My Life Herding Cats

I'm An Ambassador To What?

noreply@blogger.com (Brittany) — Sat, 03 Mar 2012 07:18:00 +0000

Ninety-seven years ago today this lady was born:

Gorgeous, huh? That's my grandma in 1935 when she was twenty years old, living with her parents in Idaho in the middle of the Great Depression.

In 1937 she married this guy:

Who she described like this, "He had a Hitler mustache and wore shiny boots and riding britches. And when he would drive up in the big Chrysler Coupe, I thought he was really something."
"He had the biggest ego I had ever known anyone to have, and his mustache always smelled a little bad when I kissed him, but I decided I would marry him."

Clearly she was madly in love with him. But maybe not so much his mustache. Kinda reminds me of how I felt about my husband's sideburns before we got married. (You can take a gander at them here).

Today I took this picture of two of their seven kids with their spouses and some of their kids and grand kids:

Twenty-one of my grandma's eighty-six descendants are pictured here (my three aren't because there was just no reason to add three more kids to this mix at Disneyland. Talk about herding cats). And that number doesn't include all the in-laws -- most of whom have stuck around. Each one of us who had the privilege of knowing her thinks she loved him or her best of all. It's what she told each of us. It's what her parents told each of her their twelve children.

I got to thinking a lot about my grandma this week when I signed up to be a blog ambassador for the 1940 US Census. Why would I do that, you ask? Because one, I like history--especially the family kind. And two, sometimes I'm a little impulsive and sign up for things before I know what in the heck I'm doing. And three, I can tell people I'm an ambassador now. Which makes me sound important.

A census is pretty cool because it can tell you a lot about someone if you look at the right things. For example the 1940 US Census could tell you my grandparents lived in Helena, Montana where Grandpa was doing construction and mining for gold. It could tell you Grandpa was thirty-eight at the time, while Grandma was only twenty-five. It would also tell you they didn't have any kids.

What it wouldn't tell you is that they were living in a little trailer house, which wasn't very nice, but a vast improvement over the box tent they'd been living in on the Snake River while my grandpa built a dam. It also wouldn't tell you that my grandma wasn't one of those cookie making grandmas. She grew up so poor that her mom never had anything besides milk and flour to cook with, so my grandma never learned. Although she did become a pretty proficient shopper once she did have some money. I guess shopping held more interest for her than cooking.

The Census also won't tell you that Grandma was kind and generous. She worried a lot about appearances, but she never valued things over people. In fact, she saw the worth of everyone she met, whether that person recognized her own value or not. My grandma taught me how to shop, but she also taught me what charity really is.

A census can tell you about a person, but it can't tell you who a person is.

So why does it matter?

Because it can lead you to people who can tell you who a person is. Or was. People like my grandma's brother Dick who published a book all about my grandma's family that includes memories from my grandma herself. Memories she told me, but that I don't have written down anywhere. Memories she can't tell me anymore.

Grandma has been gone for six years now. Ten really, if you count the dementia years. But I still think about her all the time. I had forgotten, though, that today was her birthday until I started thinking about what I was going to say about her when I wrote this post. But now I know.

Happy Birthday Grandma! I love you best of all!

A Conversation-less Tuesday

noreply@blogger.com (Brittany) — Thu, 01 Mar 2012 02:57:00 +0000

No Tuesday breakfast for me friends. Instead I had a morning of being a responsible parent after deciding not to send Girl 3 to school with a cough. And a fever. Because you know if it had only been a cough there's no way I would have missed breakfast. But I made the sacrifice this morning.

Which really wasn't so terrible. Girl 3 was pretty cheerful for being sick and I got some things done. Still, I was looking forward to hearing about Andi's trip to Hawaii. I need someone to live vicariously through at the moment so as not to be tempted into watching The Kardashians again.

Sadly, no breakfast for me means no fascinating and/or hilarious insights to share with you. So, instead, I'll give you a little update on Candy and how she's adjusting to American life.

Turns out, quite well. She's decided to embrace that most homegrown of American religions: Mormonism. Of course those of us in the breakfast group, who happen to also be practitioners of that same religion, were relieved to hear she had studied the missionary materials in Mandarin. So at least she's got some inkling of what she's gotten herself into.

The thing not included in her materials though was what kind of underwear to wear on her baptism day. And no I don't mean the "magic" kind you've maybe heard about. I mean the basic white kind.

Because, you see, we baptize by immersion. This represents, not only a washing away of our sins, but also a rebirth. And we wear white when we are baptized to represent purity. But mostly, If you're wearing something white that's going to get wet, you need to have something white on underneath it. Because a hot pink bra? It's gonna show.

Not that Candy's bra was hot pink, but it wasn't white. And luckily Paula's mom figured this out before the baptism and gave Paula the assignment of finding Candy some white underwear. Which Candy didn't totally understand because she showed Paula the white bra she did have. With the green flowers on it. And she said, "This okay. This cute." and Paula didn't disagree, but still went to Walgreens in hopes of finding plain white underwear. Which isn't too hard when it come to panties. But bras are a different story. Especially when you only have an hour.

But she did it. She found some white granny panties and an ugly bra just in the nick of time. Paula presented them to Candy, apologizing that they weren't very cute* and Candy,who still seemed a little confused, graciously accepted and wore them. Thus an awkward after-baptism moment was successfully averted.

There is some concern, however, that Candy will be presenting future baptismal candidates with gifts of underwear. And while Paula successfully fulfilled her assignment, her mom didn't fare as well. She had the job of keeping Paula's twelve year old daughter away from any make-up other than mascara and clear lip gloss. So imagine Paula's surprise when they were all ready to walk out the door to the baptism and she happened to glance at her daughter. Who was wearing bright red lip gloss. And blue eye shadow. A lot of it.

Which begs the question, can't a mom catch a break?

No, no she can't.

But at least she didn't have to be embarrassed for her sister-in-law that day.

* Wait'll she gets a load of the "magic" kind some day (which, by the way, aren't magic at all. But it would be cool if they were. Maybe something like Harry Potter's invisibility cloak).

Because It's Your Birthday...

noreply@blogger.com (Brittany) — Fri, 24 Feb 2012 19:01:00 +0000

See this smiling baby:

She's not even a month old in this picture, but already Girl 2 could crack a pretty wide grin. And maybe we shouldn't have named her after a tragic Thomas Hardy heroine, but how were we to know she'd be so smiley? She started when she was six days old and has been grinning on a fairly regular basis for nine years now.

When you try for a long time, like we did, to have a first baby (or even if you don't), everything revolves around that kid and you can't believe how much you love her. At least that's how it worked for me. So when I got pregnant with number two, I couldn't imagine loving anyone as much as I did number one.

Boy was I wrong. I loved her the minute I saw her little bald head and her great big, perfect for smiling, mouth. If Girl 1 brought a new kind of love into our home, Girl 2 brought peace. She didn't have to be walked up and down the stairs to soothe her to sleep. She didn't scream when she had to ride in the car. In fact, she'd quiet right down and, nine times out of ten, fell asleep. I still love going places with just her in the car because it's so quiet. So quiet I sometimes forget she's in there.

Girl 2's a middle child though, so she's kind of used to being "forgotten." Thank goodness. Because, man, can she roll with it. She looks like me and she's got my independence. That girl can take care of herself and her big sister. (She could take care of her younger sister too, but there's some serious rivalry going on there).

Like the time they were at their grandma's this past summer and they had to pack themselves for a stay at their aunt's house in Idaho. Girl 2 packed herself and then proceeded to tell Girl 1 what she needed to pack. But not just generalizations like shorts and pajamas. No, she told her specifically which shorts would go with which tops and what shoes she should wear. Basically, she took over for me. (Girl 1 still didn't make it there with p.j.'s or a swimsuit, but Girl 2 can't be faulted for that. You can lead a horse to water, but if that horse chooses to put its nose in a book instead of take a drink, what can you do?)

She plays piano and gymnastics. One day she had so many friends call her to come play, that I finally invited them all to our house. The girl's got a busier social life than me. But her best friend--even if neither one of them knows it--is her big sister (poor Girl 3. I should have had a best friend for her too).

She'll ride any roller coaster, but refuses to learn to ride a bike. She'll surf at 6 a.m. on a cloudy June day, but claims it's too cold to boogie board when it's ninety degrees and sunny. When her big sister said, "I wish I had a big sister," Girl 2 answered, very seriously, "no you don't," even though I know she adores her's. She's going to be a great baby sitter because she's so loving with younger kids; unless that younger kid happens to be her little sister.

And if you can imagine this woman (who happens to be my mother)about fifty years before this picture of her and #2 was taken:

she probably looked a lot like this:

Except in a poodle skirt instead of leopard print. Do you see the resemblence? I have an uncle who likes to call her Little June, she reminds him so much of his sister.

And one more thing I love about my Girl 2: she knows how to shop. Pretty sure she got that from me too.

But here's one of many things she's brave enough to learn on her own because she's got no fear:

Happy Birthday T Monster!!!

Warning: Adjustment in Progress

noreply@blogger.com (Brittany) — Wed, 22 Feb 2012 01:06:00 +0000

Remember ten or fifteen years ago when things were new? You'd just gotten married or maybe graduated from college. Or, if you're a youngster, just graduated from high school (if you're even younger than that, please keep it to yourself). Maybe you were starting your career or, if you're like me, giving one up because you had a brand new baby.

