it tried to hide under one of the kids' rubber ducks, only to realize that it was too big to escape that way... too big. It's long legs were sticking out from the bottom of the duck, disturbingly.

I did the reasonable thing: I screamed, stark naked and completely safe from the spider who was unable to escape up the slippery tub walls. I vaguely remember trying to cover my exposed body.. like the spider was looking or something. Well, it probably was, but in more of a "AAAGH! A NAKED GIANT! RUN AWAAAAY!" kind of way. That would be scary to anyone, really.

Ben came to my rescue, of course and used the shower attachment to wash the spider down the drain. I thought it was too big to fit, but Ben got it down eventually.

Love: reinforced.

Shower trust: bruised, but mend-able.

Ben said the kids even knew what was going on. "Mom must have found a spider in the shower."

I really don't scream very often.

In Which Zimbio Struggles to Categorize my Blogs

I Google my blogs occasionally, just to see what keywords bring them up.

One of my most recent blogs gave me the opportunity to use just a few keywords to be certain to pull it up. Of course, they aren't keywords that most people would put into a search engine.

I mean, who is going to put "David Tennant Metaphor Savior" into a search engine? Besides me, of course.

The odd thing was that it didn't bring up a link to my blog, but to Zimbio. Eh?

So, I clicked and found that I have several articles on Zimbio...

After my initial amazement and a fleeting thought of "Does this mean I'm published?", I actually looked at the blogs that caught Zimbio's attention.

Then I looked at the categories they fall into.

Then I laughed.

They list them in reverse date order, most recent first. So, my David Tennant blog came up first. That one was reasonably categorized. Category: David Tennant. Think of all the David Tennant fans that went to that article hoping for some news or something brilliant and went, "What??" Haha!

The second one was my Rio Tinto Center - U of U Natural History Museum blog. Can you say "dinosaurs"? Zimbio Category: Rio Tinto Stadium... um. Not quite, Zimbio. I'm pretty sure dinosaurs and soccer players have nothing in common...

Number three was The Cheese Factor and Neuroticism which humorously deals with my inability to eat out of food bags with less than a cup of food left in them. Zimbio categorized this little peek into my cracked sanity with Recipes... Yep. If you ever want to know the recipe for being neurotic about food, Zimbio has the right article for you!

On to number four article which was entitled Brand New Adventure. This sweet nugget of a blog is about my attempts to make preschool fun for both myself and my daughter. We worked on themes instead of plain old worksheets. The theme for this blog? Strawberries. The category Zimbio picked? Recipes. Okay, so I talked about food a lot in this blog, but there is nary a recipe in the whole thing.

The fifth "article" was a blog discussing the unkind remarks that Stephen King made about Stephenie Meyer. It was categorized under Stephenie Meyer, so Zimbio did okay on that one, like they did the David Tennant blog. This one is short, but most like an opinion article. So, I don't feel especially embarrassed about that one.

I can't say the same for number six. My Viva la Vida blog is merely lauding the song by Coldplay as my favorite at the time. I said a few things about the song and then proceeded to put all the lyrics down. That's it. The whole blog. Of course, I didn't write it in the hopes of launching a writing career. Zimbo put it in the Coldplay category, which is appropriate, but, again, fans who find that article will see it for the waste of space that it is in that setting.

The last was my Capers blog. This blog still makes me laugh. It's about my discovery of what capers are, what they taste like and my opinions about them. Since the running theme about my food blogs is that Zimbio thinks they are recipes remains constant, there it was, categorized in Recipes. Well, maybe some foody will find it and be mildly amused at my first capers experience. Who knows?

If you are interested, here is the link to my list of Zimbio articles. You can also look at my profile.. All of which were "auto-generated"... I think A.I. is still a long way off.

My guess is that most of my "articles" on Zimbio go largely unnoticed. I'm okay with that. But, Zimbio must have an awful lot of articles that have nothing to do with the categories they are placed in.

It sure doesn't give me any confidence in searching through their archives to find something useful.

Especially recipes.

Elder Holland's Sports Metaphors Fall on my Convoluted Metaphorical Ears

This picture has been going around Facebook for the last few days as General Conference was imminent. It makes me wonder how aware Elder Holland is of his Meme popularity. I found this one while I was surfing for his quotes:

Anyway.

