Why I Can't Buy Oreos

I bought a package of Oreos yesterday. Such a vacuum of nutrition is a rare treat for our family. They were supposed to be for S1's and D1's sack lunches. (S2 and D2 eat school lunch which is delivered from various local restaurants and the menu sounds so good I wish I could dine in their cafeteria.)

Yesterday after everyone left for school (except D3, of course) at approximately 8:43 AM I purchased the package containing 36 chocolate sandwich cookies. It was not opened until sometime yesterday afternoon when the wolves children came home from school. Today at 4:18 it was completely empty. That is only part of the problem.

The real problem is the fighting discussion that ensued:

S1: Who ate all the Oreos?

D1, S2, and D2 (in perfect unison): Not me!

D1: I only had four. (And then belatedly...) Not counting the three in my lunch today.

S1 (shouting overly defensively): I had none until this afternoon. I didn't even know we had them until today! How come no one told me?

D2: But how many did you eat S2?

S2: How many did you eat? You probably ate them all.

D2: Nuh uh.

S2: You and your friends - I bet you ate a ton.

D2: We did not. We did not eat hardly any. Probably only sixteen.

S1, D1 and S2 (simultaneously): Sixteen!!!

D2: Um, not really. I mean like six or three. Hardly any.

It's a Bird...It's a Plane...

"Mom, if this world had super powers, I know what yours would be: cleaning!" - D2

Don't be too impressed, I am not Super Cleaning Mom. Her standard for cleanliness is simply not as high as most people's.

Some More and Laughter

I've always been a sucker for before and after shots. Whether it is a weight loss story or a home rennovation, they can be inspiring. However, with one-year olds it seems to work in reverse:

BEFORE

and
AFTER

Living the High Life

Hiking to Stewart Falls in Provo Canyon (5800 ft elevation) today was full of

Highlights:

and

One Lowlight:

Heart Attacks are For Hunks

I drove past this billboard the other day and was mildly amused. As a vegetarian, (aside from an occasional fish fillet), I initially took offense to the advertisement. I may not eat very many dead animals, but that does not make me a cowardly baby.

A second look confirmed the extremely poor condition of the sign. It is obvious whatever brave flesh eater put it up, has not been back to check on its condition, or re-glue and staple the edges.

I am left to suppose the heroic red meat indulging marketer has most likely suffered some set back that has wielded him or her unable to maintain their business' marketing efforts. I don't know if it was coronary artery disease, hypertension, obesity or some form of cancer, that got to them.

However, I do know that anyone reading this all but abandoned billboard should think twice about actually eating a juicy sirloin from Ruby River Steakhouse. And I'll think twice about how delicious my salad with pears, feta, grapes and pine nuts tossed with raspberry vinaigrette is at lunch today.

SeaWorld Wonders

We recently returned from a trip to Southern California. Part of our itinerary included a day at SeaWorld. One of the rides at this theme park is Shipwreck Rapids. Here you float in a raft-like over sized inner tube through waves and caves.

It is one of those rides where you may get a little sprinkle, you may stay perfectly dry, or you could get soaked. Only the Shipwreck Rapids River Gods (and S1 and DH pouring quarters in the water guns along the sidelines) seem to determine your fate.

As I was not in the mood for a wet t-shirt contest, I opted out of the ride and sent D1, S2, and D2 by themselves. Meeting them at the ride exit, after each trip they begged to ride again. After the third time through the ride, they were all very wet!

As we left the attraction I saw two young boys leaving with their mom. They each had an arm around one of her legs and were grinning from ear to ear. "Mom" looked as though she fit in the "get soaked" category of riders leaving the attraction. As they passed by we overheard her oldest boy exclaim, "Thanks, Mom!" It made one consider that perhaps "Mom" had been a not-so-willing rapids rider. Then the small family turned in front of us, and I saw a bit more of "Mom" then she probably would have preferred.

I can only assume that she did not consider that wearing blue thong underwear with white cotton shorts made for an unwise clothing choice, since when they were dripping wet, there was little left to the imagination.