Things were pretty good, weren't they? The world--as they say--was your oyster (can someone please explain to me what the heck that means. Why would I want to live in an oyster?).

So how'd that turn out for you? Has life met all your expectations? Are you right where you thought you'd be, lo those many years ago?

Yeah, me neither.

But, you know what? That's okay. Because I've learned a few things along the way. And I'm pretty sure I've got a few more to learn. One thing I know for sure, though, is that prayers are answered. We just have to recognize the answer and accept it. That's the part I'm still learning.

I came across a quote this week from Leonard Arrington about Joseph Smith that's had me thinking a lot about my expectations of life. It comes from a lecture he gave at BYU where he described Joseph as a spiritual man, but not a sanctimonious one. He was as comfortable preaching the doctrines of Christ as he was wrestling with his children and one was not more important to him than the other.

This principle of relaxed enjoyment and acceptance of life, rather than tense struggle to achieve perfection, fits in with the design of the Lord’s purpose, “Man is that he might have joy.” This, it seems to me, is one of the things the Prophet was trying to get across. And this principle is particularly important to those of us who are a little older, for it is at this time that we are likely to discover the gap between our earlier aspirations and our abilities. We all have some exaggerated expectations of life, and sooner or later we discover that we are less clever than we had thought or that we have to be satisfied with less income, less popularity, even a less ideal marriage than we had hoped for. In an unhealthy situation this leads to resentment, projection of blame, distress, and maladjustment. The Latter-day Saint has an ideal background for coping with this situation as he adjusts his ambitions to the place in life that the Lord has in store for him.

My ambitions are currently undergoing some adjustments. It's a little bit scary, but I'm sort of curious about what the Lord's got in store for me. Whatever it is, it will require some prayer.

And nacho cheese. Lots of chips and nacho cheese.

Hi. My Name Is Brittany and I'm a Hypocrite.

noreply@blogger.com (Brittany) — Fri, 17 Feb 2012 18:38:00 +0000

Okay, I'll admit it. I'm a hypocrite.

I yell at my kids to stop yelling; I've tripped over my own shoes while telling them to put theirs away. I don't allow them to say the word "butt", even though I do my fair share of actual cursing (and by my fair share, I'm talking in Mormon terms. Meaning I do it once or twice a day and never the f-bomb. I'm no Jay-Z or Kanye West, yo).

I retrieve recyclables out of the garbage in order to properly dispose of them, but I drive a gas guzzling SUV. I'm all for government funded social programs, until I see how much of my husband's paycheck my he doesn't bring home. I'll probably vote for Obama, but I wish the government would stay the hell* out of my business.

If my hypocrisy ended there I could probably live relatively guilt free. But when it comes to food, I've taken things to a whole new level. So, as a kind of self imposed penance, I'm going to confess my top five here. I don't know if it will help my conscience or not, but I'm hoping some of you will 'fess up to being hypocrites too.

Drum roll please...

5. I will not eat mint. Especially in gum form. The smell of it makes me gag, literally.
But you cover mint in chocolate and that's a different story. I will eat that stuff up. (But not chocolate covered mint gum. Gross).

4. I find American cheese (aka plastic cheese) disgusting. Something that processed does not qualify as a food.
But put a jar of nacho cheese (Tostitos Queso con Salsa in particular) in front of me and I will down that puppy any time of the day or night, hot or cold. Yum.

3. Ham is disgusting. I don't buy it , I don't cook it, I don't touch it.
But bacon? Bring it on. Pork chops, pork roast, or pork loin? You betcha'. Pigs' feet or pork belly? Probably not, but I'll eat a hot dog so that pretty much covers every part of the pig, including hooves and stomachs.

2. My kitchen closes at 4 p.m. No one is allowed to eat anything out of it from that time until 6:30 p.m. (or whenever I happen to have dinner ready by). That's the rule. Period.
For everyone but me. If I'm hungry, you better believe I'm going to get myself a snack.

1. My kids get soda on birthdays and special occasions. That's it. And never caffeinated soda. When we go out to eat, they can have water or milk. Juice, if they're lucky.
But my garage fridge is stocked with Diet Coke. I have cases of it in my food storage. It's rotting my insides and I know it. I don't care. I love me some DC over crushed ice with just a splash of fresh lime.

So come on...

I know I'm not the only one. Tell me you're a hypocrite too.

Please....

* Curse #1 of the day, one more to go. Although, I'm allowing myself a few extras today since we're headed to Disneyland.

Conversations at Breakfast: Facebook Is A Liar

noreply@blogger.com (Brittany) — Fri, 10 Feb 2012 15:47:00 +0000

So I did intended to post this on Tuesday. I even tried to write it on my phone while sitting through Tuesday night's two hours--yes two-- of piano lessons (not my own. My kids'. Because I'm forcing them to do all the things I quit. Why else does one have children except to make them better versions of who you could have been had your own parents been more on the ball?).

Anyway, I took a short writing break to play Words with Friends and Scramble. And to talk to Paula. Who usually doesn't bring her daughter on Tuesdays, so it was kind of a special event that required some chatting and recapping of the baby shower she went to on Saturday where there were lots of pictures taken of the guests rubbing and kissing--yes kissing!--the mom to be's belly. So, of course, I had to see these pictures. Because you know what grosses me out almost as much as band-aids?

People touching my pregnant belly. Not now, of course. Mainly because I don't have one at the moment (thank goodness). But, let me tell you, when I did, no way did I let people rub me like a giant Buddha, let alone kiss the monstrosity that my stomach had become. It gives me the heebie jeebies just thinking about it.

But, I digress. This is Conversations at Breakfast, not Conversations at Piano When You Should Be Writing Your Blog, Or, At The Very Least, Making Sure Your Kid Is Pianoing Correctly. So, without further ado, on to Breakfast...

After much talk of the importance of healthful foods while eating plates of hash browns, bacon and poached eggs covered in hollandaise, today's breakfast conversation turned to the topic of Facebook. And this is the conclusion we came to:

Facebook lies.

Maybe that's a little harsh. But at the very least it's guilty of only partial disclosure. I mean, all it ever says is things like, "my kids are so cute, blah blah blah" or "my husband brought me flowers again" or "look at us, we're in (insert place you'd rather be instead of cleaning your toilet)."

Facebook never says things like, "If I have to eat one more meal listening to these people I gave birth to chew and fight, I will jab knitting needles into my ears" or "my husband farted in bed again" or "look at us, we're in a court enforced parenting class."

And the pictures. Don't even get me started on those. They're all beaches and cruises, fantastic haircuts and skinny bodies. Or, even worse, pregnant bellies that look so cute you just want to reach out and touch them. Ewww.

And it's not just your Facebook that does it. Mine does too. Judging by what Facebook says about me, all I do is blog and run (slowly) and criticize Beyonce for ~~writing~~ singing songs with the lyrics "sucks to be you." There's no mention of how some days I don't want to get out of bed (I call those days January). According to Facebook, the worst thing that's happened to me in the last year is that my dog didn't get eaten by wolves.

My Facebook's pictures are even more misleading. By the looks of them, I'm a scuba diving pilot whose family is darling enough to pull off wearing purple and orange in pictures. And if my Facebook posts one more Disneyland picture, I may use those knitting needles to poke my eyes out. I mean, we get it, I live 25 miles from the happiest place on earth. Do I have to rub it in?

So, in the interest of full disclosure, I'm posting this embarrassing picture of myself:

Can you believe I ever wore tie dye??! Yikes!

And my status report for the day?

Probably won't make it to the beach or Disneyland this weekend.

Cuz I'm keeping it real folks.

A Post About BYU Football. Surprised? Me Too.

noreply@blogger.com (Brittany) — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 23:16:00 +0000

I'm totally stealing this blogpost idea from DeNae--who I find to be quite hilarious-- at My Real Life Was Backordered. Her most recent post did not rise to her usual level of hilarity because she had to tackle some serious stuff...

Football.

BYU football to be more specific.

Which, I have to tell you, I am NOT a fan of. If you cut me, I will not bleed blue. And I will not cover that cut with a Cougar band-aid (truthfully, I will not cover it with any kind of band-aid, because ewww, gross... So please don't cut me).

Apparently, back in 1980, the Cougs went to the Holiday Bowl. Which, I have to assume by the name, occurred on some kind of holiday. Anyway, some miracle happened there where the Cougars came back from a twenty point deficit to win with only four minutes left in the game.

Now, despite the fact I spent five (yes five) years at the BYU, I don't know anything about this Miracle Bowl. I mean, sure it happened eleven years before my time there, but the thing about people who do bleed blue is that they never forget their football victories. Especially when they beat another private religious university. It's like a double victory. Mormons get a trophy and proof that our church really is true. Kind of like when Tebow makes a touchdown Christians everywhere win the war on Christmas. I'm not really sure how that works.

Anyway, I need your help. See, I don't care for BYU football for reasons I'll not get into right now (the list is too long), but I do like football. And I can't help feeling a measure of pride when my alma mater wins at something. I've tried not to, but I can't squelch that little burning in my heart that comes from knowing my school is better at something than someone else's school is. I'm competitive that way.

But I digress because putting out that burning is not what I need help with. I need help because I want to know more about this game now, but I don't really want to google it.