Back to the original picture and its quote.

When I first read it, I thought to myself, "Wow! He's got it right!"

Then I read it again and thought to myself, "Hmm... I know what team I'm on."

In fact, I do know the team I want to play for, I'm just one of those unfortunate players who is perpetually confused on the field.

You know those TV shows and movies in the 80's where some unfortunate, young wanna-be sports star finally gets on the team, only to score points for the opposing team? Yeah, that's me.

My jersey is right... I just keep getting the goals mixed up.

To make matters worse, the other team keeps sending their own members to our side, wearing our jerseys, leading us to believe that we can safely pass the ball to them or expect to be protected by them. It soon becomes clear that they are not only scoring points for the other side, but they keep knocking us down every chance they get and, at every turn, confuse us into scoring for the wrong side as well. To top it all off, there are other people playing the game that keep switching sides, wearing jerseys that don't represent either side and keep laying down on the field in an attempt to not play at all. 

Cheating runs rampant and the referees either don't see it, or treat it as part of the game and do nothing. In fact, the people dressed as referees are often playing for one side or the other and ejecting people for imaginary reasons. There IS a rule book, but most players dismiss it as archaic or outright garbage. As a result, there are numerous fake rule books adding to the confusion. 

There are two or more scoreboards. The real one is small and simple, almost unnoticeable, keeping track of the game-play score. The other scoreboard(s) track how attractive each team looks in their jerseys, how much fun they look like they're having, which one have the nicest houses and cars and how good they are at attracting attention to their side for reasons other than playing the game.

The sports announcers and commentators rarely report the plays, but instead concentrate on the drama of ongoing friendships and romances amongst the players.

Imagine being a spectator at that game... unfortunately, none of us are spectators. We're all playing at the same time, making the game vast, confusing and complex.

I don't say all this as an excuse for any of my behavior or mistakes. I only illustrate the intense difficulty in playing this game that is both simple and complex at the same time.

If we can recognize and read the real rule book, we have all we need to make sure we're not just playing for the correct side, but actually scoring. Hopefully, we can resist the distractions and deception of the opposition, and learn to ignore those things that are portrayed as important but hold no value in playing the game.

I suppose I over-analyzed Elder Holland's quote, but it did make me think about something that is important. It also made me realize that I need to play closer attention to this game of life and make sure I'm no longer confused about my role.

Thoughts?

How David Tennant became a Metaphor for the Savior and Clean Underwear means more than avoiding Embarrassment

Funny how when you want a dream to lead you somewhere, you end up with those weird, don't-actually-mean-anything dreams...

But when you aren't looking for a dream with a point, one sneaks up on you. Sortof like when I stopped looking to get married, I almost literally bumped into Ben.

Anyway.

Without going into detail, the elements of my dream last night included giant ants spewing out of a sideways tornado, my search for clean underwear and the entrance of David Tennant who, in true Doctor Who style, was leaping around trying to save us all from impending doom.

Whilst explaining this to my dear husband, it occurred to me that there really was something going on subconsciously in this bizarre realm. It came as I voiced my own interpretation of the oddity of my experience:

"Danger without being scared and hero worship without being in love."

At first I thought it sounded like a tag line or a title for something. Then I realized that it was poignant for another reason.

Stay with me here... the reason my dream was so weird is because truth must come to me in odd ways. That's the only way to get me to sit up and take notice. Most of my story ideas come from a kernel of whimsical and disturbing strangeness.

Just as an example, as I write this, I'm chair-dancing to Lady Gaga while formulating how I will write out my eternal-truth inspiration. Okay, that might have been a bit too much information.

Don't try to understand. Just let it flow around you.

You still with me?

The events in my dream were filled with danger and I was well aware of it. We were able to get rid of the ants on our own, but I had a sense that they were just the beginning. I did take issue with how we destroyed them since it would just as easily kill us all in the attempt and probably already was. We could handle giant ants reasonably well, but what was coming next would prove to be too difficult. I never saw the approaching enemy, but the urgency was tangible.

So, when David Tennant showed up, it had to be because what was coming could only be handled by someone built to protect us. A Savior, if you will. All I knew was that I had to stay with him. It was vital that I follow him wherever he went, no matter how fast he moved. I knew I would be safe if I did.

