ameliorate me

The cheap pedicure

2009-11-06T23:03:00.004-07:00

Alternate title: The ghettoicure.

Who doesn't love a pedicure? If only they were $5 instead of $30. For this reason, I used to be an expert at giving self pedicures. Then I had a baby, worked too many freelance jobs and no longer had the energy to bend over for long periods of time.

Regular pedicures are not just a want anymore; they're a need.

I decided to treat myself to a pedicure not too long ago. Not wanting to spend much, I opted for one of the local beauty schools. It cost $9.

My first sign this was a bad idea was the set-up. A line of five metal chairs stood in a line on a raised platform, my designated seat in front of a large tubberware bowl filled with soapy water. All part of the pampering, the bowl was to soak my feet.

It looked exactly the barf bucket my mom kept in the garage growing up.

I had roughly a dozen choices of weird-colored nail polish (according to my pedicurist, "Everytime we get new nail polish, the other girls just steal it.") None of which included a top coat, so when I came home, I did that one on my own.

A classy, high-end establishment, right?

Speaking of the pedicurist, she was a story in and of herself. She was a bit older than me, layered in make-up and hairspray, had a daughter with a random man and loved her life of beer drinkin' and partyin'.

Gems from our conversation:

Right before getting out her dull school-issued "tool set": "I always get nervous cutting people's toenails because last time I cut my boyfriends's toenails, they bled!"

Right after telling me "We're so much alike!" (I guess because I knew all the businesses and parks she frequented? We do live in the same neighborhood...)
Her: Are you with your baby's father?
Me: Yeah. We're actually married.
Her: (Shocked look on face) OH, YOU ARE?

Right after asking her about her schooling:
Me: Do you like the other students here?
Her: Well there are so many gay guys! And I never knew a gay guy before, but they are all SOOOO funny and ultra-girly!

And, just when I thought her stereotyping couldn't possibly get any worse, right after explaining the hours she has to acquire:
"We have to have so many credit hours to move on. Nobody likes doing pedicures though. Those are for the Asians."

Clearly, it was a luxurious affair.

My grandpa

2009-11-05T23:32:00.005-07:00

Grandpa and Grandma Monson, Jan. 2008

Tonight, I went on a date with my grandpa.

We went to the Heber Cowboy Poetry Gathering (more on that later) to hear western singer Michael Martin Murphey -- a new favorite of mine, an old favorite of my grandpa's.

Oh, what a night. Grandpa wore his real cowboy boots; I sported my Target knock-offs. We whispered highlights to each other between numbers ("That mandolin is amazing," "Don't you get chills from his voice?"). He sang along to songs like Geronimo's Cadillac and was the only one in the venue besides Murphey himself who knew all the lyrics to "Home on the Range." I had long talks with the only grandfather I have known.

Some facts about my grandpa:
- At 16, he ditched his high school graduation to work at a dude ranch in Wyoming for the summer. He is the closest family ties I have to a real cowboy.
- He is tall, dark and handsome. When I was little, I thought he played Rhett Butler from "Gone With the Wind."
- The highlight of turning 80 last year was skiing for free at Alta.
- He is full of stories - and they all have a moral. (Our drive up - avoiding adult peer pressure; drive down - making a mark on the world as a women.)
- My grandpa is one of the only men I know that has had season tickets to the New York Met Opera and season tickets to BYU football -- and enjoys both equally.
- Women have never had a defined job in his eyes. He cooks and cleans just as much if not more than my grandma.
- He is the epitome of a true gentleman.
- Raised his family in New Jersey while he worked at a New York ad agency (I think of him every time I watch "Mad Men.")
- Makes friends wherever he goes.
- Never passes up an opportunity to serve and give to others.

Lately (for the past 13 months, to be exact), I've been having a hard time with mom life. Of course I love my darling Peanut and could not imagine life without her. I delight in her daily growth, frequent baby kisses and bubbling personality. But, to be completely honest, I don't feel fulfilled by the job. I find it boring, repetitive and lonely.

I admitted this to my grandpa. His reply:

"Amelia, the most important thing for a child is to be loved. You can tell when a child is loved," he told me on the descent through Parley's Canyon. "And that child? It is obvious she is loved."

I love my grandpa.

The e-mail forward

2009-11-04T23:39:00.002-07:00

I am still amazed at the power of an e-mail forward. I'm not talking about the ones actually worth your reading; I'm talking about the stupid ones.

These usually end in some sort of threat ("FoRWaRd tHIs tO oNlY 5 pEOpLE & Ur crush wIlL HatE u :(") Or an empty promise ("Send this to 25 people and a voucher for a $25 Applebee's gift card will appear on your!!!")

It's so 1995.

How you know this is a stupid e-mail forward:

- The subject reads "Delete if we aren't friends" or the end commands "Forward this on to 10 people, including the person who sent it to you." Why would the person who already read it want it back?

- Anything rewritten. Bible verse, nursery rhyme, rap song, fables.

- Share a story or poem about Jesus and make you feel guilty for not passing it on by quoting some fake statistic, "Did you know 90% of people will pass on a joke, but only 8% will pass on a message about our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ?"

- SUPER HILARIOUS little quips making fun of women. Ex: "They call it PMS because Mad Cow Disease was already taken." HAHAHAHA I'm laughing so hard.

- EQUALLY HILARIOUS little quips making fun of men. Ex: "My husband and I divorced over religious differences. He thought he was God and I didn't."

- Stories wirh morals praising the senior citizens. "Don't mess with the old dogs... age and skill will always overcome youth and treachery!"

- Clip art is involved. Often images that are blinking or glittering.

- The "unbelievable" pictures or "true story" has been photoshopped or can be refuted by a simple Google search or snopes.com investigation.

- The font size is set at 48+, some cutesy font and a color other than black.

- A "HUGE VIRUS WARNING!!!" for a computer virus that is 5 years old.

- They sound like they've been written by a 65-year-old woman, who crocheted this on a pillow 5 years ago and now wants to grace the world with her hilarity. Ex: "Save the earth...it's the only planet with Chocolate!!!"

- A subject line of "Did this work?" with a promise of "Send this to 100 people and something really cool will pop up on your computer screen!"

- The forwarded petition. Calling for some television show to be banned, asking (insert politician here) to resign or a promise of "If we get 10,000 signatures by Friday, the Red Cross will send first-aid kits to (insert developing third world country here)!!!" this is a clearly legal and enforceable piece of material that should be taken with all seriousness.

Any signs I'm missing?

(Can you tell I've been put on some forward list I can't politely get off of?)

The Great Pumpkin Obsession

2009-11-03T20:37:00.000-07:00

It stars with a look.

...a touch.

And then: TRUE LOVE.

**The Great Pumpkin Obsession of '09 continues.

Fallish things

2009-11-02T23:48:00.002-07:00

One of the many wonderful things about living in Utah is the change of seasons. A lot of people joke you only get two seasons in the state - boiling hot summers and freezing cold winters. Not true. You just have to know when and where to experience fall and spring at their peak.

And now, a photo recap of the season that has come and gone.

We like to kick-off fall with a drive over Guardsman Pass. This is the road through Big Cottonwood Canyon in the Salt Lake Valley into Wasatch State Park in Midway/Heber.

These are some of my favorite photos of the day - and the first one is a contender for favorite photo of all time.