And I don't want to know more just about the game.

Nope... what I really want to know is the inspiring story behind it. Because I hear there is one. And a friend of mine has a husband who wants to make a movie about it. Yeah! But he doesn't have enough money to do it. Boo!

So here's how you can help me be able to see this movie (you can even watch it to, if you want):
Go to here and donate a little bit of money. It won't take much if we all do it. Maybe you could put that money you were going to bet on the Superbowl toward this instead. Or maybe you could buy one less bag of chips and skip the jar of cheese dip. I don't know.

But I'm willing to bet that this movie will be a lot more memorable in the long run than this year's Superbowl is going to be.

(So I just looked at this site again and realized there's a short video with it. Not going to tell you how many times I've looked at it and wished there were a video when there was all along. I don't need to embarrass myself. But now I do want to see the real movie even more. Also noticed there's a guy in the picture with a mustache. So next I'd like to see a movie about the miracle behind how he got to keep that at BYU).

Throwing Up With The Kardashians

noreply@blogger.com (Brittany) — Thu, 02 Feb 2012 06:34:00 +0000

I don't usually watch TV during the day. In fact, I don't really watch a lot of it at night either. Especially if it's reality TV (I make an exception for The Amazing Race and, occasionally, Intervention. Okay, and Hoarders, but only because it comes on after Intervention and sometimes I just can't look away).

But I've cancelled the daily paper so sometimes I don't have anything to look at while I eat lunch. So the other day I turned on the TV while I ate. And do you know what was on?

This:

And I got sucked in. Kind of like with Hoarders. Except it made me sicker than even that show does. And no matter how much they make up that one sister who doesn't get to take New York wherever it is Kim and Kourtney are taking it, she is still not cute. So when I got to the second commercial break, I changed the channel.

And do you know what was on that channel?

The Departed.

The edited version. So, of course, I had to watch. Because I've seen the original and I was pretty curious how they were going to clean that up enough to still have some story left.

I remembered it had a lot of language, but I had forgotten this part:

Which doesn't look so bad in this picture. But see that plastic bag at Jack's elbow? It's got a severed hand in it. A bloody one. And I tried really hard to find a still frame of him while he's waving that thing around, but I couldn't. So you'll just have to take my word for it that it's gross.

But I chose to watch that over the Kardashians because it didn't make me want to barf the way they did. And I get grossed out by band-aids, people. When my kid got three stitches, she didn't cry, but I passed out. So that's saying something when I can stomach a severed hand, but not a couple of reality TV stars.*

Here's the thing, though. I'd rather watch a story about people who could be real--even if they are really terrible people--than a story about people pretending to be real.

Phoniness makes me nauseous. So Kim and company have been added to my list of things I cannot look at. They are right up there with any kind of bandages stuck to anything (particularly any area near a swimming pool) and snakes eating things.

Which is seriously going to infringe on my People and US Weekly consumption. So please keep me informed as to how the stars are continuing to be just like the rest of us, because I can't take a chance on another Kardashian encounter.

* And also, The Departed has Matt Damon and Leo DiCaprio who I have no problem looking at.

A Gold Medal In Humility

noreply@blogger.com (Brittany) — Fri, 27 Jan 2012 19:52:00 +0000

You know what makes for a good leader? (Newt Gingrich, take note).

Humility.

I've been thinking about this a lot for about the past week because of this guy:

You see I went to a meeting on Saturday that he spoke at. I've actually heard him speak a number of times and even talked to him in person once or twice. In fact, I've got his autograph on a little piece of paper that says it's a-okay for me to go into an LDS temple.*

Because, he's not just an Olympic gold medalist, he's also a counselor in my stake's presidency (which is like if a bishop of a diocese had a helper). I've never seen him do his gold-medal winning pommel horse routine-- at least not since 1984 (though I hear he still does it on occassion)--but the thing I really like about him is his self-deprecating humor.

For example, he once told a friend of mine that he had to speak at a middle school career day and he had no idea what he was going to tell those kids. In his words (which are very paraphrased, since I wasn't there), "What am I supposed to tell them? Practice the pommel horse so you can ride that train for the rest of your life?"

The other thing I like about him is that, when I wear heels, I tower over him. Which I can't brag about very often because I'm 5'3". On a good day. Which means...

Peter Vidmar is ... short. I'm comfortable saying that because it's not something he's trying to hide. In fact, he jokes about it a lot. And it always makes me laugh. Like at this meeting on Saturday. He showed a soccer picture of one of his sons when he was four years old and then said, "When you're a four year old Vidmar, that soccer ball is huge!"

And then he told the story behind this picture that he has kept on his desk for twenty-two years. As he was driving his son to get his very first AYSO soccer picture taken, President Vidmar (that's what we call him in our stake) looked over and saw his son had wiped his chocolatey fingers on his white uniform. So he said to him, "What are you doing? Your mom got that uniform all clean and ready for you and now you've smeared chocolate all over it right before your picture!" And some more stuff like that.

And you know what his son did?

The exact same thing that my kids have done--and maybe your kids too--when I've gotten mad at them for some little thing that doesn't really matter in the big scheme of things.

He cried.

So President Vidmar apologized, his little boy got his picture taken and when they got it back the little smudge of chocolate was barely visible. And the story could end there and the incident forgotten. But it doesn't and it isn't.

I've heard that Peter Vidmar keeps his gold medals hanging on a wall where other people can see them because he's often asked about them. But he keeps this picture of his now grown son in the chocolate-smudged uniform on his desk to remind him every day about what's really important in life.

After told the congregation that story and shared a few other insightful things, he showed us this video: Parenting: Touching the Hearts of Our Youth. I don't care who you are, what religion you practice or don't, or if you're a parent or not, this video is for you. But I'm warning you. I'm not a cryer and I got a little choked up.

So did a lot of people, including President Vidmar and the other members of the stake presidency-- who are pretty successful men in their own right. And, I've gotta tell you, I love seeing grown men who aren't afraid to cry in public. Not crocodile tears, but the genuine kind. Especially the men who are very successful professionally, because humility doesn't always get you very far in the world. But when it comes to success in things that really count...

That takes some humility.

* This is called a temple recommend and it's not really up to President V. whether I can go or not. He just very nicely asks me questions about whether I'm following the standards we believe God has given us to live by. It's up to me to decide if I can answer those questions honestly or not.

Conversations at Breakfast: Maid in China

noreply@blogger.com (Brittany) — Wed, 25 Jan 2012 00:11:00 +0000

So it's a good thing I had this post already planned out because I took a toddler to breakfast this morning for the first time in four years. And then I remembered how there's a lot less conversing and a lot more wiping of little fingers and mouths during breakfast with a toddler (FYI, Cinnamon Sugar Bagel Poppers, not a good choice for a two year old). Also, there is a lot more crying and yelling of things like, "mine!" The Yentas (oh, they were there) were not amused.

Now, onto a conversation from a few months ago. The one right after Thanksgiving where Paula said, "so I met my new Chinese sister-in-law while we were at my mom's."

But let's backtrack even further for some background info. You see, Paula has this brother who is like a luxury car without a muffler. He's a nice guy who spews out a lot of crap. In other words, he lacks a filter. (At least according to Paula. I've never actually met the guy). For example, one time he was being wheeled into surgery and he got into a fight with his doctor. And if there's one guy you don't want to offend, it's the one holding the knife who's about to cut you open.

Anyway, Bob* decided after being divorced for a while that he needed a new wife. And since he likes Asian women, he decided to go right to the source. More specifically, China. Because, if there's one thing China's got, it's Asian women. Lots of them. Like a quarter billion or something.

But when I say he went right to the source, I don't actually mean he went to China. More like, he went to the Internet where he met her via e-mail. Which is, in itself, pretty interesting considering the fact he didn't speak Chinese and his new wife, Candy (not her real name, just the American one she chose for herself), didn't speak English. I mean write. Write Chinese. Or speak it.

But what is the inability to communicate in the face of true love? Not much, if you are Bob and Candy. for after a whirlwind romance via email and a meet and greet in China, they decided to marry. Unfortunately, the one thing America won't import from China, is their women. So the newlyweds had to part until Candy and her son, Peter (not his real name either), could get visas.

Fast forward many months later to Candy's first American Thanksgiving where she meets her new husband's family. And they meet her.

Here are some cultural differences Paula noticed right off the bat. Now, maybe these aren't things that all people from rural China do, but since Candy is our only exposure to that part of the world, we're going to assume they do. Kind of like people in other countries assume all Americans wear cowboy boots and say things like, "nucular" (can't imagine where they got that idea).

Anywho...

Cultural Difference #1: the Chinese think their phones are pets. So they put ears on them. This is something I can actually get on board with. Phones aren't any cheaper than pets, but I bet they don't get scared by fireworks. And, if they get eaten by wolves, who cares? You can just buy a new one.

Cultural Difference #2: Chinese mothers think it's okay for their ten year old boys to wear girly kitty socks and hoodies with ears. Which makes me think there must be a shortage of actual pets in China if they are trying to make everything look like an animal.

Cultural Difference #3 became obvious while Paula rubbed her Dad's shoulders. Her brother, seeing this, wanted in so he said, "Wife!" then pointed to his sister and then to his own shoulders. And Candy's response? She giggled and pranced over to give him a back rub.