It wasn't until I woke up that I realized how odd it was that I wasn't smitten with him in my dream. You know how it can be in dreams. Here comes the hero and you are automatically in love with him. It wasn't like that for me. I was confident that he would protect us all and that I had to do my best to keep up with him. I wasn't sure if I'd even be able to help him, but I would hang on and survive the ride.

So... putting it together, what did I finally decide? As long as I hang on to my heroes and do my best to keep up with them, the horrific danger will mean nothing. I'm safe as long as I follow close in His footsteps.

What's that you say? What about the underwear? Ah, I see you didn't let that slip by.

Honestly, I think it might go back to that old mothering adage. Always wear clean underwear.
But, seriously, if what is most intimate to us is clean and pure, we're ready for the arrival of our hero. Our Savior.

There you have it. A glimpse into the convoluted workings of my mind.

Come back next time for another surreal moment with Yours Truly.

Sadistic Oreos

I was enjoying my Oreos last night and was quite proud of the fact that I hadn't broken any of the little buggers or dropped them in my milk.

As they say: Pride goeth before the cookie falls... or something like that.

After the fateful fall, I just couldn't get my fingers in there to get the poor cookie out before it had turned into mush.

Stupid, suicidal cookie.

Perverse sugary goodness that would be laughing at me if it had a mouth.

So, as I went to sleep last night, I had this little nugget running through my head:

Yes, I made it.

Yes, it's silly.

Yes, I love it.

You're welcome.

It wasn't ME, I SWEAR!

This story is how my paranoia got the better of me... not for very long, but long enough to feel like a flooded pantry was my fault.


It started yesterday. Our toilet wasn't flushing properly. It would drain super slow and then make a weird glugging sound. Ben discovered shortly after that each time we flushed, a small amount of water would bubble up into our tub. Ew.

Ben had to go to work and the toilet/tub problem preyed on my mind. I researched plumbing problems online and found that you aren't supposed to put Drano down the toilet. How the heck were we supposed to take care of the offending toilet if we couldn't put Drano down it?? (Well, you CAN.. it just has to be a certain type.) I ended up getting so antsy about it that I grabbed my purse and keys and ran to the store at 10:20pm, but not before I collected money from my virtual dragons, planted seeds in my virtual garden and looked at a bunch of stuff on Pinterest to calm myself down. I got the strongest stuff I could find. I didn't get the stuff that said you could put it down the toilet because you have to measure out 10 oz and that required too much effort. AND it said that you couldn't run water in the shower for 6-8 hours after putting it down the drain.

Ben did the honors and took care of the Drano... he waited the required 30 minutes and went in to flush and encourage with a plunger. It did... nothing. Around the time he started using the plunger in the tub, I decided I had gone slightly crazy.

I don't know why a clogged shower is so horrible, but it really, really is.

Fast-forward to this morning. I wake up to the sound of Ben snaking the toilet. Oh, yeah... my bathroom is broken.

Whilst I was lying in my bed, my brain started trying to reason what could possibly have caused such a disaster. This unsavory scenario flashed unpleasantly into my head:

Whether you are grossed out by this or not, I just happen to be on my period right now. (I'm calling this particular blog a loss at this point, anyway. I mean, it's about plumbing.. er.. issues, for Pete's sake.)

Because of my monthly concerns, I immediately blamed myself in spite of my usual carefulness. I discovered a long time ago that a tampon and any.. um.. solid waste would not flush down together. That's just asking for a clogged toilet. So, to save myself that embarrassment, I learned to first flush the tampon and then take care of the rest of it.

As it happens, for the first time ever since potty training my kids, both of them had to go #2 right after I did. It all flushed okay, so I didn't worry about it at the time.

Back to this morning, I worried about it... obsessively. In my head, my imagination conjured up an impossible situation... That tampon had gotten stuck in the drain... SIDEWAYS.. THEN the deposits left by me and my children were backed up behind it. It made so much sense. Drano would NOT dissolve a tampon.. so we were screwed.

I also wondered if the new over the toilet shelf we installed the day before had somehow put weird weight on the floor and was pushing a pipe out of shape or cracked it or something... yeah. I'm not a plumber for good reason.