Sisters are Like Bras: Close to Your Heart and There for Support

Yesterday we went to Target (pronounced Tar-shay) to purchase the first bra for D1. When we came home, this was the exchange:

D2: Hmmm, you look different.

D1 (dripping with her usual sarcasm): Gee. I wonder why.

D2: You just look weirder because now you have boo boos.

Summer Slumber (Or Lack Thereof)

Summer vacation is in full swing at our house. For the most part that is a good thing. But tonight at 10:15 PM when DH told D2 she needed to go to bed so she could get up early, she confidently explained, "Daddy, I can go to bed at twelve thirty-four and wake up at seven twenty-nine. And that sums up precisely the problem I have with summer vacation.

Kids Say the Darndest Things

When S2 graduated from preschool his teacher presented us with a list of the funny things he had said during the school year. S2's 2001-2002 school year was obviously entertaining. Here are a few of my favorites:

"The BYU Cougars could beat the Power Rangers in football."

"My neighbor Jesse is The Farting King. His farts are long and loud."

"Bad guys wear handcuffs and live in cages."

"Girls sure don't know much."

"Miss Susie, I didn't come to school last time because I like my mom better than you."

"Is this kind of car called a mustache?" (It was really a Ford Mustang)

"If we don't wear our seat belts on the way to school, the police will come and underest us."

"My dad is very old, he's sixteen."

Dance for a Quarter?

Most teenagers look forward to turning 16 so they can drive, but for me 14 was the magic number. Turning fourteen made me old enough to start attending church dances. Most of these festivities were held 40 miles from our home. With a collection of 7 or 8 units from our church joining together, these large youth activities had the reputation for being a ton of fun.

My stomach was in knots that June Saturday evening Mom, Dad and I drove to my first youth dance. As there was no one in our congregation my age, I was on my own walking into the dimly lit gym. A D.J. flanked by a pair of black oversized Peavey speakers was playing a Lionel Richie ballad. Kids mingled on and around the dance floor as shots of light from a disco ball dotted people, walls, and the floor.

Suddenly feeling very lost, I ran out to the hallway, found my parents, and said simply, "Let's go." My parents were not going to let me off that easily, so with Mom by my side I was coerced to return to the gym where I stubbornly played the part of wall flower. After two songs I was ready, once again, to make the hour drive back home. Mom insisted we needed to stay a little longer. She pointed out a kid named Paul that I supposedly knew when I was a toddler. Her suggestion that I go ask him to dance was met with flat refusal. After two more songs, again, I assured her, it was time to go.

Before talking her into leaving, some guy asked me dance. We danced. Then grabbing my mom's arm, I dragged her out of the gym, found Dad by the refreshment table, and at my unusually adamant insistence, we all headed home.

Having left so early it was still light outside as I sulked in the back seat of the car all the way home. In my best martyr voice I told my parents I was sorry we drove so far for something so dumb, but not to worry, I'd never ask to go to one of those dances again.

A few days later I received a letter in the mail from the one boy that had asked me to dance that night. It turns out he was a friend of Paul, the kid my parents said we knew. I was flattered that he would write, and with my parents encouragement, I attended the July dance.

This dance was very unlike the first. Having exchanged a couple letters by this point, I had an acquaintance, as well as the supposed friend from pre-school. I spent much of the evening dancing with the letter-writer and Paul, and hanging with their crowd of friends.

On the way home, (in the dark this time) I excitedly leaned forward from the back seat to relay to my mom every detail of the evening. My dad then turned to her, "Can you believe on our way out tonight Paul tried to collect on his quarters?" Mom smiled, and Dad continued, "I told him, no way. That was a deal we made for last month, not this month."

Completely confused I asked what Dad was talking about. Matter of factly, Mom replied that since he was worried about my first dance in June, Dad had bargained with Paul early during the dance last month that he would pay him a quarter for every time he danced with me.

I was shocked! How humiliating to spend an entire evening with this guy, not knowing about the prior month's business arrangement. More upsetting was the incredible fact that my parents found nothing wrong with making that kind of agreement. And why hadn't Paul found a quarter price enough to ask me to dance in June?