And then when Bob saw his sister drinking some juice he said, "Wife! Juice!" Candy's response? ...I think you already know.

But in my favorite example of CD #3, Paula and her mom were having a conversation with Candy. (Actually more with Candy's phone since it was magic and she could say something in Chinese into it and the phone would say it back to her in English and vice versa those Asians have all the best technology). Candy said to Paula, "so, you nurse? Husband want me to be nurse."

And Paula, in recounting this story to us, paid me the highest compliment by saying, "and then my mom said something that Brittany would say."

What was it that Paula's mom said? Well, she straightened up, got fiery look in her eye and said, "In America, women do what they want!"

And it's true. I would totally say that.

But what Candy said--with a smile-- was, "I think I do what husband want."

And what Bob yelled from the other room as he overheard this conversation was, "Stop Americanizing her! I can't get this here!"

We had a good breakfast laugh over that story, though Paula does pray her brother doesn't call Candy Wife! in public. People might take that the wrong way. But she's pretty sure he does because of that whole no-filter thing he's got going on. We also kind of wonder if Candy isn't sitting in her comfortable American home right now, playing with her pet/cell phone while her son's at school and her husband's at work, thinking she's got a pretty good gig going on. She does what makes her husband happy for a few hours a day when he's home from work and then has the rest of her life to do what makes her happy. And everybody is happy. It's sort of a win-win.

I'll tell you one thing though, I'm won't be answering to the call of Wife! anytime soon.

(And also, today Monica expressed her feelings about GATE being dumb and said I should put that on the blog because she wanted to hear if people agreed. Your thoughts? Let me clarify, she meant the program, not the kids in it. Obviously, they are not dumb).

* Bob is not his real American name, but I can't remember what it is. I don't think he has a Chinese name.

Tuesdays Are For Breakfasts

noreply@blogger.com (Brittany) — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 20:32:00 +0000

My bi-weekly blog posts have sort of fallen to the wayside lately. Mostly because I'm trying to edit my book (and by edit, I mean basically re-write the whole thing so I'm not embarrassed to send it out for some real editing), but also because things keep coming up. Things I could probably give up so I could focus more on writing, except I don't want to.

Like my weekly breakfast group. There's four of us who've been meeting for breakfast once a week for years now. In fact, when we started our babies looked like this:

and we would take them to story time at the library after our cinnamon rolls.

Now they get story time at school (or not. Who knows?) and we get to eat and have conversations that don't include the words, "please stop rolling around on the floor."

Except when we are ROFLing. Which sometimes happens.

There are a few others who come when they can, but the four of us work our schedules around breakfast, not the other way around.

And you know what? We're not the only group of ladies who do this. Lately when we've met for bagels at our new regular breakfast location, we've had to fight the Tuesday Yentas for a table. I mean, we do it very politely even though the Yentas all look to be about 80 years old and we could probably kick their ...

But those old ladies have a little bit of an attitude. Like, because they're old and wear matching lime green polo's that say Tuesday Yentas on them, somehow their breakfast group is more legit than ours. So I suggested we come up with our own name and get our own t-shirts. Maybe in hot pink to really show them up.

We tried to think of a name that would evoke who we are in much the same way the Yentas have. Something that said, "hey we're Mormon sisters who like to eat bagels and other breakfast foods together," but in fewer words. But really, how can a people who haven't even come up with a good title for that monthly mid-week Relief Society meeting compete with Yiddish?

So I suggested the name Breakfast Bitchers. Because, really, that's what our breakfasts are all about. Not every time, of course. Sometimes we have some pretty spiritual discussions like this one or funny conversations about whether to name a baby Kegel.

But most of our chats revolve around getting all our frustrations out and being able to say to each other, "you're child/spouse/pet does that too?" Or even, "oh no s/he/it didn't!" and feeling like 1) we're not alone and/or 2) there's someone who's having a worse day than me.

Without fail, though, I always feel full after breakfast. And not just with carbs.

The other girls vetoed my t-shirt idea, so I' won't be sharing pictures of us wearing them. But, I've been thinking for a while now that my readers ought to get filled up on Tuesdays too. Even if it's just with a good laugh.

So, starting next week I'll be writing a new segment called Conversations at Breakfast. I can't guarantee it will happen every week, but when there's something good to share, I'll be sharing it.

Like the story of how Paula got a new sister-in-law. From China.

That's one you're not gonna want to miss, so stay tuned.

Of Christmas, Kidney Stones, Wilford Brimley, Vampires, and Adverbs

noreply@blogger.com (Brittany) — Sat, 14 Jan 2012 19:37:00 +0000

Can we talk Christmas for a minute? I know it's over and everything, but I have a little Christmas story I've been dying to tell you. Not the uplifting kind, mind you. More the, if-you're-easily-offended-you-should-look-away kind. Also, if you have a special fondness for adverbs and authors who use a lot of them--not naming any names (yet)-- then you should probably skip this post all together.

My story starts on Christmas Eve with my family's traditional gag gift exchange. This year the prize for Best Gag Gift Ever went to my brother who handmade his gift for my father. Whom, you should know, sometimes suffers from kidney stones and had passed some just days before our Christmas Eve celebration. With this in mind my brother, who is a manufacturing engineer (whatever that it is) and therefore good at making things, created a kidney stone catcher for my dad. A hands-free one. And then cleverly named it Dr. Cox's Hands Free Kidney Stone Catcher.

Dr. Cox's kit not only included a strainer attached to some adjustable rope shoulder straps to hold it in place, but also a "bitin'" stick. I have a picture of my dad demonstrating how the contraption works (though not the actual stone passing necessitating the device), but he threatened to disown me when I mentioned it would be going on my blog. And then I got a new phone, but the picture stayed on my old one. Otherwise, I probably would have risked being kicked out of my family-- it was that good.

The runner-up prizes go to my sister-in-law and me. And since I can't post the picture I want of my dad, I'll post one of her:

That's my dog she's holding, after Lola was found and sheared. And you know what else my SIL holds? A PhD from Cornell University. Which makes her a doctor. A doctor of plants and their pathology, but still a doctor. And, as far as I know, she is the only doctor, ever, in the whole history of the Nelson family line. Drunks we've got; doctors, not so much.

So for her gag gift I gave her a picture of this man:

Who she once referred to, in all seriousness, as Elder Wilford H. Brimley. That Dr. Smarty-pants (as my SIL is affectionately known) thought Wilford Brimley was a general authority is funny enough on it's own. But the fact she assigned him a middle initial makes her mistake pretty darn hilarious. Because, as we all know (if we're Mormon. If not, this is sort of a had-to-be-there joke. Sorry), you can't be in the upper echelons of church leadership without an initial as part of your name.

Her gift to me, though, was just as clever. Here it is:

How is one of the greatest books of all time a gag gift, you ask? Well, I asked the same thing.

Until I opened it and read this:
"About three things I was absolutely positive. First, Edward was a vampire. Second, there was part of him--and I didn't know how potent that part might be--that thirsted for my blood. And third, I was unconditionally and irrevocably in love with him."

Angela had doctored up--very convincingly, I might add-- a copy of Twilight to look like Pride and Prejudice. Thereby making me gag! Brilliant, I tells ya. Brilliant!

But actually, my doctored up P&P has come in pretty handy. You see, despite swearing off any and all things having to do with vampires or werewolves (though I'm leaving my options open for anything with mummies), I've been toying with a story idea that would require some knowledge of the Twilight series. Which means I'd need to read it. I'd thought about downloading it to my Kindle, but hated to pay for it. And now I don't have to. I can not only read it in public without embarrassment, but also look like I am a smarty-pants too.

So I have been (reading it, that is. I don't know about the looking like a smary-pants part). And do you know what I have discovered?

Adverbs. Lots and lots of adverbs.

And do you know what the first rule in writing is?

Show don't tell. Which is another way of saying, "if it ends in -ly, get rid of it."

Now go back and read that paragraph from Twilight. Did you notice how many words end in -ly? Three. Out of forty-four words. Which works out to about one in every fifteen words. And I'd say that's pretty consistent with the entire book, judging by what I've read so far.

I'm not saying this means Ms. Meyers is not a good writer (I'll keep those reasons to myself), I'm just saying she likes her some adverbs. And you know who else does?

J.K. Rowling. Whose books I actually really like (all this talk of adverbs has pushed me to over-adverb myself).

And you know what else Stephanie Meyers and J.K. Rowling have in common besides their love for adverbs?

Large bank accounts. Filled with money. I'd guess about a million dollars for every adverb used in their each of their books.

And that's a lotta adverbs.

How Many Villages Do I Need?

noreply@blogger.com (Brittany) — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 18:55:00 +0000

I don't mean to keep going on and on about my dog (really, one post about a dog on a blog with the word "cats" in the title should be enough, right?) but she is much on my mind lately. Mostly because it's a little lonely being the only one in the house barking anymore, but also because she is coming home today.

And so, this post is an ode to the dog who is afraid of almost everything. Everything except death.

She's eluded it a number of times here at home when something has frightened her enough to make her run away and she's been lost over night. And sure, we've got coyotes and hawks and other hungry predators wandering around these parts. Not to mention the cars. Lots and lots of cars.

But does this dog

look like she could survive in this?