Ben's attempts with the snake were not successful. I thought something magical would happen, but it didn't. So, he called for a plumber. They said they would be able to come and give us an estimate at 4... PM.

Then I started to notice a... smell.

Ben did too, and he looked in the pantry where the water heater and whatnot are kept... yeah... flooded.

At that point, I realized that it was ludicrous that a silly little tampon could have caused so much havoc. I started to postulate wildly.

"Well.. that's it.. Mom flushed something weird down one of her toilets and we're flooding down here because we're below ground level."

"G-G must have flushed a toy down her toilet." Yeah.. like she has action figures in her room... I can just see her cackling as she shambles to the toilet to throw in an Iron Man toy she's hoarded for this purpose for two years.

"Someone killed someone and is flushing body parts down the toilet one at a time.. they are SOOO going to jail for this."

Mom told me later that she was worried that the non-flushable wipe she put down the toilet a month ago must have done it. (See, I'm not the only paranoid one.)

All this time, Ben was using a shop vac to get the water off the pantry floor. When that got full, he attempted to get it back up the stairs and it landed on his foot and slopped icky water all over the carpet. I was slightly more worried about his foot than the carpet. It went purple really fast.

Dad noticed that there is something wrong with the drain outside. The one in the street. I never went and looked, but whatever was wrong prompted Dad to call the City and tell them to get their people out here to fix it.

At that point, I was completely vindicated. Yeah.. it wasn't me. The clog wasn't my fault. One of my neighbors killed someone and flushed them down the toilet. Or flushed a diaper. Or put grass clippings down the manhole... Or.. well, it doesn't matter, because IT WASN'T ME!

So aside from my room smelling a bit like an outhouse for a few hours and my children complaining that their room smelled "stinky", it wasn't too bad.

But that's probably because Ben did most of the dirty work (literally) and got everything cleaned up.

I love my husband. I really, really, really do.

Boiecheze Sandwich

Per my mother's request, I would like to share a little anecdote with you special readers this evening.

I realized while I was putting this blog together that I have no recent pictures of my children. Bad Mom!

I will rectify this atrocity as soon as possible.

I made french fries and grilled-cheese sandwiches for dinner tonight. The grilled cheese sandwiches have a special recipe (my mother's secret ingredient) that make the taste sortof ka-pow in your mouth; perhaps I will share it with you some day.

As we were eating, my little girl "why" child turned to me and said:

"Mom, why are they called 'grill-cheese'?"

To which I replied, as I often have to when my children ask these types of questions: "Because they are."

Please note that I have explained the term grilled cheese to her before, but she just likes to drive me crazy with repeated questions.

My son, who hadn't appeared to be paying any attention at all, said:

 "I'm eating a Boiecheze Sandwich!"

Grammy's face rather scrunched up in confusion as she turned to look at him and asked me, "What did he say?"

I clarified with a small smile on my face. "He said he is eating a Boy Cheese Sandwich."

It took about a second and a half to sink it, but my parents were soon laughing with delight. Considering how difficult it is to amuse either one of my parents, that's quite a feat.

That's my boy.

I suppose from here on out, we shall have to call them Gyrlcheze and Boiecheze Sandwiches.

Happy Blogging!

A Borrowed Cup and Spoon

There is nothing like a cup of something warm, be it sweet or savory, to make you almost feel human again.

A cup of white chocolate hot cocoa is doing just that for me at this very moment. The cup is borrowed, as is the spoon, but I couldn't resist the white mug to go with my white chocolate.

So, I will sit here next to my pile of tissues, my warm cup and catch up on my DVR.

What are you doing tonight?

I hope you are warm.

I hope you are well.

I hope you have something warm to drink.

I keep promising myself that I'll feel better tomorrow.

I'll cross my fingers.

In the mean time, I've got a date with my TV.

Fall Fun - Monkey Butt Pumpkins

 When it came time to go to a pumpkin patch to pick out pumpkins, we ran down to our favorite place. They have a fantastic variety. We wandered around and picked out our carving pumpkins, then took a look at the gourds. I love an interesting gourd.

You can see the interesting gourds I picked out and took home here.