As if I could not get someone to ask me to dance on my own, my father was walking the halls looking for anyone he remotely knew to strike a deal. And a quarter? Yes it was 1983, but still, a quarter?

Weighty Issues

A little more than ten years ago, my sister Christine went on an LDS church mission. She was the only one of the daughters in our family to serve such a mission. This made her a bit of a novelty to which none of the other sisters, including myself, could relate very well.

While she was serving, I would occasionally think about writing her, but I was not very consistent with that loosely contrived plan. One morning, I flew to Kentucky on business. Since I was bored playing Solitaire on my laptop, and it had been months since I had written Christine, I decided I should do the charitable thing and write my missionary sister a letter.

As I typed the Microsoft Word document, I asked her some generic questions, told her about my job and the kids, and then I finished the letter inquiring as to whether she had gained any weight yet. Much like the Freshman Fifteen in college, young female missionaries have the reputation of putting on some unwanted weight as well. Thinking I was being funny with the weight comment, I chuckled to myself, quickly finished the letter, and printed and mailed it off when I got back home.

Not more than a week after that, I received a response from Christine. She began her letter early on addressing my remark about how much weight she had gained. She emotionally explained, that it had been so hard to eat right and exercise while on this mission. She described how she was too poor to buy healthy, fresh food so she mostly ate bread and pasta with a little bolgna. She said she had long since outgrown all her original mission clothes. She was having to buy bigger and bigger dresses almost every week. Even her shoe size had grown!

Completely in shock, I continued to read how she felt so terrible about herself and what this weight gain was doing to her. She confided, that she had not told anyone else in the family about this yet because she was so embarassed.

She requested my help as well. Knowing I could sew, she asked if I could make her some tent dresses, as she had gotten so large she did not even know if normal clothes would still fit her. Then she loosely sketched a small drawing of the type of dress she needed.

My heart was pounding and my hands were shaking. I felt awful for such an insensitive comment in my original letter. I immediately committed to myself, as soon as I finished the letter, I would begin to sew the prettiest tent dresses I could. I assured myself that when she got back home, we would go running together and I would help her take of the weight.

Feeling awful about my sister's predicament, and unable to even picture what she must look like so suddenly overweight, I turned the page of her handwritten letter over. It continued with the simple pleading, "Please pray for me." My heart sank. I marveled at how she could have left us less than a year ago as a size 4 and already be at this point.

Then without skipping a beat, she continued to write. "I am kidding. I have hardly gained any weight at all. Maybe a couple pounds, but I don't really know, becuase I am a missionary and don't own a scale. But it was rude of you to ask. And what is with never writing me? Ha! Did I get ya?"

At that is how I learned the lesson, the rest of you probably already knew, that it is never polite to ask someone if they have gained any weight lately.

Sweet Suckers and Green Boats

DH and I are often amazed at how easy going S2 can be. He is so kind and good-natured, you have to wonder if he is for real. We have noticed that he will do most anything to make someone else happy.

One day he was enjoying a sucker he had received earlier that morning from the teller at the bank. A slightly younger neighbor girl came over to S2 on the front lawn and expressed some interest in the sucker. S2 slid it out from his pursed lips and handed it to her. Without a moment's hesitation, she stuck it directly in her own mouth. S2 stood there briefly and then walked over to me sitting on the front steps. I told him that it was very nice of him, but he did not have to give up his sucker. He replied that it was okay and that he didn't really want it anyway. Then his bottom lip started to quiver and he ran up the stairs into the house. I followed soon after to find my four-year old uncontrollably crying in the living room for the sadness of a lost-forever sucker.

Even as a ten-year old, S2 is still often thinking more about others' feelings than his own. This week he has been working with his dad to build a boat for the Cub Scout Rain Gutter Regatta. S2 had shown me a picture of a yellow boat earlier in the week that he wanted to copy. However, when S2 and DH brought it in the house, freshly painted from the garage, his boat was green.