(No, my parents don't live in Antarctica.
But, seriously, it's cold in No. Utah!)

or fight off this?

Because one of those has been spotted behind my mom and dad's house where, presumably, Lola ran to escape the fireworks. Apparently that is a lot less frightening to a small dog than loud noises followed by pretty colors in the sky.

I mean, sure Lola's got those frightening alien eyes. But that's only in this picture. And, as is also evidenced in the picture, she wears scarves.

You know what's not intimidating to predators?

Scarves.

She wasn't wearing one at the time of her sojourn in the wilderness, but I think predators know instinctively when they've come across accessory wearing prey. I imagine had Lola met the Big Bad Wolf (I'm assuming she didn't since she's still alive) and been wearing her scarf, the conversation would have gone something like this:

B.B. Wolf (eyeing Lola menacingly): I like your scarf.

Lola (answering a bit nervously): Thanks. I got it at the groomers.

B.B. Wolf: Hmm. You know where I get my scarves?

Lola (feeling a little more at ease): No. Where?

B.B. Wolf: From little dogs who get groomed.

Lola (not so at ease anymore, she slowly starts inching away): Oh.

B.B. Wolf: Know where I get my dinner?

Lola shakes head no.

B.B. Wolf: Same place.

I've tried to imagine other conversations Lola could have had with some kinder, more herbivore than carnivore, sort of forest animals who may have helped her find the way home. But she's not so good with her own species, so I can't imagine she's any better with other animal groups. I'm guessing she spent most of her time running and hiding rather than chatting up any squirrels or magpies.

And, in fact, she didn't make her way home. Instead a neighbor of my parents found her and, knowing there were three sad, dogless, little girls in California, determined to rescue her. So he called her name. Which, naturally, made her run. (She has a healthy respect for stranger danger, that one). His next step was to hop on a bicycle and chase her. And chase her.

And chase her (she may be little, but she's fast).

When that didn't work, he got in his truck and continued to chase her. Up a mountain (which is easier to do in a truck than on a bicycle). Until he finally got close enough to throw a piece of canvas over her and capture her. He topped off her new canvas ensemble with his own hat (more to keep her from biting him than as an accessory) and Lola was rescued!

The best part is, this neighbor went to all that work to save a semi-loved pet for someone he doesn't even know. I may have met him before, but I can't remember. I imagine he looks something like this, though:

Or maybe even this:

Then, not to be outshone by one neighbor's neighborliness, some other neighbors came over to help nurse Lola, who looked like this:

this is her matted, cockleburr fur

so tramatized, she's lost the eerie shine to her eyes

They were also kind enough to help bathe her and give her a much needed haircut. With sheep shears. (Work with what you've got, right?) I don't have a picture of these neighbors either, but they look a little like this:

And you may remember them from here.

The final piece in Lola's Incredible Journey is Melinda, who looked like this the last time I saw her (and went by Mindy):

Which is a LOT better than what I looked like twenty years ago, but you get the point. It's been a while. Yet she has volunteered to bring my dumb dog back to me all the way from Utah to California. I can only assume she's undertaken such a task for one of the following reasons:

A. She remembers me being much nicer than I actually was, lo those many years ago.

B. She likes to roadtrip with dogs and doesn't have one (nor has she met mine).

C. She really wants to get out of Utah.

I'm pretty sure it's that last one.

And so the lesson learned this week from Lola the Dog (affectionately known as Dummy) is this:

It takes a villages both far and near for me to not only raise my kids, but also my dog.

Puttin' Things In Perspective

noreply@blogger.com (Brittany) — Wed, 04 Jan 2012 06:10:00 +0000

Have you seen that billboard? The one that says, "Pets are children too. Don't abandon them." It's right there outside of Las Vegas as you head south on the I-15.

It always makes me laugh because, really? Pets are children? Um, no. I mean, sure there are some similarities, especially when it comes to their manners. But, I don't feed my dog at the table and I don't leave my six year locked in a kennel for hours at a time while I'm out running errands. My kids also figured out that whole don't-pee-on-the-carpet thing, whereas the dog, eh, not so much.

This past Sunday, though, I dreaded seeing it. Guilt ate away any attempt at derisive laughter I could muster when we passed it eight hours into our twelve hour drive home from Utah to California.

By that time it had been nearly twenty-four hours since we'd seen Lola.

Aka: the stupid dog.

For on the eve of the New Year--and also of our departure--she had run away into the wilderness surrounding my parents' home. A wilderness full of coyotes, at least one wolf, and other various and assundry wildlife, but still an area she thought would be safer than the front yard where we were letting off fireworks.

We looked for her for an hour after we noticed her absence, searching with flashlights in the freezing cold, calling her name until we were too frozen to stay out any longer. The next morning we expanded our search area and put off our departure time by three hours, but without any luck. So we put three crying girls in the car and drove away, sans dog.

And now, as another cold night approached without any sign of Lola, there was the billboard staring down at me with its accusatory words. I had abandoned my "child" to the wolves, coyotes, and owls after only a three hour search. What kind of pet parent was I?

And what about all those times I had called her dummy? or stupid? Instead of appreciating her loyalty, I had complained about her always being underfoot. Instead of relishing the fact I had something who would never outgrow cuddling, I pushed her off of my lap.

You know what's even worse?

I joked about her running away or being eaten. I said those things out loud, forgetting everything I had learned from reading half of The Secret about sending things out into the Universe. If you send out a thought to the Universe, It just might comply. And It doesn't always get black humor, so you best be careful what you throw out there.

And those Pets Are Children people must be doing all right, because there were two more of those billboards that I had never seen before, pointing their doggy paws at me. I tried to console myself that at least I had been feeding her left-over turkey and ham for the past few days. Mostly because we were out of dog food and I was too lazy to drive into town for more. But also because she liked it.

Then it occurred to me that my plying her with meaty treats made her an even tastier morsel for whatever animal had got her.

Perhaps I sound a little callous about my dog's demise, but I really did feel very sad and guilty about not finding her. And for not being more responsible and thinking to lock her up before the fireworks, knowing how skittish she is and all.

But then I remembered something...

Four years ago on a similar New Year's Day, my friend Jenny, while on vacation in Utah, had to say an unexpected good-bye to her four year old boy after he was involved in a fatal sledding accident. She started the New Year in 2008 by putting a little casket with Russell's body in it on an airplane and flying home; her life completely changed.

Kind of puts the loss of a dog in perspective, doesn't it?

When I remembered it was the anniversary of Russell's death I started thinking about a lot of other things. Like how I would feel if it were one of my children I had lost instead of the dog. Would I be regretting I hadn't appreciated them more? stopped to hold them when they needed it? looked for the positive side of their "faults"?

I thought about that a lot. I thought about it through the next day as we still didn't have any word about our dog and I became even more certain she hadn't survived two nights out in the wild. And I thought about how much my perspective had changed when I found out Russell died. Suddenly the little things I got angry with my kids over didn't seem nearly as important as appreciating the time I had with them. The fact that no one is immune to loss hit hard and I resolved to remember that and treat my loved ones accordingly.

But then I did something Jenny can never do.

I forgot.

I forgot that things can change in an instant and without warning. I forgot that we can't determine how long we'll have a child. Or a spouse. Or a parent. Or any loved one.

I forgot that life is fragile.

So my New Year's resolution this year is this: To put things into perspective.

I will hold the things close that matter and let go of the things that don't.

And you know what happened after I made that resolution?

I got a call from my parents that my dog had been found. (Stupid dog).

But her rescue and the kindness of my parents' neighbors is a story for another blogpost.

Happy New Year!

For My 11 Year Old

noreply@blogger.com (Brittany) — Fri, 30 Dec 2011 06:00:00 +0000

Eleven years ago today, after two miscarriages, one ectopic pregnancy, many rounds of Clomid, four years of "trying", nine months of puking and unbelievable weight gain, four days of induced labor, and one C-section, Girl 1 finally "decided" (after much cajoling) to be born.

And that's sort of how things have been since Day One. Or even pre-Day One. She sorta does things on her own time and in her own way. But I'm always trying to get her to do stuff on my time frame and in my way. No doubt she was sent her to teach me how to be patient and to let go of control.

You'd think I would have learned it be now. But nope. After eleven years (fifteen if you count all the pre-birth stuff) I'm still ramming my head up against a wall, trying to get through, instead of just looking for the door in.

And maybe it's because I have so much to learn from her that my love for her is so deep, but sometimes so hard to show.

So today, this blog is for my eldest. so everyone will know just how much I love her. And because she is 11, easily embarrassed, and a follower of this blog, I will only post one picture of her doing the thing she loves very best:

Happy Birthday Emma C.!

Me vs. Christmas

noreply@blogger.com (Brittany) — Thu, 22 Dec 2011 16:36:00 +0000

I haven't heard much this year about that whole War on Christmas thing that was going on last year (or so I heard through the grapevine). Maybe it's because I don't listen to anything--and do mean anything, I don't care what it is-- Glen Beck says. Or maybe that war really is over and I just missed the announcement.

I'll tell you what is still going on though: my war WITH Christmas.

Now before you run screaming to personally contact Mr. Beck and tell him his war is back on, let me explain. I'm not talking about the baby Jesus, reason for the season Christmas.Let me assure you, I am totally on board with that Christmas.