There were a few gourds, however, that I thought were fabulous but didn't buy any. There is a really, really good reason why.

This is why...

Do they not look exactly like a baboon butt?

Okay. I almost posted a picture of a baboon butt. I looked at about ten of them before I decided that it would be too much for the delicate eyes of my readers. If you really want to see some monkey butts, just google it. 

Sick-o.

So, these gourds made me laugh a lot. But I couldn't picture them on my front porch.

They also sort of look like the gourd insides exploded out the bottom.

Either way...

Roach-killers

Call them what you will: High-heels, pumps, stilettos or roach-killers.

These are my newest acquisition.

Are they not fantastic?!

Mornings with Papa (and Audrey)

When my little family makes it upstairs for breakfast at a reasonable hour, (i.e. before 8:30) we can typically catch Papa on his way down to the bathroom to fix his bedhead.

Audrey starting asking quite some time ago what had happened to his hair to make it stick up all over.

The conversation will usually go something like this:

Audrey: Grandpa, what happened to your hair?

Papa: I got into a pillow fight with your grandmother.
Or: I slept on an egg beater last night.
Or: I had a brain-quake.
Or: I had a brain storm followed by a folicular typhoon.

The first few times, Audrey looked at her father or me to see if Papa was kidding. After a while, she just started responding with: Oh, Grandpa, you're so silly.

Papa has obviously enjoyed the dependability of Audrey asking this question because he comes up with something new and more imaginative or outlandish every time.

A couple of weeks ago, I spent somewhere around two hours up in my parent's room asking grammar questions. I was up to my eyeballs in text and found that I was confusing myself with it, so I went to the Human Lexicon and asked about everything that was causing me issue. I think I wore him out with all of it.

The next morning, he came down the stairs and before Audrey had time to notice him, he gave me a surly glare and said, "I was wrestling with a dictionary ALL night because someone asked me questions for two hours!"

I laughed, not apologetic in the least and as Papa made his way down the second flight of stairs, Audrey piped up.

"Oh, so THAT'S what happened to your hair!"

I couldn't possibly have come up with a better comeback, myself!

One of the things I learned in public school

I went to public school from Kindergarten through half of fifth grade. After that, I was homeschooled. It was a good thing too, because I had murderous intentions toward my fifth grade teacher.
I'm not knocking public school in any way. It works for most families, both for the kids and the parents. For me, however, it was doing several strange things to my brain. (See: murderous intentions)

One of the things I learned in public school was geography. I believe it was in my fourth grade class room that I sat at a desk right next to a map of the United States. It was one of those super simplified maps, like so:

We all remember these, right?

When I was much younger, I was under the impression that the color of the state designated on the map was actually literal. The maps that I saw certainly didn't have pink states, but there were green, brown, yellow, and probably blue. I assumed that this indicated the quality and quantity of grass and other green plants. I figured out differently on my own pretty quickly. I mean, I lived in California, and it was mostly brown. I think the map that I looked at as a kid showed it in green.

It didn't help that I wasn't really interested in geography that much.

Anyway, that's not the point I'm wanting to make. With regard to the map above, I learned the greatest non-fact about my country because of the way it was presented.

I was under the impression that the U.S. was a massive island floating out in the ocean with a ginormous Hawaii and a relatively small Alaska floating underneath. It never occurred to me that it would be rather strange to have an island occur naturally with really straight northern coastline. The same went for Alaska's eastern coast.

Imagine my surprise, years later, when I realized that the U.S. was not, in fact, an island. It was firmly placed between Canada and Mexico and qualified as a Continent! Whatdayaknow!

I also learned that Alaska was not even very close to the U.S. at all and was attached to Canada! How did that work out?

Even after learning all of that, in my head, I still imagined Hawaii to be just a little shorter in length than the Alaskan mainland and I also imagined that it was directly west of California. I think I also figured that you could take a sailboat to get there. I don't remember when I finally realized how relatively small Hawaii was and how far south. I was probably nearly an adult by this time. I do remember thinking, "Why the heck didn't I know this before?"