On the way to the store to buy some stickers for the boat, I asked S2 why he changed his mind on the color for his boat. He replied, he had told dad that green was the color he wanted to paint the boat. I wasn't convinced that was really the color he wanted. But with each question, S2 repeatedly assured me that he loved his boat, and he loved the color green, and it was exactly what he wanted.

When I pressed further, knowing that he had probably gone along with the only color readily available in the garage so as to make DH's job easier, he firmly stood his stance. "Mom, I love green! It's just what I wanted. We are so lucky that was the only color we had, because green is my third or fourth favorite color!"

I think I could learn a lot from S2, because I am not nearly easy going. For example, no one has ever heard me confess, "I love senselessly dirty clothes. I love to do extra loads of laundry because someone wears something for 4 minutes and then throws it on the floor. It is really my favorite thing! It's exactly what I always wanted."

How's that sound? Are you convinced? Yeah, me neither.

Cell Phone Aids Teen in Reaching Superstar Status

Ever since S1 started high school last fall, DH and I have been adapting to parenting a growing teen-ager. Changes in our rules began with extending his bedtime by two hours. In addition, his new found manhood afforded him other privileges as well. We let him fly across the country for spring break to visit friends in Florida, he got his Learners Permit to drive a car, and we bought him a cell phone.

With all these new found opportunities, S1 has handled them with surprising care and maturity. Except for one time. Not long ago, S1 was sitting in class when his cell phone, which he claims he thought was set to silent mode, started playing a very loud, nifty little tune. Not even initially aware that it was his offending phone, his pants sang the not-so-original musical selection for almost a full minute. With no one quickly silencing the singing cell, the teacher was not impressed.

Finally, S1 caught on as to his musical pocket and was able to silence the noisemaker. The instructor questioned, "Who's cell phone was that?" Never able to tell a lie, S1 quickly admitted, "It was mine."

The consequence for a noise-making cell phone in her class is well-known, even celebrated. "Well class," the teacher responded, "Do we know what that means?" A cheering room of 15 and 16 year-olds started waving their arms in the air. With everyone in smiles, she reminded S1 of the clear policy and then confirmed, "You do understand?" "Yes, I do," he obediently replied, with a hint of a smile. "They'll be here tomorrow then, right?" she verified. S1 agreed, "Yep tomorrow, no problem."

S1 exited with the other students when the bell sounded a few minutes later. But he did not sulk out in shame for disobeying a class rule. Instead, he was accompanied by classmates giving him high fives, exaggerated thumbs up, and chummy pats on the back. They were all eager for the punishment scheduled to be delivered tomorrow.

Being chastised for having a ringing cell phone at school was not the penalty. Not even close. Delivering the promised goods the next day to his class was no penance either. Explaining to his mom, on a night when she was doing payroll for four restaurants, that she needed to stop everything, drive to the grocery store before it closed, and purchase 33 glazed donuts (one for every student in the class as well as the teacher) - that was the punishment.

Unable to drive himself, and with no more than $3.75 in his wallet, this discipline was clearly not for the now famous S1. The only person suffering this consequence, was yours truly.

On the following day, yours truly let the teacher know that she did not appreciate a policy that creates a celebrity out of the offender and causes havoc at home. The teacher said to yours truly, welcome to parenting a high schooler.

Thanks to Carol for the inspiration for today's blog.

Four Winns Forlorn

Somewhere in the comments of this blog, despite my claims otherwise, David contended that there is no such thing as a "dumb boat."

Before we bought our wasteful watercraft, a friend offered a good measure as to whether or not we were prepared for boat ownership. The test goes as follows: Start by flushing twenty dollar bills down your toilet every night. Continue this game for one week. Spend the second week flushing hundred dollar bills down the toilet. At the end of the two week test, if you found such activities to be enjoyable, then you are an ideal candidate for boat ownership.

DH figured he'd pass that test with flying colors so he bought a big 'ol vessel.

In the past seven years, we have realized boat ownership is more expensive than flushing twenties and hundreds down the toilet, but is also a bit more fun.