It's the card sending, present purchasing, treat making, party attending, holiday complicating Christmas that keeps trying to take me down.

It started when we decided to bag our plans to spend the week of Thanksgiving at my parents' house in Utah-- partly due to exhaustion and sickness and partly due to the fact my brother in New York decided to spend Christmas there. So, hubby and I decided, instead of buying a bunch of presents this year, we would surprise the kids by taking them to Utah for a big family Christmas.

At first this was an easy surprise to keep secret since hubby kept forgetting this was our plan. But then, my darling tween--who is acting very much like a teen--found out all her cousins were going to Papa and Grandma's house. And that we weren't. Thus she has spent the past month alternating between begging us to go, begging Grandma to come pick her up and stomping around the house yelling that this is going to be the worst Christmas ever. But mostly that last one.

There have been days when I have been so irritated with her that I've wanted to yell, "WE ARE GOING! THAT'S YOUR CHRISTMAS PRESENT! SURPRISE! HAPPY NOW?" And maybe one day I did yell this before she stormed out the door to school and I spent the day in bed feeling very sad that I had ruined Christmas.

But Christmas can not beat me. Because what I learned was that, when I yell, all my daughter hears is noise, not actual words. So when she came home from school and asked, "what did you scream at me this morning?" I lied. And then hubby lied too, saying, "your mom is crazy when she's mad, (okay maybe that part is true) you shouldn't believe what she's saying when she yells."

Christmas - 0. Crazy, Screaming Mom - 1

Of course in the days leading up to the exploding Mom and near Christmas win, Christmas launched a sneak attack.

Since we are not doing a bunch of toys this year-- or basically giving our kids anything on their lists-- I decided to do something special for my girls by making them some photo albums. Not the kind that require actual cutting and sticking and creating, (been there, done that, not going back) but the kind you can do on one of those photo websites--like that one that rhymes with butterfly--and all you have to do is drop the pictures where you want them, then write a little something about them. Still a lot of work, but a lot less mess.

And, luckily, a friend of mine had a coupon she forwarded to me for 50% off + free shipping + another $10. So how could I pass on that deal? Except I only had a day and a half to put together three photo albums before the coupon expired. And so I spent an entire day in front of my computer working on the albums. An. Entire. Day.

But I did it!

Almost.

By the time my last project finished downloading, it was 12:02 a.m. Two minutes past the deadline. I frantically fired off an email begging them to still honor my coupon. Then the next morning I called and spoke to a very nice lady. And do you know what she told me after speaking to her supervisor?

No.

But she kindly pointed out that they were now 40% off. I then, very politely, pointed out that 40% is still less than 50% plus $10 and that I had been a customer for really a lot of years, but would no longer be. Then she secretly took another $20 off my order.

Christmas- 0. Crazy, Picture Lady - 2.

Christmas lodged one more feeble attempt at keeping me from doing everything by getting me sick one day before the start of my Seven Parties in Three Days Christmas Extravaganza. Really Christmas? Did you think a little sore throat/laryngitis + mucousy cough + lack of sleep would keep me from hot glue gunning graham crackers to milk cartons so that 32 first graders could make gingerbread houses? Or keep me from playing Just Dance and gabbing with friends? Or bowling? Or teaching 3rd graders how to make the most awesome snowflakes ever? Or Journeying through Bethlehem with the rest of my ward? Or watching fifth graders decorate cookies? Or win a totally awesome snowboarding jacket for my husband (who doesn't even snowboard)?

Puh-lease.

Christmas - 0. Crazy, Party Lady - 3.

And, in a pre-emptive strike I had already hired someone to make delicious cookies for my friends and neighbors (www.kentkookies.com. go there, try them, they are so very yummy. Find them on Facebook too). So they still got my treats, but without my sick germs!

Bah Ha Ha!

Christmas - 0. Crazy, Treat Lady - 4.

You can not beat me Christmas.

You. Can. Not. Beat. Me!!

At least not until I get my credit card bill.

Who Knew A Leopard Print Christmas Could Be So Much Work?

noreply@blogger.com (Brittany) — Wed, 14 Dec 2011 06:12:00 +0000

Remember when I said I would post a picture of my girls' leopard Christmas dresses that made me happy?

You don't?

Well I said it right here. But it's okay if you've forgotten, because it has been awhile since I wrote it. Or since I've written anything really, due to the fact that Christmas is kicking my butt. And it's not even here yet.

So anyway, the best I can do for a blog post today is share the promised picture.

Here's another picture that my sweet-- and talented-- friend, Jen took

Do you see any differences in their leopard attire? If you noticed that Girl 2 (the one on the right in both pics) is wearing something just a little bit different, you win the award for being Most Observant.*

How is this girl lucky enough to own not one, but TWO leopard outfits? you ask. Well, I'll tell you.

She's not. It's all an illusion created by the magic of photoshop. Because while Jen was taking the picture I realized it would be so much cuter if Girl 2 were also wearing a leopard top under her bolero jacket instead of the cream one she had on. (Actually I thought this earlier in the day before the picture, but was too busy cleaning my bathroom to go shopping).

When I mentioned this to Jen she said she could just photoshop a little leopard top onto her. But only in the picture. Not in real life. Which meant I had to go shopping that night for one so G2 could wear it to church the next day.

So that's what I did. Jen was kind enough to join me and, I gotta tell ya, it was kind of a lot of work. There were no gray leopard shirts to be found that would work under her cute bolero. But I did find a black shirt at Kohl's and a darling little furry leopard vest (faux of course, as I assured G2 who feared an actual leopard had been harmed in its making).

And when I saw "little vest," I do mean little. Because even though I found it in the big girl's department and it had an M on it, it was about a size 5. Fortunately, G2 tried it on that night so I didn't have to break the Sabbath the next day to return it for a bigger size in order to complete the coordinating ensemble I had planned for church. Unfortunately, that was at 10 pm. Fortunately, Target had started their holiday hours. So I headed back to find a big girl vest.

But guess what. That cute, furry vest only came in cute little sizes. Apparently whoever designs for Target has decided big girls should only have ugly, hairy vests. And the biggest little girl size they had in the vest was an L. Which is size 6. G2 is 8 1/2.

But she is little and all the other stores that might possibly carry something leopard were closed. So I took it. And she squeezed into the next day, but kept the tags on. (Maybe I've mentioned this before, but she is willing to sacrifice comfort in the name of fashion. Her big sister, on the other hand... not so much).

The beauty of living in a thriving metropolis is the plethora of Targets all within a ten minute drive. So on Monday I went to another Target and found another vest, only this time an XL. Which fits tolerably well and looks pretty darn cute. And makes G2 pretty darn happy.

And the moral of this blog?

Well, there are two really.

1. Shopping should always come before cleaning because, in the end, it will end up saving you time. And picture retakes. (Plus, people see what you wear a lot more often than they see your bathrooms).

2. If you are thinking "there may be a reason why Christmas is wearing her out, and it doesn't have much to do with what the season is supposed to be about" you pretty much hit the nail on the head. (And also, I'm not even going to mention the snowflake tutorials I googled so I could make really cool ones--some in leopard print, of course-- to hang from my banister).

* Disclaimer: there's is no actual prize that goes with this award other than the satisfaction of knowing you are good at noticing things. Use this skill at the next baby shower you attend where they play memorize-all-these-stupid-baby-things-before-we-hide-them-and-then-make- you -remember-them (I hate that game). You can win a prize there.

Guess What I Did...

noreply@blogger.com (Brittany) — Tue, 06 Dec 2011 16:55:00 +0000

It took nine months and 102,239 words.

And there is still much cutting and editting to be done.

Not to mention the revising and querying.

But,

it's official.

I wrote a book.

Ten Awesome Things...Plus Six Things That Suck.

noreply@blogger.com (Brittany) — Tue, 29 Nov 2011 06:19:00 +0000

Anybody else feeling a little crazy right now? (Please only respond if you are not one of those "I finished all of my Christmas shopping is September" people. Because I hate you if you are).

I haven't had a lot of time to blog lately, what with all the Christmas decorating I've been doing in order to avoid the shopping for gifts part of the holiday. So imagine my surprise today when I checked my blog stats and found people were still reading something I wrote ten days ago. It's like my blog is a classic now! And, even better, someone found their way to it by putting the phrase, "uppity negress" in their search engine. I don't know how that led them to my blog, but I think it's pretty awesome.

Here are a few other things I'm thinking are awesome this week:

1. My husband cleaned the garage. Every time I look at it, I get a little turned on.
2. Christmas decorations. My dining room table kind of looks like Michael's threw up on it. And I like it. Maybe I will post pictures.
3. I came up with some rockin' coordinating Christmas outfits for my girls that involve leopard print. Pictures will definitely be posted. If I can convince my almost eleven year old to wear hers again.
4. My eight year old wore her long-sleeve black sequined shirt with the furry leopard print vest over it to church. And it was 80 degrees outside. SO awesome that she will suffer for fashion's sake!
5. The maple trees in my backyard are all red and gorgeous. And the gardener raked up the fallen leaves today, so husband doesn't have to.
6. The purple flats I found on clearance at Target.
7. Target. But I kinda always think it's awesome.
8. One of my favorite cousins and his family just moved nearby.
9. I have a new nephew, born today, all healthy and chubby.
10. My kids are all asleep and it's not even 10 yet. That has not happened in a very long time.