I got lost in the woods taking the above. I may still be there now if it wasn't for a loud car passing by that finally alerted me to the direction of the road.

Next fallish thing, we went to a historic grove in Wasatch County to pick apples.

...and so my brothers won't say "If you're such a feminist, why do you make GJ do all the work?"

We ran into a few terrifying, emaciated deer.

Still teethless, Peanut REALLY wanted to eat the apples. I resorted to biting off a big chunk and letting her suck the juice.

So content was she with this task that we couldn't take a family picture where she actually looked at anything but the apple.

(Tri-pod and timer photo here folks. I'M THAT GOOD.)

We made applesauce with the goods. So good is that applesauce that Peanut sucked if off her highchair when we fed it to her.

Wrapping up fall, we went to our favorite pumpkin patch - South Ridge Farms in Santaquin, Utah. GJ and I have been going here since our college days.

We went on a hayride to a pumpkin patch with Uncle "Tent" - yes, she says it. Siblings - you have some 1-year-old sucking up to do.

Here is where Peanut's creepycute obsession with pumpkins began.

GJ takes the pumpkin-picking business rather seriously.

This is Peanut's new favorite facial expression - she puffs out her lips, scrunches her nose and does a snort thing until one of us does it back to her.

We ended the day with apple cider slushies - and a soda fail.

The story of the ghetto Halloween costume

2009-11-01T23:59:00.004-07:00

I'm all about doing themed family Halloween costumes. GJ hates this. Hence last year, Peanut and I were the pea and the farmer and GJ was...the lame dad who hates dressing up. I've convinced him to go as Johnny Cash and June Carter Cash in the past as well as Dwight and Angela from "The Office." That's because those are people he LOVES. So I knew if I wanted to convince him this year, we'd have to go as something he loves.

My first idea was to go as Mario, Princess Peach and something small and cute for Peanut (the 1-up mushroom, star, Toad).

I would not recommend going through too many pages in a Google image search of "Princess Peach costumes" because you will come upon a gross amount of obscene anime porn.

For this same reason, I would also not recommend Googling something you think is completely innocent when making your costumes, like "Mario and Luigi" or "Does Toad wear a shirt under his blue vest?" (Learned: there's a surprising amount of gay fan art around Mario and Luigi and Toad does not in fact where a shirt under his blue vest...which proved to be a small problem when a baby girl would be wearing said Toad costume).

SO. This basically meant I found nothing that would work for any of us and I would have to sew all Mario-themed costumes. Of course, Halloween snuck up on me and, by the time a Stowell Halloween party rolled around last week, we had nothing.

I pitched:
Betty and Don Draper and baby Gene from "Mad Men" (GJ: Would that be one of those "Who are you costumes?")
Alice, Mad Hatter and rabbit from Alice in Wonderland (GJ: Too trendy with new Johnny Depp movie.)
Obama, Switzerland and the Nobel Peace Price (GJ: ...just NO.)

At this point, I was TICKED GJ was throwing out all my ideas, not pitching any of his own and we needed something last-minute.

Then GJ came up with something completely ghetto yet totally genius.

I now present, Happy Halloween from:

The contestants - and big red ball - from "Wipeout"
or
Dodgeball players
or
Kickball players
or
The abusive parents who dress their children up as a ball, then joke they're going to throw her at each other

...it worked. We cut up a red ball to put Peanut in and just got sweat bands for ourselves. Peanut actually won "Funniest kid costume" at a friend's party.

The best part of this costume was our constantly moving/screaming/squirming kid would completely freeze up and zone out every time we put this costume on her. It was like she took this "I'm a ball" bit a little too seriously.

I'm totally keeping the costume around to put on her when she's driving me mad.

*BARELY squeakin by for the first day of NaBloPoMo. Folks: remember, help me out and ask me a question here.

NaBloPoMo* starts in ONE DAY

2009-10-31T12:35:00.000-06:00

And folks? I need stuff to blog about. Sure, I've got a few things lined-up, but if I'm going to commit to blogging everyday, I need your help.

So I'm going the lazy blogger route: Ask me questions. ANYTHING.

I need at least one post out of these, so you better ask before I resort to commenting anonymously on my own blog with things like "Why are you so cool Amelia?"

Either comment or e-mail ameliorateme(at)gmail(dot)com.

*NaBloPoMo is National Blog Posting Month which is in November.

I turn to TV to cure the pain

2009-10-27T01:32:00.002-06:00

My kid is sick. Sick with teething. I know some pediatricians say they don't get a fever when they're teething, but BULL doctors. At 13 months, Peanut's first teeth are finally coming through - two on the bottom - and she's miserable. Lethargic, fever, cries a lot, only gets excited when she sees the Children's Tylenol bottle. Peanut won't talk (she's my daughter, that is BEYOND weird), Peanut won't eat (she's GJ's daughter, that is BEYOND weird) and she won't even move. I never thought I'd see the day where she'd lay there and cuddle with me for more than 5 seconds.

In an effort to get her mind off sharp bone pushing through her gums, I tried to find some entertaining kid's show. Peanut has had no interest in TV, even when I have, yes, tried to force it on her. But, folks, I was DONE. She was crying nonstop. I needed something, anything at that point.

So I turned on the TV.

AND WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO CHILDREN'S TELEVISION?

Albeit, it's been a while. I've been out of the kid-show loop for, oh, I don't even know how many years. Where is Strawberry Shortcake? Rainbow Brite? Muppet Babies? Care Bears? The beauty that was animation in the '80s, man.

We turned on a show called "Caillou." I've never heard of it before and, from the 15 minutes we were awake, I've gathered that this Caillou character is some kind of Benjamin Buttons boy with a really high voice, higher than the other girl characters, which is confusing when you and your child are drifting in and out of sleep.

(AM I WRONG?)

Why is there always this heavenly glow around the various Caillou scenes?

Why does Caillou only have 6 kids in his class? This is clearly not an American public school.

And what is up with the moms? Why are they the homeliest bunch of women I have seen - animation or otherwise?

Parents: do you have to watch TV with your kids?* Because all these commercials are geared towards adults - insurance, Direct Buy. Yeah, sure, if I'm letting her watch late-night cable, it requires monitoring, but preschool-themed programming? I had flipped through a few other shows and, TRUST, Caillou wasn't the most annoying. I'm going to punch myself in the uterus if I watch another children's show again.

*Not that I will experience this anytime in the near future because Peanut still has no interest in TV. She is more entertained by the opening credits to "Mad Men" then any baby-geared-TV. (I realize this is a good thing).

EDITED: Wikipedia tells me this is not an American public school - it's in Canada. Oh, those Canucks and their small class sizes!

Traditions gone horrible awry

2009-10-17T10:42:00.002-06:00

WILL I SHUT UP ABOUT BIRTHDAYS?! I promised a birthday extravaganza recap, but really, does anyone care I turned 27? Thought so.

Instead, please enjoy our feeble attempts at celebrating beloved Stowell/Nielson birthday traditions with a 1-year-old...you can guess how that turned out.

The night before Peanut's actual birthday, GJ wanted to toilet-paper her bed (Stowell tradition). Since I have a selfish black heart, there was NO WAY I would allow anyone in that child's bedroom and risk waking her up, ruining my evening of watching "Glee" while simultaneously catching-up on perezhilton.com. So instead we TP'd her bed when she was awake the next morning.