The same goes for countries like Egypt... I think I spent the greater part of my childhood thinking that Egypt was squashed somewhere in between Italy and Jerusalem. Apparently, Jerusalem was it's own country. Africa, for its part, was one huge country that only had a couple thousand people living there because the rest of it was safari country like the Serengeti. Oh, and Australia was the same size as Russia and was all by itself in the ocean. New Zealand didn't exist. China was just a little bigger than Japan.
All of those misunderstandings can be blamed on the fact that they didn't teach much about other countries in fourth grade. At least, if they did, I wasn't listening.

This is a rough approximation of what I imagined the U.S. looked like when I was a kid.

I forgot to draw Alaska and Hawaii... just imagine them floating under Texas and "?"

I find it almost ironic that I ended up marrying a Map Geek.

I suppose it's possible that I'm learning all kinds of interesting things from him almost purely by osmosis... but, most likely not.

Monkey Brains

I've talked about hair on a couple of occasions... Actually, several. But who's counting? Besides Blogger?

Ben is bald(ing). He doesn't find this fact amusing. He also finds very little comfort in the fact that I think it looks good on him. I wrote a blog a year and a half ago about men being bald and not hiding the fact.
Occasionally, Ben will allude to something he wished he could do with hair if he had some. I just think to myself that he couldn't possibly be any more attractive to me than he is on the days he shaves his head and face. I suppose he makes up for his lack of head hair by growing interesting facial hair.

Audrey has a long, full head of hair. It's interesting to me that I like making her hair pretty and resist getting it cut when I chopped all my hair off at the first opportunity. I have had several hair adventures with Audrey over the years. If you're interested, look here, here, here, here and a recent fabulous picture that a friend posted on Facebook. Audrey was a flower girl that day.

Henry has had simpler styles but still just as fun. Check them out here and here. We are currently trying to grow it out some so that we can take advantage of whatever curliness decides to reveal itself.

As for me, I've had long hair, short hair and very short hair at various times of my life. Since having kids, I haven't seriously considered growing it out again. My most interesting hair adventure can be found here. When the blue started to fade, I used red dye on it and it came out somewhat purple-ish. I haven't dyed it since. It's almost not worth it when you end up cutting it all off a month or so later.
So generally speaking, I use up any creativity I have in finding interesting ways to style my hair. I've had it smoothed down, barretted, pinned, head-banded, flowered and, most often, spiked. It's surprisingly difficult to find hair product that can keep my hair spiked all day. By the end of the day, the back and/or sides are getting fuzzy looking.

So, back to the title of my blog, I found a new hair gel! And so far... I LOVE it!

It's called Monkey Brains. It comes in a yellow banana container that has an MP3 player-listening monkey with crazy hair on it.

When you squeeze it out of the tube, it's a strange shade of yellow and that, combined with its thickness, reminds me vaguely of a grub.

Sure, it's target market is preteens and teenagers... but, really... I don't care. I can dig a hair gel that keeps my hair looking almost exactly the same after having slept on it all night.

Of course, before I bought it, this scene ran through my head... you know the one.

If anything, it just made me want to buy it even more.

You don't have to tell me I have a twisted sense of humor. I already know.

On Charmed Lives

Ben is lucky.

There is no arguing with this fact.

I present to you some of the long list of items that prove this fact.

Ben has been pulled over six (6) times since we moved to Orem. I have been pulled over once (1). Ben's tickets: two (2). My tickets: one (1).
(As a sub-note. Ben has been pulled over countless times in his life and has only had perhaps one or two other tickets, ever. I have been pulled over twice in my life and both times got a ticket.)

Ben found $300 Kenneth Cole shoes at DI for a few bucks. I found a cute Prada bag at DI for a few bucks. It turned out to be a knock off that was made in China. (I'm not mad about it, I'm just illustrating the luck discrepancy.)

Ben has won a variety of prizes from radio or raffles. I won a prize from a radio station once and when we went to pick it up, they had run out. They told me they would mail me a copy of the book I won, but I never got it.

Convinced yet?

I could go on.

But I won't.

Ben leads somewhat of a charmed life. The benefit of being his wife is that, while I rarely if ever experience this luck myself, I often enjoy the benefits of his.

Last night, Ben returned home from work at an earlier hour than normal and cheerily asked me if I'd like to go and see the last Harry Potter film. I asked if there was any possibility that we could even get a showing and he said he'd check. He spent some time online looking and most everything looked packed according to the websites, but there seemed to be a few seats here and there. I suggested that he call and find out from a real person if the website was updating live. He called and got an automated system that was very little help.