And just so I don't make you want to puke with all my chipper, "Life is Awesome" list-iness, here are a few things that suck:
1. That movie Like Crazy. Unless, of course, you are one of those people who think a revoked visa, very little dialogue-- but lots of longing looks-- and ugly chairs, constitute "art". If so, please take your place in line behind those early Christmas shoppers on my list of not-so-awesome things.
2. The temperature inside my church is somewhere near -20, so my daughter was actually a bit chilly in her winter wear.
3. This is probably the last Christmas I can bribe/coerce my oldest into wearing anything remotely resembling what her sisters are wearing.
4. Another favorite cousin and his fam will be moving away from here. Sad for me, but sadder for them. Cause there's snow where they're going.
5. Black Friday shopping. Except for that done for me by others. And the awesome lighted garland I got. Plus a few other deals. Okay, so maybe the shopping didn't suck, but the lines and people did. Except for that friendly Syrian lady who told me she was in line behind me, then wandered around for fifteen minutes expecting me to fight off the hoards of people who actually got into the line-- rather than staking an imaginary claim in it--and, when she finally did reclaim her spot, talked very loudly in Syrian on her phone while aalternately complaining just as loudly that they should open another register. Despite the fact there was no other register, thereby making it impossible to open one. But she did hold my spot for thirty seconds while I ran to get something, so that was nice. Though I'm starting to see why maybe there's some upheaval in that region of the world.
6. Texts at 3 and 4 a.m. from my personal shoppers to tell me they got me what I wanted in their Black Friday shopping extravaganza. Kind of defeats the purpose of staying home in bed if you can't stay asleep there during all the madness.
6. It seems my kids aren't actually asleep, but were only fooling me.

But, as you can see, there is a lot less that sucks than is awesome.

So I guess make that number 11 on my list.

Uppity Women Unite Part Deux

noreply@blogger.com (Brittany) — Thu, 17 Nov 2011 14:37:00 +0000

Since my last post I've had a lot of people tell me they want an Uppity Women Unite t-shirt. Which I think is a marvelous idea, just marvelous. I'm not a t-shirt sporting slogans wearer myself, but that doesn't mean the rest of you can't be.

But here's the thing. With the money it would cost to buy that t-shirt, you could do something even better to show just what an Uppity Woman you are. See that sidebar over there? On the side? In the bar? Well, by donating to that fund you will be helping a single mother go to college. And everyone knows, if you improve the life of a mother, you improve the life of more than one person.

So come on Uppity friends (that includes you too, guys. You don't have to be a woman to be uppity), let's unite and support our sisters. I'm going to throw in $5, and if every one of my followers did too, that'd be like fifteen bucks.

Now I'll be honest. My motive for supporting this cause aren't completely altruistic. By posting this and donating, I'll be entered in a contest wherein I could win a reprieve from writing my own Christmas letter. Now, now, I know many of you are fans of my annual Christmas letter and look forward to its arrival each year. But that's some pressure people. And I may not be up for the task this year. But my hilarious friend DeNae is more than able and I assure you, reading about the 2011 exploits of the Larsen family in her words will not disappoint.

And I guess that's about all I've got to say today. A little less wordy than usual, I know. But I'm the co-chair of my kids' school book fair this week. Which means I'm up to my eyeballs in books, words and kids. So I'm kind of tired of looking at all of those things and am having a lot of trouble thinking straight.

Not too worry though. It's nothing that a Diet Coke can't fix. Just trying to make it to 7 a.m. before I crack it open.

Uppity Women Unite

noreply@blogger.com (Brittany) — Mon, 14 Nov 2011 01:56:00 +0000

When I was a freshman at the BYU, there was a girl on my floor who had a poster of an upright fist with the words: Uppity Women Unite! at the bottom. I don't remember this girl's name (though I do remember a rumor she left the Y for Berkley) and I had no idea who the Uppity women were or why they should unite, but man was that poster cool.

I've thought about that poster a lot over the past few days because I've done a lot of uniting in celebration with some pretty awesome friends.

With Friend 1, we celebrated a new beginning

Friend 2 and I celebrated her 40th birthday by going on a girls' trip with two other friends.

And for Friend 3, I threw a party to celebrate the good news that Covenant Books wants to publish her book.

All good news, right? So what do these friends have to do with uppity women, you ask? Well, let me tell you a little more about them..

The new beginning Friend 1 and I celebrated is her courage to get out of an abusive relationship. Sometimes, know matter how bad things are, it's easier to stick with what you know than face the unknown. But she's got a lot of women surrounding her-- lifting her up after years of being beaten down--united in helping her start over.

Friend 2 has had some knock down, drag out fights with depression over the years. When she lost her mom to cancer this year, we worried we would lose her to depression. But she's feeling better physically and emotionally than she has in years. So we celebrated her and her strength and listened to stories about her mom. Then cried with her when, for the first time, her mom didn't call her to say "Happy Birthday."

And talk about strength. Friend 3's book is about the grief-- and the miracles--she experienced when her son was killed in a sledding accident just before his fifth birthday. She spent two years writing and editing that story. The day she found out it was going to be published was the first day I had seen my old friend in four years. The one without the sad eyes.

It's not the publishing part she's excited about. It's the part where her pain can hopefully be a balm for those who are in need of comfort. You can get a sense for how she does that here: http://mormon.org/jenny/

The women who came to my house to celebrate Friend 3's accomplishment have felt her pain. Even those who didn't know her when it happened. But those of us who were there in those days and weeks after her son's death, prayed to take on some of her burden. And I know that Heavenly Father allowed us to do that. And in doing so, we gained a better understanding of the Atonement and what the Savior suffered for us. We learned what her book aims to show: there are blessings that come from tragedy.

The past few days have taught me, once again, just how amazing the women are who surround me. I'm in awe of the things we can do when we unite to lift each other up. And we don't even need the rallying call of "Uppity Women Unite!"

We only need to follow our instincts and the Spirit.

I do really like to say those words though..

So...

UPPITY WOMEN UNITE!

My Top Ten

noreply@blogger.com (Brittany) — Wed, 09 Nov 2011 01:42:00 +0000

Have you seen those status updates on Facebook? The ones where people are saying what they are thankful for EVERY SINGLE DAY this month?

I keep thinking I should jump on that bandwagon, but I don't want to be a follower. Even though I totally am. I'm just not comfortable doing it so publically. Plus, I'm eight days behind now and I hate catching a trend at the tailend. It's like the time in college I finally broke down and bought a pair of Birkenstocks, only to find out a few months later everyone had moved on to Doc Marten's. (Did I just age myself there? Pretty sure I did.)

So, because I'm not taking time to update my gratitude status every day--or even update my status at all, for that matter-- I've decided to get all my thankfulness out in one fell swoop with a Top Ten List ala David Letterman. (See what I mean about catching trends at the tailend? I think this one is so long gone it's no where to be caught).

So here it is...

Top Ten Things I'm Thankful For, But You Will Not See In My Facebook Status...

10. Chik-fil-a, which I can never remember how to spell. Their name is tricky, but their fries are yummy.

9. Limes. They make Diet Coke taste good.

8. Breakfast. Because once a week I get to eat it with three of my favorite people and sometimes more of my favorite people come along.

7. School. My house is quiet when my kids go to there.

6. Chocolate. No explanantion necessary.

5. Nice memories from my childhood of snow days, safely viewed from my sunny spot in California where I never have to worry about my children having them.*

4. Parents who live somewhere snowy so we can have a white Christmas, and then a warm January.

3. Friends. Lots and lots of them. And they are the best in the world.

2. My kids. Who I do miss when they are at school. Until they get home and we enter Homework Hell. Then I wish I could miss them again.

1. My husband. Seriously, he is the best. Even when I suggest something and he says, "let's sit down and talk about it," when we are already sitting. And talking. And I know what he really means is either, "if I ignore it long enough, she will forget about it," or "I'm gonna have to gear up for this one, because there's no way she's letting it go." And he usually let's me have what I want if I just "sit and talk about it" at him for long enough.

(There are also lots of other things I love about him. But I'll wait and post those on Facebook. Because if there's one thing he hates, it's public affection of the sentimental type).

* There was the time my kids got out of school for a week because it was under threat of being burned to the ground by wildfire. And the smoke was too thick to actually leave the house. But that's only happened once in the past twelve fire seasons since I have lived here.

Just In Case You're Wondering

noreply@blogger.com (Brittany) — Fri, 04 Nov 2011 23:02:00 +0000

Angie at Live to Write... Edit When Necessary... passed along these questions for me to answer. And it's a good thing too, because now I don't have to think up something to write on my own. I mean, other than my answers to these questions:

If you could go back in time and relive one moment, what would it be?

I would go back to the boat I was on in Belize just over three years ago when the dive guide asked who was going to be doing the 140 foot deep dive into the Blue Hole. And this time I would say yes instead of asking if reef sharks eat people. The snorkeling far away from the sharks was beautiful though.

If you could go back in time and change one thing what would it be?

Wow. Only one? I would go back to the years I was at BYU and take a class from Eugene England. That's how cool I think he was. (BTW, I'm married to the guy who wrote that article about Prof. England. He's pretty cool too).

What movie/TV character do you most resemble in personality?