She kept going "Ohhh" and pointing at the toilet paper, like these were some sort of beautiful garlands we were streaming across her crib and not a cheap means people use to wipe themselves.

After work that night, we made her an angel food cake. You may remember we let her go at her own half cake at 6 months, so naturally she'd get a full cake at 1 (Stowell tradition). Just don't pay attention in these pictures that there is a big slice taken out of the cake (looks like I'm not the only selfish parent, GJ!).

Too lazy to make or clean up frosting, we went the ghetto route and got some whipped cream to put on top of the cake. We got the aerosol can kind and, after putting the cake in front of Peanut, put the frosting on top of the cake.

SHE FREAKED OUT.

The noise the can made scared her so bad, she wanted nothing to do with the cake. Being the sweet and kind mother I am, I continued pushing the cake towards her and she crawled away, screaming in horror. It was hilarious.

GJ even tried feeding her some (it's CAKE - SUGAR! Two WINS with this girl!) and she acted like he was poisoning her.

We then lit the big birthday candle (Stowell tradition - actually, I guess none of these traditions come from my family. Nielson tradition would be FORGETTING about the birthday dinner you planned for your eldest 27-year-old daughter because you're so distraught that your youngest 19-year-old son does not want to drive home from college on his birthday days later to celebrate - though I'm not pointing fingers). This is a huge candle with a countdown (count up?) from 1 to 21 - you are supposed to light it each birthday year and let the wax burn down until the next year.

I had this great idea of getting a picture of Peanut next to the candle, and taking this same picture every year until her 21st.

Moments after this picture, she grabbed the flame and hot wax. She was terrified of the candle after that and would no longer pose for a picture.

...then I forgot to blow out the candle and, 8 hours later, Peanut turned 6. Opps!

How to throw a 1-year-old birthday party

2009-10-14T09:54:00.002-06:00

DANG I'm behind in blogging. But guess what? I'm doing NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month - where I post EVERYDAY in the month of November).

So behind am I in blogging that I am nearly a month late on posting about Peanut's birthday bash. We threw it a week before her actual birthday because my parent's planned a vacation over their first grandchild's birthday and they were basically half the guest list.

If you are doubting my parent's love for Peanut, note this: they took Peanut the other week to a professional sitting and paid an artist to paint a portrait of her. This painting will be their Christmas gift to each other. This has become a hilarious focal point of conversation in our family because my siblings and I always make fun of my parents for being kind of obsessed with Peanut. We fear no other grandkid will get as much attention, and they will instead be delegated to light a candle under the Peanut shrine every time they visit.

So her party. I was all ready to make a stand against huge 1-year-old birthday bashes, making fun of my friends who go all out on elaborate cakes, matching birthday outfits and huge guestlists. I mean the kid is 1, they still poop in their pants and have no friends but their parents. A big party is not necessary.

Then I totally became one of those moms.

10 steps to a ridiculous 1-year-old birthday party:

Step 1: Find a theme. Because nothing screams "I'm 1!" like a themed party your child will never remember.

Peanut's was "The Very Hungry Caterpillar," since she loves that book and is obsessed with eating. Did she get that was the theme? Of course not.

Step 2: MAKE (not buy or e-mail - the shame) invitations by hand.

Or computer, in my case. You see these cute tri-fold invites? I designed them. I'm basically the most adorable person I know.

(Please ignore the obvious copyright infringement here.)

Step 3: Invite anyone that has ever touched or acknowledged your baby in the past 12 months. Your sister-in-laws parent's brother, who once said "She's cute!" at a chance meeting in the grocery store, long-lost relatives you haven't seen since your wedding, your best friend from high school who lives three states away (because of course she'll come), the former roommate you've reconnected with on Facebook, any friend's baby within a years age range of your child who is surely going to be best friends with your kid, your husband's boss and his spouse, the OBGYN who delivered your child.

Albeit an important step to a proper 1-year-old birthday, I refrained on this one. I'm not even going to mention the amount of people on my first list, but by the second, I found it completely reasonable to just do immediate family.

...and then I invited a few extended family.

...and then some more.

...and, oh, some childhood friends from California just moved to Salt Lake, we want to invite them too.

Step 4: Go gawdy with decorations and buy more than is even reasonable for a wedding reception.

Oh, hey, nothing for me to show evidence of in this category, not because I didn't plan them, but because I didn't have time to set them up.

Step 5: Buy or sew an original birthday outfit. Of course your child will not ruin this by food or poop.

Why no, I didn't stay up until 4 in the morning sewing an Eric Carle-inspired caterpillar on her onesie the night before. That would be ridiculous, especially since it would just be ruined mere MINUTES later when anyone held her and tugged on the onesie, proving my sewing skills suck and I can't even make a piece of cloth stick to another piece of cloth!

And no, she did not devour the food of ANYONE that left a plate on the ground or dropped a piece of food in the grass, getting her onesie covered in crap.

AND NO, she didn't have an explosive poo halfway through the party that forced an impromptu outfit change!

Step 6: Slave over a cake and matching cupcakes that will merely be devoured by all the guests and not appreciated for their true artistic baking beauty.

This picture speaks for itself on this one.

LAYERED RAINBOW GOODNESS THERE FOLKS.

Step 7: Let your child open an insane amount of gifts that will just overwhelm and overstimulate them, but remember it's their party, they can cry if they want to, damnit.

Step 8: Keep telling people you're going all out "For the pictures" but then you are so busy you hardly take any pictures and most of the ones that come out look crappy.

Case in point:

Step 9: Don't judge when your child develops a really strange infatuation with the balloon bouquet that night after the guests leave, ignoring all presents to happily get herself tangled in the balloons, crawl everywhere with them attached to her body and scream at said balloons whenever they float away.

Step 10: Oh, you, the mother of said 1-year-old, actually have a birthday two days before said child? NO ONE CARES, NOT EVEN YOURSELF.

'till age 2 Peanut!

Happy 1 Peanut!

2009-10-07T01:50:00.001-06:00

I admitted to my brother Trent the other night that the only people I make a point to regularly Facebook stalk are my brothers, Trent and Ryan. I can't tell you the last time I made a status update, but I can tell you my brother's latest friend requests.

...a Gmail conversation with my brother shortly after:

Trent: can i ask a personal question?
me: go for it
you know few if any things are off topic for me
Trent: why do you suck at blogging?
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
im so funny
me: i thought you were going to ask for girl advice or **the rest of my thoughts on this conversation have been retracted due to their questionable appropriateness**
i was prepared with answers
and, just so you know, im posting TONIGHT
and i will be noting my blog suckiness
Trent: good. because if you spent as much time blogging as you do facebook stalking you would make dooce look like a newlywed who cant buy more than 5 comments on a blog post.

(Not true, bytheway. Lack of posts directly correlates with influx of work.)

So I'm a horrible blogger. And a particularly horrible mommy blogger. Peanut turned 1 on Sept. 25 and I didn't post some sort of 1-year-old memorialization post. You've seen the kind - a month-by-month picture review of said child, with tidbits about how "I CAN'T BELIEVE MY BABY IS ONE!"

So, um, she was born.

(Notice the milk 'stache...or goatee.)

...then the next 6 months were kind of a blur of crying, breastfeeding woes, newborn starvation and postpartum depression...

And then summer hit, things got significantly better and my baby grew up into a funny toddler who is my permanent sidekick and copies everything I say and do.