So, he took a shower and I talked to my parents about making sure that my children don't burn down the house in their sleep.

We left the house at about 8:45.

I know what you're thinking... opening night of one of the biggest phenomena of our generation... of COURSE it's going to be sold out. BUT, remember who I was spending my evening with?

We checked a couple theaters nearby and no one had anything before 3am. I don't care how much I wanted to see this movie, I am NOT staying up until 3am.

We finally went to one other theater and passed the truly freakish die-hards, dressed up and waiting patiently in queues for their showing. This theater had a kiosk in the front selling tickets, so Ben decided to check that. He pulled everything up and we found, to our utter disbelief, that there was a showing at 12:01 that had tickets. He speedily bought them up and we attempted to find our queue.

After a few minutes of wandering around, we found a cute young thing that worked there and asked her where we were supposed to line up. She wasn't sure and went to ask. A few minutes later, we went to find her. When we did, she and the guy she was asking were both looking rather befuddled. They, in turn, asked the head manager fellow who, at this point, was looking rather relaxed for someone surrounded by such insanity.

When we showed him our tickets, he looked surprised and said, "You shouldn't have been able to get those!"
Apparently, the 12:01 showing in theater 9 was a private one for Seven Peaks employees. In the 30 seconds that the showing opened up for Seven Peaks to buy all the tickets, we just happened to get to the kiosk and get in on the show as well.

They didn't have a line set up for them yet, so we were cut loose to do whatever we wanted for a while. Ben was starving, so we went to the Subway at the mall who had decided to stay open for an extra hour because of all the Potterites. Smart of them, I say.

So, Ben ate his foot-long BMT and I ate cookies and stole sips of his Dr. Pepper.

While we ate, we watched several groups of kids (i.e. adults dressed up as HP characters) "duel" each other with their wand replicas or twigs. There was a fellow who strapped his feet to buckets and dressed up like Hagrid. People kept stopping him to have pictures taken. There were numerous Dobbys, Tonks, Harrys of both genders, Umbridges and one or two Lavender Browns. I saw The Fat Lady complete with frame and Molly Weasley. There was someone dressed up like a penguin and another dressed up like Where's Waldo. There was a rather shabbily done Dumbledore and a spectacularly done Snape. Robes and Hogwarts schoolgirls abounded.

When we finally sauntered into the theater again to look for our queue, we eventually got directed to the management again. The head manager was looking quite harried by this point and informed us that the lady who set up the Seven Peaks showing was intending to conduct some company business before the movie started and that we couldn't be in there for that. Instead, he said that theater 8 was already seating and we could go in there and see if there were any seats available.

What? No waiting in a queue?

Yes, please!

Feeling slightly guilty, I followed Ben (who was suffering no complex of any kind) into the theater and right into some seats right in the middle of the row.

Yes, please!!

The showing turned out to be a 12:15 one, but I wasn't especially concerned about 14 minutes. We got seated at about 10:45. For the next hour and a half, we chatted about the unbelievable night we were having and various pipe dreams of our possible future. Like how one day I will be a famous author. Not as famous as Rowling, but almost.

When the screen started the movie quotes and quizzes, I sent Ben out for snacks.

There were a million previews, which was okay.

The movie was stunning. I cried. A lot. It was completely worth the staying up late and feeling like a zombie today. The benefit of watching it so late (early) is that we were in a big group of adults who wanted to see it as much as we did. There were scenes where you could have heard an owl flap, it was so quiet.

That's all I will say about the movie.

If you've read the book, it's not exactly true to the story. A few things were left out, a few things were added.

If you haven't read the book... what rock have you been under for the last fourteen years.

Either way, the movie is worth the high ticket prices and ANY hour you choose to see it.

This lengthy story should by now convince you of Ben's fantastically charmed existence. Is he always lucky? I will have to give a judicious answer and say that even when it seems like his luck has run out, it's usually because his good luck is keeping something from happening that would be even worse. That aspect of his life is difficult to explain, so I won't even try.

I'll just keep things simple and say that my evening was truly magical!