Hmmm. That's a tough one. I've been told I look like Sarah Jessica Parker, who I think is a terrible actress and kinda looks like a horse-- but must be an all right gal cuz she's married to Ferris Bueller-- but you be the judge. Do we look alike?

SJP Me

As far as personality though, maybe Angela from The Office. Because I am kind of little and very judgmental. Not to mention self-righteous. I don't like cats though, or numbers, but I do have the word "cats" in my blog title. And I do use numbers on occasion. So, yeah, let's say Angela.

If you could push one person off a cliff and get away with it, who would you choose?

Another tough one. There are so many people I'd like to push over a cliff. But let's go with Ashton Kutcher. I find him, his acting, and his little camera very irritating.

Name one habit you want to change in yourself.

I could curse less. But I kinda like doing that, so maybe I won't change that one. How about yelling at my kids every morning? I bet that's one they'd like me to change too.

Why do you blog (answer in one sentence).

Because I'm a narcissist and a procrastinator of housecleaning tasks and I like to write, so blogging fulfills all of those needs and people tell me how much they like to read it, which is awesome because no one ever says how my clean house made their day. And sometimes I don't like to follow rules so I'm answering in one really long sentence and a pointless second sentence.

And now I have to pass these questions along to three other people. So here goes...

Take it away

1. Kristy at Kristy's stories
2. Karen at Karen's Make Believe World
3. Jenny at Mommy Snark

And the Mother of the Year Award Goes To.... Not Me.

noreply@blogger.com (Brittany) — Tue, 01 Nov 2011 06:37:00 +0000

Another Halloween has come and gone and with it all of my hopes and aspirations of being nominated for Mother of the Year.

And here's why:

For at least eight months Girl 1 has been planning on dressing up as a horse for Halloween. (She's ten and a girl, so, of course, she loves horses). She envisioned a costume for her and her best friend made out of chicken wire, fabric and a lot of help from me and my mad sewing skills. Which she's sure I have because I have a sewing machine. In a closet. In the garage. That she's never seen me use.

So, yeah, that didn't happen. Instead I've spent the past eight months saying, "Halloween is still months away; let's at least get to October before we start talking costumes." And by "saying" I may mean "yelling in frustration."

And then last week I started "saying", "Fine. I will look online for a horse costume, but I am not buying anything."

But I did buy something. Ninja accessories. Because when we couldn't find a horse costume big enough to fit someone over eighteen months old, that's what she came up with. And I'm sure I could have borrowed daggers, swords , and masks from one of my many friends who have boys, but after eight months of horse costume talk, she broke me. So I spent the $6.

And then she gave the sword to her BFF so she could also be a ninja. She asked me to find something black for BFF to wrap around her face, so I made some suggestions, like, "Seriously? She can't find anything at her own house?" But I drew the line at actually getting up and looking for a costume for someone else's kid. Much as I like that kid and her parents.

Then I sent all my kids over to their house on Saturday. And again today. Because I needed a nap and I figured she kinda owed me for making her kid's costume.

But at least Girl 1 got a choice. Her two younger sisters I just tried to guilt into wearing the poodle skirts I made for them in June so they could go to a sock hop. On My Birthday. And I bought saddle shoes for them to wear--which aren't going to fit either one of them next year because even though they are 2 1/2 years apart, they are the same size.

It worked with Girl 3, but Girl 2 opted to wear something from the dress-up box and then borrow some tights from me. Despite the fact she is two feet shorter than me. But hey, neglect has made her resourceful. And Girl 3 looked awfully cute as a 50's girl. She even had cat eye glasses to wear. I mean, sure, they're her older sister's. And they're prescription glasses. And she complained they hurt her eyes. But man, did she look like an authentic 50's girl!

Also, I may have forgotten today was Halloween because we had a church trunk-or-treat activity on Friday where they sure got a lot of candy. So, in my mind, Halloween was over. Until someone mentioned something about trick-or-treating on Monday. But that was on Saturday night. And when I realized we would have to do the whole dress-up thing again, a wave of horror washed over me. Because by this time the kids had eaten much of their candy for breakfast. And lunch. And a little more for dinner. Which meant there was none left over for me to re-gift to actual Halloween night trick-or-treaters.

And no way was I going back to Target for more.

So I raided the snack drawer. Which was chock full of some pretzel cheese sandwich cracker things that my kids refused to eat. So those went in the give away bowl. Plus a whole lot of lame plastic bat rings and pumpkin erasers my husband was convinced no one would take. He advised me thus, "Don't let them see what's in the bowl. Just reach in, grab something, then put your hand all the way in their bag before you drop it so they can't see what it is." (Have I mentioned he's a lawyer?).

Sound advice, I know. But instead I sent hubby with the kids to knock doors and beg for candy while I set the bowl on the porch, turned out all the lights, and watched TV.

Best. Halloween. Ever.

* One more reason--and there are a lot-- I won't be nominated for Mother of the Year: I don't always make it home before my kids do because I know Girl 3 can get into our locked house through the doggie door and then let the other two in. At least until she grows another inch or two.

In Honor of Baby Kegel. And Some Other People Too.

noreply@blogger.com (Brittany) — Fri, 28 Oct 2011 15:56:00 +0000

Today's post is a tribute to some friends of mine. Which, for some reason, brings to mind that old Willie Nelson song, To All The Girls I've Loved Before. I'm really not sure why. Maybe because of that part where he sings:

I'm glad you came along

so I dedicate this song

to all the girls I've loved before...

But honestly, I can't explain how the soundtrack in my head works. I mean, I do love these two girls. Just not in the same way I think Willie Nelson would love them.

Anyhow...

Moving on to the actual tributary part of this blog, I'd like to start with Sheridan. And if I were any kind of technical computer genius person, I would make that name light up and flash. Maybe even do a little dance.

Sadly, I think we've already established here, I am not that girl. Which is okay. Because Sheridan is not a flashy, name- in -lights kind of gal anyway. Quite the opposite, actually. In fact, Sheridan is the kind of gal whose husband once said to me, "please take her shopping and I don't care how much you spend. I just want my shirts back."

And what I heard is, "shopping spree at Nordstrom on somebody else's dime."

So we went. But I told her before we left to wear a bra, because I knew she wouldn't if I didn't make her. Except she still didn't. Instead she packed one in her purse. Her small purse. (Here's something you should know about bras. If you have borne and nursed three children, you should be wearing a bra with cups and underwire. Not one that can be wadded up and stuffed into a purse. Those days--and those boobs--are gone my friends).

But Sheridan's boobs had been hiding under her husband's shirts, and she didn't know this. So, being the charitable woman I am, I sacrificed my own bra for her use so that she could see how nice clothes look when breasts are properly positioned inside them.

She's still not convinced. Which is actually pretty awesome, because it gives me something to tease her about. And thank goodness there's one real woman in the sea of plastic that is Orange County (not that there's anything wrong with the plastic--no judgment here).

But her courage in the face of conformity is not why I want to pay tribute to her today. No, the real reason she deserves my kudos is for her tireless and underpaid efforts to educate women about childbirth. Not the sterilized, hospital, let's-make-this-as-convenient-as-possible kind, but the beautiful, calm, women's-bodies-are-amazing kind. Which I think is really cool. Because what we go through to have children--whether naturally, with an epidural, by c-section, or adoption--should be celebrated and not feared. And if you want to go to a place where it is, check out Sheridan's blog http://thegiftofgivinglife.com/. While you're there, take a look at the book she helped write, whose button I would grab, except... well, that whole computer brain deficiency thing I've got going on.

Let's move on now to friend #2, Nikki, who is as good at birthing children as Sheridan is at teaching people how to birth them. For example, one time Nikki gave birth to twins. Then about two years later she gave birth again.

To triplets.

Because she's efficient like that. Five kids in two pregnancies gets things done pretty quick if you're looking to have a big family. Which maybe she wasn't so much, but, hey, she's sure made life fun for those kids. Even if they don't always make it fun for her

Including the one that came a few years after the triplets. If you're counting, that's three pregnancies, six kids, and four years. See what I mean when I say that ability to have children is pretty amazing? Especially when you can have so many, so quickly.

And guess what Nikki did today. She went ahead and had another baby. Just one this time. And she waited seven years. But still, pretty amazing, right?

Before she had that baby, though, she got a little training from Sheridan about how to do it. Even though she'd already done it. Three times. But it never hurts to learn a few new tricks. Like how to hypnotize a baby using Sheridan's hypnobabies tactics (still don't think I have the definition of that right). Plus Sheridan gave her these cool stickers to put on her purse, and her steering wheel, and lots of other places, to remind her to "exercise"*

And when Nikki's kids found these stickers they thought they were really cool and wondered if they were for the baby. Because, did I mention? Her boys' names all start with K.

Oh, and the new baby is a boy.

So wouldn't Kegel make a great name?

Her kids thought so.

Nikki did not.

But welcome to the world anyway Baby K (but not Kegel). You are blessed to have such a fantastic mom who entertained herself in the hospital this week-- while waiting for you to be born six weeks early--by letting one of your big sisters do this to her:

Pretty awesome mom, right? Just imagine how much fun you're going to have once you're out of that pumpkin!

* If you don't know what a Kegel is then you 1) have never given birth or 2) have some serious bladder issues if you have. Either way, you should look it up so this post will make a little more sense