(Notice the phone in hand, which she picked up the moment I was done with it.)

THE END.

(Not really. More birthday recaps to come - including the AMELIA AND PEANUT BIRTHDAY WEEKEND EXTRAVAGANZA!)

Name dropping

2009-09-23T12:45:00.000-06:00

(Idea stolen from my cool Stowell-cousin-I've-never-met Katie)

Great September 23 birthdays:

Euripides

Caesar Augustus

Ray Charles

Bruce Springsteen

Jermaine Dupri

Chi McBride

Amelia Nielson-Stowell

Facebook is a trip

2009-09-16T08:24:00.001-06:00

I have a love/hate relationship with the social networking site that is Facebook. I have a policy not to spend much time on there and, because of that, I become the creep that merely logs on to stalk random people from my past. Occasionally I'll try to be better at keeping in touch and respond to status updates that pique my attention. But mostly I'll log on to check a message, respond to a friend request or make a snarky comment about my brother's status updates (recent: "hangin' out at amelias house... if (Peanut) weren't here i probably wouldn't be either.")

But sometimes the whole "Request a random friend from your past" thing REALLY weirds me out. It should make me feel flattered to have someone requesting my internet friendship, but it all depends on the "friend" sending such a request. Examples of random people from my past who have tracked me down, friend requested me and I become really bugged about it:

- A girl who, in the 5th grade, was handed my spelling test to grade in one of those teacher-is-lazy-so-makes-students-grade-each-others-tests-deal and ERASED all my correct spelling words and wrote in the wrong words. We were really never friends after that.

- A girl who publicly bashed me on her blog, later friend requested me, I figured "Water under the bridge" and accepted it, only that she blocked me from viewing anything on her page.

- A guy who regularly made fun of me and my buddies throughout middle school and high school. (And then when he transfered to my college, all of a sudden wanted to hang out and have me meet his friends.)

- An old high school crush who friended me, and then when I saw him in Glendora roughly a month later, did everything in his power to avoid me.

Or maybe this is just proof that there are things I clearly need to get over? Either/or, some basic rules for friend requesting need to be established.

When you should NOT friend request someone.

If this is someone who you:

a. ...generally didn't like or get along with.
b. ...made fun of consistently in their youth.
c. ...would never want to talk to outside of the safety of your computer screen.
d. ...passive aggressively bashed behind their back (which I guess I'm doing to all of these people now, but hey, I'm not requesting their friendship).
e. ...would never give access to your whole Facebook profile.

Of course, because Facebook is a casual stalking addiction, I would not delete these people off my friend list because there are moments when I want to stalk them and look for any evidence that my life is better than theirs.

What a sick cycle Facebook breeds.

Illegal immigrant, Vegas and the curse of the Timex watch

2009-09-14T10:09:00.000-06:00

(I feel like a ghetto Harry Potter with my title.)

We took another California trip over Labor Day. One of those use-vacation-time-NOW-or-lose-it situations with GJ's job. A "Summer California photo recap" detailing both trips is due.

Our latter trip begins with a long, confusing history of a watch. A watch we were supposed to bring to California for a casually-crazy acquaintance who did not want to just ship said watch and, instead, waited impatiently while it traveled the country and changed a ridiculous amount of hands over the course of a few days.

This watch, one that was affectionately dubbed the "Sketch Watch," became the bane of my existence the few days leading up to our trip to California. It required much phoning and texting to figure out where-to-put-it-when just so it could end up in our car for the California trip. A lot of time was wasted on this watch, a watch that, when unwrapped, was reported to look like an $8 Timex.

We decided hours before the Friday drive to California that we would not be picking it up. Picking it up required us to stop in Provo on our way to California, and if you've visited the hoppin' college town, it's a solid 30 minute round trip just to get into the heart of Provo and back out on the freeway.

As I was leaving work after this phone call, I headed to the 7th story of the crowded downtown parking garage I park in to head home. After getting in my car, I looked behind me, saw no one and (here was my mistake) took a few seconds to grab my sunglasses off the console and put them on my lap before officially backing up. Then I backed up and...

CRUNCH!!!

Turns out one of the construction workers for the massive downtown construction site was parked right behind me. He began backing out before I did. Our bumpers whacked.

I got out of the car all shaken up. Thankfully, the bump just took paint off both of our cars - mine a lot worse than his. I asked him if we should exchange numbers and insurance information. His response: "No, no" (said in broken English while backing up back into his car) "No passport, no passport!"

I backed into the car of an illegal immigrant.

As if the kick-off to our California trip couldn't go anymore awry...

Before we left for California, we booked a hotel in Vegas. We were leaving Friday after work and, now that we're old(er), can't pull the "Drive all night" move we did in our college days. GJ had points at the Hilton, it has a good reputation, so we stayed at the Vegas Hilton on the strip.

We got there at 1:30 a.m. early Saturday morning. We were exhausted from our long, five-hour drive and were anxious to sleep. We were given a room in the central tower and immediately headed up to put our baby to bed and crash ourselves.

When we walked into the room, though, we were greeted by an unpleasant odor. Towels were all over the floor in front of the bathroom and, once we opened the bathroom door, we saw the culprit. POO and PUKE all over the floor and toilet.

I cannot even describe how disgusting this mess was. Someone clearly overindulged in Vegas and let it explode in the bathroom Hilton gave us.

I called guest services and explained the mess to them. I stressed that we had a fussy 11-month-old who needed to go to bed. Still, it took over 15 minutes for a housekeeper to arrive.

If you think I am exaggerating the mess in the bathroom, the first thing the maid said when she opened the door was a loud "Oh my G**!" And she's a hotel maid, you know she's seen all kinds of crazy stuff. She attempted to clean, but the toilet was clogged and the mess was too large, she told us. She called an engineer to fix the toilet.

Meanwhile, I called guest services again to tell them we needed a new room. It was 1:50 a.m. now, Peanut was mad, our room now reeked and we could not wait for the mess to be cleaned up. The guest services employee told us he was checking us into the neighboring room and a bellman would be up there shortly.

We moved all our stuff out of our room - the smell in there was getting worse and worse. Meanwhile, a couple walked out of the neighboring room - yes, the room we were supposed to be moved to. We waited in the hall for the bellman and, approximately 15 minutes later, he showed up. He handed us the keys for the neighboring room and we told him some people just walked out of there. He told us it should be vacant. We told him again that people just walked out and, when we opened the door, the beds were unmade and the TV on -- people were clearly using that room. Shockingly, he did not care. He told us "I was just told to bring you the keys." When we asked him what we were supposed to do, he began walking away and said: "It's not my problem. You guys are lucky you even got a room in Vegas this weekend, it's the Magic clothing convention."

Let me stress this situation again: It's now past 2 a.m. We have an angry baby who needs sleep. We are now two angry adults who need sleep. And the Hilton employee has just told us "It's not my problem."

At this point, we were both furious. Hilton checked us into an unlivable room, has taken forever to respond to all our VALID complaints and has now left us stranded in the hotel hall.

After a physical trip to guest services, we finally got a new room...all the way across the hotel in the north tower. Customer service extraordinaire Hilton did not provide any bellman, luggage cart or help with our bags. We had to pack-up everything, march across the hotel's long casino floor into a room on the 23rd floor.

By the time this was all taken care of, it was 2:30 a.m. -- an hour after we checked in.