However, with four restaurants, we are running thin on money to flush down the toilet as well as time to enjoy the process. So, alas, our boat is for sale.

I thought the day DH decided to sell the boat would be a happy one for me. But as I nostalgically rummage through pictures to post on our listing, I'm feeling twinges of sadness. Wistful for a dumb dinghy. Can you believe it?

Liza Look-alike

While I have suspected the resemblance for some time, these photos prove my suspicion. Born seven years after our "baby," last summer we were blessed with a new baby in the family. Just like Liza, our D3 is beautiful. And the similarities don't stop there. The most obvious, of course, is that each has a beautiful and famous mom. Okay, I admit, I'm no Judy Garland, not even close. But D3 is a deadringer for Liza, and like Liza, D3 is also the center of attention wherever she goes.

We have known D3 to be a show stopper almost since the day she was born. DH did not believe me one morning last June when I said today is the day I'm having this baby. He had a restaurant only one week from opening and knew the baby could wait until after opening day. So off he drove, 40 miles away. Thank goodness for a believing neighbor with a car that drove me to the hospital later that afternoon. And if DH was irritated and annoyed at having to leave contractors unsupervised, abandon a to-do list ten pages long, and then drive through rush hour traffic to come to the hospital for the baby's birth, I didn't notice it. Not at all.

My two rules are that he be present for conception and then again for the delivery. After all, that really isn't asking much.

As I reflect on the past 11 months, I've come to realize that D3 isn't so much of a show stopper as a show starter. It has been constant fanfare since that day last June, and I am happy just to be somewhere in the credits.

I Am My Dog and My Dog is Me?

An article in the Sunday paper has me in a panic. It explores the possibility that our pets are a reflection of our inner selves. If this is true I am in a world of hurt.

First of all my Shih-Tzu, named Cookie, is 20% heavier than the average dog of her breed. Hmmm…I don’t have anything to say on this subject except, so far, not looking so good.

Secondly, she is a mess. When she was younger I would take her to the groomer regularly to style her coiffure and trim her nails. Now, I’ve come to accept that she is a family dog, not royalty, and she runs around most of the time looking like a rag muffin. If that is a reflection on me, my expensive new hair straightening iron is not doing its job.

Perhaps worst of all, Cookie is a barking, raving lunatic. My neighbors must truly be saints, because not one of them has tried to feed her rat poison, yet. I know I too can be full of jibber jabber, especially when I get the opportunity to converse with people who experienced puberty before President George W. Bush came to office, but I hope no one sees me as a yapping crazy lady.

Finally, the saddest realization is: (all you animal lovers just close your eyes for the next few words) I hate my dog. Not that I wish her any harm, at least not permanent harm, but most days, I just detest her food, her smell, her mess and her uppity ways. And if I hate my dog, what does that say about me and how I feel about myself?

All of this is is a reality I am not prepared to face. The more I think about the article, I am convinced it was published in order to drive otherwise sane housewives like me to seek professional counseling.

I feel the need to shake these disturbing thoughts and do something refreshing. Something that will make me feel whole and normal again. Where is my adorable dog? I need some matted hair to rip through with a comb.

Holiday Hitch

I listed our home on a vacation exchange website a few weeks ago. We want to go to Disneyland this summer and a home exchange could be an affordable and comfortable way to travel. Seeing as it worked out so nicely for Cameron Diaz and Kate Winslet, I thought I’d give it a whirl.

Soon after paying the sign-your-life-away, never-get-a-refund membership fee, I contacted a family in California only a few miles from the dreamy theme park that my children cannot wait to visit. They own a modest home, want to travel this summer, and have Utah listed as one of their travel spots of choice, so the trade is ideal.

Our vacations plans are proceeding nicely except for one tiny detail. My inbox has been void of any response from the House Near Disneyland Family. When I didn’t hear anything for a day or two, I figured they don’t check their email on the weekends. After a few more days passed, I thought maybe they logon to their computer only once or twice a week. After almost a week of silence, I convinced myself they were out of town for Easter. But now? I am running out of excuses to comfort my fragile ego.