Moral of the story (overused Vegas cliche time!): At the Hilton, what happens in Vegas stays in your hotel room and doesn't get cleaned up.

And when an illegal immigrant is involved, what happens in the parking garage, stays in the parking garage, and although your insurance rates won't go up, you'll feel like a jerk for not offering some cash to fix chipped paint.

And the watch? It was mailed shortly after all events commenced and, since then, no more major catastrophes.

Blog, oh blog. And baby, oh baby.

2009-08-25T10:22:00.006-06:00

I'm having a bit of a blog existential crisis. What is ameliorate me? Why do I blog? What is the purpose of my blog's life?

Mostly, I'm having a hard time writing for a living during the day then finding the time to give it up for free on my blog. Yeah, I said it.

Folks, I have somehow become the busiest person I know. Doesn't everyone say that ("I'm soooo busy!") and your first reaction is "WHOA SELFISH. I know a mother of six, (three adopted) who is involved in extensive charity work, sits on the Council of Foreign Relations AND works full-time." Thanks, Angelina Jolie. Making all of us other moms look like crap, one Ethiopian child at a time.

I really never wanted my blog to turn into the brag-about-my-daughter corner. But, despite my compulsiveness to write everything down, I haven't been tracking her milestones. And parenthood makes you second-rate to your offspring anyway - people want to hear about your kid more than you. Sooo monthly update Peanut bloggy things I go. I'll attempt to make them interesting and entertaining rather than the disgusting "She puked - and then ate it" (I'll leave that up to your imagination if it really happened or not) or braggy "She just finished reading 'A Tale of Two Cities,' is up for a Nobel Peace Prize for her volunteer work with the whales and designed her own sustainable clothing line." Gotta still be humble here.

At 11 months (...so during her 10th month of life, she is 11 months today, this is yet another annoying number facet to bearing children), Peanut:

- Crawls like a pirate. One leg crawls normally, the other does this weird, pegged-leg, arched walk thing. Picture any movie with possessed people -- that's what it looks like.
- Can crawl up the stairs. Well at least "one stair," until she gets mad and wants help.
- Seems brave...until she gets scared of the stupidest things like the vacuum (reasonably understandable, it's loud) my exercise ball (an ongoing fear since 7 months of age) and a roll of paper towels (WTF?).
- Finally likes reading. I was pretty nervous about this one, because she usually just attempted to eat the books. Now she reads them. "The Very Hungry Caterpillar" is her favorite. I think a story about another soul constantly being hungry speaks to her.

- Wants everything I use. My camera, laptop, purse, cell phone, planner, books, magazines. She will go to great lengths to get it.

- She's not so much of a toy girl. See above.
- GJ is her favorite. She cries when he leaves the room and lunges for him when I'm holding her. She used to cry when I'd leave the room too, and lunge for me when GJ would hold her. Not anymore. I'm trying to figure out what I did to offend her (this blog?).

- Spends Fridays at her Aunt Megan's. This is GJ's sister who has three little girls and is kind enough to take on a fourth one day a week while I work. Peanut is never sad when I leave her here.
- Is a little beast at church. She pulls the hair of the people in front of us, screams if we've been walking with her and then try to sit, attacks other people's purses, grabs the old people's walkers and attempts to escape on foot (or knees). The only time she's calm is when she's getting attention from the 12- to 18-year-old young women. She refuses to sleep at church and usually returns home to pass out for an undetermined amount of time.

- Understands "No," but still exerts her independence if she doesn't want to listen to you. Also will shake her head "No" at you if she doesn't like what you're doing (wiping her face, trying to feed her vegetables, putting clothes on her).
- Says "mama," (first word -- take that dad), "hi" and "yeah." She put two together for the first time the other morning -- "Hi mama." I melted.
- Claps if you say "clap" or "Yeah Peanut." Will wave (backwards, at her own face) and says "hi" if you say "hi" to her. Sometimes I feel like she's my little puppy that does tricks.
- In that vein, pants like a dog when she gets excited.
- ...and freaks out if you shake a box of cereal.
- ...and will eat out of your hand.
- Finds endless joy in turning around in circles on her butt.
- Holds her breath, shakes her body then screams when she gets excited.

- Addicted to puffs. These are little baby-friendly cereal that dissolve easily. It's her baby crack.

- Animal lover.

- Mimics me. This is hilarious when I am having a particularly impassioned discussion (I'm an animated speaker) and she's all of a sudden babbling loudly, raising her arm in the air like me.
- Now that she's mobile, she follows me from room to room, stopping occasionally to spin on her butt.
- Goes insane if anyone is eating around her and she is not. I never realized just how often people are randomly eating in daily life -- at the park, store, office, church, post office.
- Has become a picky eater. This happened after our San Diego trip (my apologies to moms who used to say "Vacations screw up my kid's schedule" and I'd think "Right..."). She used to eat anything -- now, not so much. Food she doesn't like immediately gets chucked on the floor.
- Is TICKED I put her pacifier on a pacifier clip or chain. Because this is another thing she loves to throw.
- Loves cars. I'm not talking about real cars, although she's excellent on trips. I'm talking about child-sized cars she can pretend to drive.

- LOVES my dad. If she even catches a glimpse of him, she will lunge for him.
- Refuses to watch TV. Not that I've tried. OK, I totally have. "Sesame Street," "Little Einstein," any annoying babyish television show -- she just crawls away.
- Had her first camping trip. I thought this wouldn't be worth it (and I'm a camper), because you have to bring SO MUCH to accommodate a baby, and you basically have to carry a baby the whole time or risk her eating dirt and crawling into the fire pit. But it was fun, she slept great (through a wind and rain storm!) and loves the outdoors.

- Is a total water baby. She immediately flops onto her stomach when in the kid pool or tub. She kicks her legs in a real pool, loves the ocean and likes putting her face under water.

- Gets all confused over the funky circus-esque options on my laptop's Photo Booth.

(RSS folks: Look at me, I'm full feed again! And with a self-made, probably unenforceable copyright!)

(in)effective parenting

2009-08-10T08:12:00.001-06:00

Things that Peanut may or may not have done when I passed out on her bedroom floor in a sore throat stupor - numerous times - in the past two weeks*:

a. Pulled half of her wipes out of the wipe canister.
b. Screamed at "The Very Hungry Caterpillar" while reading the aforementioned book to herself.
c. Slapped my face over and over while shouting "MAMAMAMAMA!"
d. Pulled all the contents out of a dirty diaper.
e. Threw her wooden stacking ring toy directly at my funny bone (a big THANKS to you sustainable green "friendly" toys).
f. Dumped out a carton of 300 cotton swabs.
g. Escaped her room, army crawled into my room and dumped out a box of tampons.
h. Screamed some more at "The Very Hungry Caterpillar."

*Over two weeks of a sore throat! TWO WEEKS! All Lortab did was make me supposedly watch - with commentary - an episode of "So You Think You Can Dance" that I remember nothing about.

Gems from the instacare

2009-07-29T11:04:00.000-06:00

Monday night, I took a flashlight to my throat and peered inside. My tonsils were, simply put, disgusting. There was blood, there was pus. I was off to the instacare Tuesday morning to learn that I thankfully don't have strep, but a viral infection that is not lightening up. So the doctor prescribed me...Lortab? I know there is no cure for cold/flu/sore throat, but she just chided me for all the cold medication I was taking ("You are taking Sudafed? No wonder your ears are congested! That stuff just thickens your cold up!" "Do not take MucinexDM if you live in Utah. It will just dry you out and it's too dry here already!") and told me Lortab would help with the pain. Yes, my throat is in pain. But Lortab pain? I've never taken it before, but got plenty of freaky warnings from friends and coworkers ("Lortab makes you puke" "It makes you loopy" "You'll get addicted and be a pain killer junkie"), so I opted to just not take it. Sure, major surgery, I'll take Lortab. But a sore throat? I'll just drink more fluids, thanks.

That wasn't the only FUN I encountered at the instacare!

While paying my copay:

Receptionist: Oh, look at your cute little baby!
Peanut: MAMAMAMA!
Receptionist: She said mama! That is so cute! Say it again, baby. Say "mama!"
Peanut: (Blank stare)

It's at this point that the receptionist puts the receipt in my direction, I reach in to grab it and she snaps it back, looks at me and goes "No, no, no," coupled with a finger wag.

Receptionist: This is not for you! This is for the baby.
Peanut: (Blank stare)
Receptionist: Here baby, you give this to your mom.
Peanut: (Blank stare)
Receptionist: (Now shaking paper) Here baby! Here baby!
Peanut: (Blank stare)

Dejected, the receptionist just puts the receipt on the counter for me and mumbles something. What I can confirm is it was not "Maybe if I treat this woman like a naughty child, her baby will grab this piece of paper from me."

And while sitting in the waiting room:

A couple visiting from Louisiana takes a seat across from me and Peanut. P, in quite the chipper mood, begins doing her backwards wave at them and attempting to say "Hi."

Louisiana woman: Oh, look, that is so adorable, she is saying "Hi" to us!
Peanut: (Continues the backward wave and babbling.)
Woman: Oh, well aren't you smart! Your momma is teaching you right! How old is she?
Me: 10 months.
Woman: Has she taken her first steps?
Me: No, not yet.
Woman: Just crawling?
Me: Well army crawling.
Woman: Oh. Any teeth?
Me: Not yet.
Woman: Hmmm.
(Long pause)
Woman: (Leans to her husband to indicate "whispering," but obviously says this loud enough for me to hear) I've never met a 10-month-old that couldn't walk and had no teeth.

Really? Am I supposed to feel bad that I was apparently smart enough to teach my baby "Hi," but not smart enough to teach her...teeth to come in?

Later, when Peanut threw her pacifier on the floor, this woman told me how lucky I was to have such "modern medical miracles" that she didn't have as a mom. I didn't have the gall to tell her the pacifier has been around since the 1800s.

Vacation karma

2009-07-28T08:45:00.001-06:00

I believe in Karma. Or some form of it. I'm not talking about traditional do-something-bad-you'll-get-it-worse-in-return Karma, but as in there must be a balance in all things. I think life is played out on a balance scale, with us experiencing the good and bad parts of our existence in fairly equal amounts. Too much good in your life and something bad is bound to happen - and vice-versa. Those good moments are when I particularly think of Karma. I'll be having a really great time, a string of highs, and then I'll remind myself of the reality "Oh no - something crappy is going to happen."

So was my last week. We went to San Diego for a family reunion with GJ's parents, siblings, spouses and nieces and nephews - and it was awesome. Biking, bodyboarding, snorkeling, Sea World, kayaking, paddle boarding, swimming, sightseeing. I wasn't surprised when, come Thursday night, Karma paid a little visit in the form of a nasty bug that left me with a colorfully painful swollen throat, congestion so bad I'm having a hard time hearing, a cough that makes Peanut jump and intense body chills. Sure, you could blame it on exhaustion from busy days and the fact that Peanut woke up at 6 a.m. nearly every morning and we didn't go to bed until midnight or later each night, but I know it's Karma. Life can't always be a beach, and Karma had to come and remind me of that.

It's been five days since the bug hit and I'm still feeling like hell. And my sister noted that I have all the symptoms of Swine Flu. But Peanut has been the most amazing, charming, sweet baby since we came home (KARMA!) - she's been so excited to see things like her books, crib, backyard, highchair and toys. She's a bit of a homebody.

...and this post is getting long and rambly and boring. It's probably because I haven't blogged for two weeks (KARMA!).

First official family pictures

2009-07-12T09:18:00.001-06:00

About a year ago, GJ showed me the photography web site of his friend from high school, Jamie Hammond.

The natural light! The candid portraits! I was in love.

She came to Utah the other week and was able to squeeze us into her busy schedule (she's based in Seattle, but travels often). I've been having all these "I love Utah" moments lately, so I made her hike it up to a picture spot in Big Cottonwood Canyon. I'm kind of an annoying client like that. AND an annoying client to want "cute shoes" in pictures that showed my feet...when we were on a HIKING trail with ROCKS. Jamie didn't mind. And the ending result was PERFECT.

It was hard to pick a favorite. Visit Jamie's site for more.

Fourth of July

2009-07-07T13:18:00.002-06:00

I used to always make fun (behind the safety of my computer screen) of bloggers who whined summer was "SOOOO BUSY!" and "I NEVER have time to blog :(". Well you know what? I'm sorry. I'M SORRY. Because I'm now one of those people. Increasing work responsibilities, increasing church responsibilities, family functions...you don't want to hear my to do list. Basically, I've hit a point in my year where "Blogging" is pitted against "Make work deadline," "Feed screaming baby," "Attend meeting," "Show up - on time - to family event," "Maintain social life beyond the internet" and "Make nursery stop smelling like poop" (I'm looking at YOU, cloth diapers!).

So now, I present my 4th of July, via pictures and short snippets.

- Partied like it was July 4, 1999 in Huntsville, Utah! Events included horseshoing (please notice how posed and skilled my friend Melinda looks while doing this):

And then me...

Capturing a "baby bat" or largest moth I have ever seen:

Hiking and photographing:

(Stole the latter from Melinda's blog...but I took the picture playing with her camera, so technically not stealing? I will justify.)

...and playing a mean game of Apples to Apples, eating foil dinners and getting freaked out by the movie "What Lies Beneath."

- Watching the charming Huntsville parade. The best was the float "Huntsville remembers MJ" with a Michael Jackson impersonator dancing on a truck bed. I dressed Peanut in Fourth of July gear:

...or she's been wearing this same outfit for months, it just had red, white and blue on it so I called it her "Fourth of July" number. I can't be one of those moms who buys her children an outfit to wear just once for a holiday.

- Celebrated my dad Norm's birthday:

Four people had to light his birthday candles. I'll be polite and won't reveal his age. But it rhymes with "ifty-ight."

- Hung out with my brothers:

Trent here has been harassing me about updating my blog. I told him he should guest post, maybe about "What it's like being brother to the coolest sister ever." He suggested "Why Amelia sucks at blogging and what we need to do about it."

While one brother is a Blog Nazi, Ryan may or may not be inching himself into "Favorite Uncle Spot" by ridding Peanut of her unfounded fear of balloons and rocking her to sleep during fireworks.

- Laughed at my dad and his brothers.

- Got all artsy playing with my camera shutter during fireworks.

I've decided Fourth of July is my favorite holiday.

Bird hell

2009-06-19T18:07:00.003-06:00

A downside of living in our house (a place I have dubbed "The Forest" because there are 15 trees on our small property - 15!) is the amount of critters that also call it home. We've had woodpeckers, raccoons, squirrels, mice, quail - but the worst, oh the worst critter of all? THE BIRDS.