I have reread my listing description and searched my posted photos for any hints as to how I have frightened the House Near Disneyland Family into hiding. I avoided posting any pictures of S1 and S2’s bedroom and bathroom, made certain not to mention the dog, and gave no insight into how my house heats up like an oven despite central air, most of July, August and September, so I am at a loss.

As I tend to be gluten for punishment, I decided to research the site again for a home for trade. This time I was not too picky and searched all homes that listed Utah as one of their preferred destinations. There are just over 10,000 listings on this site. Guess how many of those people want to travel anywhere in Utah during anytime in the next three years? Twenty-eight.

Interestingly enough, a full quarter of those people live in Australia. They are probably David’s neighbors. It is not that I wouldn’t love to visit Down Under, but I could never afford all the plane tickets. And if I could afford to fly a family of seven to the land of kangaroos and Koala bears, I’d still be faced with the problem of no Disneyland theme park within driving distance.

And so it seems our summer vacation is going to be no holiday.

A Dutiful Moment in Time

Friday evening D2 and D2's friend joined DH and I in the kitchen. We were enjoying plenty of conversation and cookies when, all of a sudden, D2’s friend stood up and without saying a word, walked to the front door. The rest of us quieted and DH asked our neighbor what she was doing.

D2 explained on her suddenly mute friend's behalf, “She has to be home at ten P.M. and it is nine fifty-nine.” We glanced at the clock and sure enough the big hand was almost to the twelve and the little hand was on the ten. Following the brief and apparently accurate explanation, her friend proceeded out the door.

DH and I were left in a bit of a stupor. Since when are third graders that responsible? And since when are second graders able to tell time with such precision?

Checking Account in Check

Despite the less than spring-like temperatures lately, I am convinced that spring is here. I’ve received confirmation as to the truth of this surmise based on the fact that most everything is growing. My sneezy nose and weepy eyes will attest to the fact that the pollen count is thickening. And S1 and S2 have been less than thrilled about the lawn mowing required since the grass is rising. But sprouting has occurred beyond the obvious springtime cues.

For example, D2’s unfinished homework pile is swelling. My restaurant accounting paperwork is mounting. The laundry pile is always flourishing. And since it’s been a few months since New Years Resolutions, although I've avoided obtaining actual proof, it's possible I may be thriving as well.

There is hardly anything around me that is not expanding. Except…unfortunately, despite the tulips planted by the front doors of the depository, and the cheesy Easter cut outs at the teller windows, my bank account seems to be oblivious to all hints that spring is here.

We Learned Much Things

If you were to objectively review any given day, you may be surprised at how much you learn in a brief 24 hour period. You may find, as my privately schooled friend (as in 4 years at a private high school and 4 years at a prestigious private university) said just yesterday evening, “We learned much things.”

And he is right. We all have learned much things. I learned much new things on Friday alone. A few are listed below:

1. Sleep apnea machines, while they should not be a laughing matter, can provide an excellent source of merriment. If you ever require the use of one, don’t be shy. Try it on and wear it when you sleep or even when you read or watch television. Oh, and be sure to opt for the jock strap/mouth closure accessory as well. I understand that it is an extra $26 well spent.

2. While some may believe it to only be an old wives’ tale, it truly is illegal to deface money. By doing so you could incur a fine and a 6 month prison sentence. I confirmed this when researching the penalties D2 may face if caught by the feds. She received a two dollar bill from Grandma for Easter. But since all her siblings received one as well, she wanted to make sure, if hers was misplaced, no one else could claim it as their own. A fine and six months in the clanker - isn't that a harsher punishment than most first time-offender drug dealers face?

3. Dog food is “not good for you, but is also not toxic.” I learned this little nugget after calling Utah Poison Control. I called the emergency number because D3 considers keeping the dog bowl behind closed pantry doors a terrible inconvenience. At the tender age of 10 months she has learned to watch for the moment someone leaves the pantry door slightly ajar and seize the opportunity for some snack time.

It’s surprising to realize the knowledge all around you, just for the taking. So as you go through your day, be sure to take notice of the much things you learn too.