We've had our fair share of bird problems over the years. Let me recap:

- January 2008: GJ is out of town for work and I am working in our office alone when I hear someone walking on the roof. I go outside and look around the house - nothing. I come back inside only to hear the walking getting more frantic...and sounding eerily closer. I pull a chair up to the vent leading to the attic and - SOMETHING RUNS ACROSS! A bat? Rat? Squirrel? Terrified, I spend the night at my sister-in-laws, hoping to return to an either escaped or dead animal. No such luck; attic animal is still going at it. My handyman neighbor is brave enough to crawl into our attic and grab the offending creature with his bare hands. Turns out, it was a bird. A starling, to be exact. And their torture on us begins.

- June 2008. I am working on my laptop in the living room, probably stalking the mailman, when I see out of the corner of my eye a frantic bird continually hopping around the front porch landing. And then I witness what can only be described as bird rape. Yes, bird rape. This poor, small female (or male? Who can tell with birds.) sparrow is continually being mounted by an aggressive, large sparrow. This act continues long enough for me to take numerous blurry cell phone pictures to prove to GJ what was transgressing right outside our front door when the small bird finally flies away.

- Approximately the entire summer of 2008. 5 a.m. Baby birds, outside our window. Chirping. More like an angry scream chirp, if that's possible. EVERY. DAMN. MORNING.

- July 2008. A now broken baby bird egg and tiny baby bird carcass are found on the front porch.

- Later July 2008. The Stowell vegetable garden is finally planted and sprouting. And the birds are single-handedly (single-clawly? single-beakly?) destroying it. I buy rubber snakes and use old CDs to detract the birds (the internet suggested this). Despite the fact that planting was done extremely late in the gardening season, I blame the lack of crops on the birds.

- September 2008. GJ is cleaning pine needles out from the rain gutters when he finds THREE bird nests ON the house. He removes them all and puts up chicken wire.

- October 2008. I am dressing a newborn Peanut for her first appointment with the pediatrician when I hear a loud pop and strange whirling coming from the swamp cooler. GJ investigates - only to find that a bird has flown into the swamp cooler and was chopped up, most likely spraying bird guts throughout our vents. GJ removes the dead bird, only to scare me with its deformed, mangled body - I never forgive him for this.

- April 1, 2009. After a bird-free winter, I am not excited to see the beginnings of a nest and feathers on the front door mat.

- April 8, 2009. I see a red something-or-other poking out in the green ivy on the front lawn. On closer inspection, I find a single bird beak and talon - the other remains of the bird are not seen. Of course only a bird would orchestrate an attack on his own kind.

- April 14, 2009. A second bird rape is witnessed.

- April 29, 2009. The garden is planted a full two months earlier than last year, and the birds are already out in full force, destroying our romaine lettuce and going as far to eat a grown, ready-to-sprout brandy wine tomato plant down to a tiny nub.

SO BIRDS. I can tell you all about how menacing, dangerous, horny and disgusting these creatures are. I have witnessed a bird break-in, a bird violently rip apart another and bird sexual ab use. I haven't even bothered addressing the amount of bird crap I've had to clean off our windows (including THROUGH THE SCREEN. That has to be some pretty tricky angling.)

Haven't I had enough?

Apparently not. Because you want to know what I STEPPED on the other day?

(Yes, I'm pointing to it.)

A DEAD BIRD! Yes, my sandled toe actually touched this dead, furry, most likely diseased creature. I'm not even going to go into the details of how many times I scrubbed and washed my poor toe. Let's talk about how this bird chose to die. Just sitting up, in possibly the creepiest death position ever. The dead birds I've seen at least attempt to die dramatically, feet in the air, wings spread out. This guy looks like he's taking a mid-afternoon nap.

I'm going to try to end this post without copious amounts of expletives because I'm pretty close to getting a cat or a gun (and, if you know me, if I purchased either it is surely the sign of the Apocalypse.)

Simply put...BIRDS: WE ARE DONE!

Weekend happenings

2009-06-10T14:25:00.001-06:00

I didn't win at Mormon Mommy Blogs. It was basically a guarantee no one would take first over the leader (who was 100 votes ahead of everyone!) BUT I CAME IN SECOND! I WILL TAKE IT! And here's where I get mushy and thank those of you that voted and all of you who read my blog. It's nice to hear from people who love to read it.

And now, a busy weekend, recapped by short blurbs and pictures. A busy weekend both Peanut and I are still recovering from. Hence this is how I found her Monday morning:

Bum in the air!

...and this is how I found her Tuesday:

Both days, she slept past 10 a.m. She usually wakes up at 8 a.m. I'm not complaining.

(Don't judge the lack of sheets - I hate putting them back on that stupid crib mattress, so find it easier to lay a blanket down in their place and wait for GJ to eventually put the sheet back on.)

- My sister Kristin came in town from DC. And we laughed heartily when, moments after this picture was taken, Peanut peed all over her dress (and brother Trent's shirt) and Kristin remarked: "We should take Peanut home to change her out of her pee-ness." (Say it aloud.)

- As you can see, we attended brother Ryan's high school graduation. It was 2 1/2 hours long. TWO AND A HALF! It was the graduation from hell - and I'm blaming you, Bingham High School principal Tom Hicks. A speech for 45 minutes is one thing...but thanking each individual club, organization, athlete and random foreign exchange student individually? I KID YOU NOT when I quote "And now, the chess club! Let's have all the seniors stand up who participated." All the editors of the yearbook were thanked individually, as were the athletes (BY EACH TEAM) and anyone WHO WENT TO A DANCE (and at Bingham, there are school dances every six weeks).

Between the principal congratulating all the students with a 3.7 GPA and those with a 3.6, Peanut uttered her first word (BORING!) and fell asleep.

Ryan's "Look sexy" pose. Watch out ladies.

- My brothers decided to experiment with the female mohawk.

- Got Trent this t-shirt for his birthday from despair.com, validating my blogging existence.

(Picture from my mom's crappy camera; shirt reads: "More people have read this shirt than your blog. 0000002")

- Took Peanut shopping

(She loved this.)

- Did a baby scarf fashion shoot (my sister made it for her). I couldn't stop laughing because she looks like a character in a Charles Dicken's book, a Tiny Tim maybe.

- Watched our nieces while our brother-in-law took GJ's sister on a surprise 10 year anniversary trip. They have an insane blog stalker (another story for another day), so I'm leaving names off and putting a watermark over pictures of them. The 2-year-old clearly favors GJ (one of her first words was GJ) and screamed "I WANT GJ! I WANT GJ!" when I put her to bed.

- Practiced our swinging skills.

- And cuddled with cousins.

(Can you catch the typo in both these watermarks? Too lazy to fix them.)

- Took the 7-year-old and 5-year-old to see "Up" in 3D (or, as 5-year-old said, "It's 'Up, Up and Away' Amelia, not just 'Up'") where 7-year-old thanked me profusely for revealing the secret behind a snipe hunt. In the movie, the old man sends the young boyscout on a snipe hunt and the girls were very confused. It was either reveal the old camp joke or spend the night with two girls clapping around their beds, scared a snipe would get them.

-...and then I sent the dorkiest text of my life to GJ, which read: "I just fixed the broken blinker by myself and couponed my way to free chicken. I'm basically supermom. No big deal!"

Lyrical genius

2009-06-02T13:07:00.001-06:00

I am a singer. Not as in "I'm good at singing," but as in "I love to sing and do it quite frequently" (out of earshot of my adoring public). The problem with being a crappy singer is you never remember the lyrics to any songs.

Take for example one of my favorite sing-along-to-the-radio favorites "When I Grow Up" by the Pussycat Dolls. For the longest time, I thought the chorus went like this:

When I grow up
I wanna see the world
Drive nice cars
I wanna have boobies

It wasn't until I read an entertainment blog where the author admitted singing the same thing that I realized the word is not "boobies" but "groupies."

Or let's take Outkast's "Bombs Over Baghdad," which I used to sing the first couple lines:

International, underground, above the ground, on the ground (WHOOP)
Like a million hands fightin' the Tang, trying to stop the train

My brother pointed out to me that I was singing it totally wrong ("Tang? They are not singing about Tang."). The real lyrics:

In-slum-national, underground, thunder pounds when I stomp the ground (WOO)
Like a million elephants and sliverback orangutans you can't stop a train

Coupled with childbirth and breastfeeding 101 classes, courses should really be taught in lullaby singing. Because my same lyricitis applies to children's songs too. I sing to my daughter quite a bit, but the only children's song lyrics I can fully remember are from my little brother's potty training video from roughly 16 years ago. Awesome.

So the majority of the songs I sing to Peanut are not necessarily for the kids. I sing her a lot of Beatles, Journey and musical hits like "Without Love" from Hairspray, "What Is This Feeling" from Wicked, "Come What May" from Moulin Rouge and "These Boots are Made For Walking" from Kinky Boots. And how can I forget the popular genre (bows head in shame) that is hip-hop. The lyrics are easy to remember and the tunes are catchy - how can I not sing her hip-hop? You should see how crazy Peanut goes when I sing Black Eyed Peas "Boom Boom Pow," particularly to Fergie's lyrically artful part:

I like that boom boom pow
Them chickens jackin' my style
They try copy my swagger
I'm on that next $%&* now

I'm so 3008
You so 2000 and late
I got that boom, boom, boom
That future boom, boom, boom
Let me get it now

(Yes, I sing this to a baby.)

When I rock this, she goes crazy and begins furiously bouncing up and down and waving her arms. She'll be a hit at the clubs.

You can see why I need to learn some lullabies. Let me rephrase that: You can see why I need to learn the correct lyrics to lullabies. Because I just make up the parts I don't know. Let's take the classic "Hush Little Baby." I knew the first couple lines and the last line, so I've just been filling in the rest with whatever rhymes. Here's how my version goes:

Hush little baby, don't say a word,
Momma's gonna buy you a mockingbird.
And if that mockingbird don't sing,
Momma's gonna buy you a diamond ring.
And if that diamond ring don't shine,
Momma's gonna buy you a glass of wine.
And if that glass of wine turns sour,
Momma's gonna buy you Rapunzel's tower.
And if Rapunzel's tower has no hair,
Momma's gonna buy you a polar bear.
And if that polar bear eats your dad,
Momma's gonna buy you a new dad named Brad.
And if that new dad named Brad is in alchy,
You'll still be the sweetest little baby in town!

It's truly a creative masterpiece that involves materialism, underage drinking, violent death and the perils of alcoholism.

(I looked up the real lyrics to "Hush Little Baby" and the rhymes are about a billy goat, horse and cart and the ring turning to brass, which I'm not sure is even possible. I like my lyrics much better.)

Any other hits I need to be singing to Peanut?

*****
...and I'm still losing pretty bad at Mormon Mommy Blogs. So go vote for me - poll on the right-hand side of the blog. You don't need to be a Mormon, mom or a blogger to vote. If you know how to click a mouse, I'll take it!

My ghetto toe is crying right now

2009-05-29T13:22:00.001-06:00

So I lost the Sego Lily Spa blog-about-spa-treatments-for-a-year competition. I'm actually surprised by their judging process because they had at least two really big Utah bloggers in the running and neither of them made the cut. Apparently, one of the requirements was use some sort of scrapbooky, cutestblogontheblock layout, and the other was "Don't attempt humor." I promised in my entry that I would write a super bitter post about losing. That bitterness has been channeled into pretending I'm totally over it. So now, my reasons why I'm frankly GLAD I wasn't picked to write about spa treatments for a year.

I hate facials. (LIE.)

Peanut can do it. Since Peanut has mastered the art of sitting up, I'm teaching her how to give me massages anyway. They may not be actual massages and instead "eating mom's clothes and hair," but I take what I can get.

...I kind of told a couple people in various separate incidents that, if the spa had me write about a couple's massage, I would bring them. Awkward.

Who would babysit? Let me rephrase that "Who would want to babysit for free for a couple hours twice a month while I have regular 'spa days?'"

There would be a possibility of me peeing. I read a reliable medical journal (...or a random message board posting) that said there's this certain area on your back that, if the right amount of pressure is applied, you will pee. Naturally, I freaked out that this would be me, peeing all over the massage table.

I am above celebrity gossip. And this is supposedly the spa where the cast of "High School Musical" took spa trips. And I really hate celebrity gossip. I am so not one of those girls who religiously checks perezhilton.com or has the latest edition of "People" on her nightstand. So I would not even care to hear the dish on Vanessa Hudgen's pore size or Zac Efron's scoliosis.

I am trying to distance myself from people with foot fetishes. I'm looking at you, JP from "The Bachelorette." Keeping my toenails long, nailpolish chipped and calluses thick will keep the creeps at bay.

AND IN OTHER NEWS...I've been nominated for the June blog spotlight on Mormon Mommy Blogs. And when I say "I've been nominated" that means "I nominated myself." I'm so shameless. More shamelessness: VOTE FOR ME! Incentive: winning would influence me to post daily in the month of June a la NaBloPoMo...or maybe your RSS feed is like mine and you're hoping more people DON'T post. But seriously, I'm already losing, I can't bear losing two blogish things twice in a matter of days.

Adventures at Target

2009-05-20T12:36:00.000-06:00

(Crappy phone picture where Peanut demonstrates the many uses of a shopping cart cover.)

While in Target, I was heading toward the tights (Anyone else love that tights are in style? I am just not a nylon girl.) and I felt someone lingering a little too close behind me - awkwardly close. I stopped in front of the official tights rack - sale! - and the perpetrator stopped right next to me. Dressed in a cute business suit coupled with equally cute heels, she asked me how old Peanut was and we began casually chatting. After talking about kids (she has three boys) and motherhood (she too was struggling with the mom-and-career thing) for a minute, I wished her well and headed through the shoes to bras. Not 15 seconds after arriving at my destination, Mrs. Business Mommy Chic appeared at my side again.

"Hey," she said. "You seem like a really cute, fun woman. Can I ask you something?"

!!!

"THIS IS IT!" I thought. I was about to be invited to join the inner-ranks of a cool mom's club. Or no - she totally wants my advice on shoes. OOOOO, maybe the number of my hairstylist?

I was already flattered. "Sure," I said.

"I work for Mary Kaye and was wondering if I could come over sometime and give you a facial?"

Oh.

I know I have crappy skin, but trailing a random Target customer? ARE TIMES REALLY THAT TOUGH?