Monday, March 30, 2009

A bad mix

It was a clear night.

The air was crisp. Still.

Toilet brush in hand, he prepared.

Bleach he poured.

Chlorine. Bleach.

But I bought new cleaner, said she.

Toilet bowl cleaner.

She poured.

He brushed.

He coughed.

And coughed.

And coughed.

What is this cleaner you purchased?

Dollar tree.

Don't complain. I save money.




Can't really breath.

Wait a minute. Are you dying or something?

Call Grandma.

The nurse.

Is Tyler dying?


Call 911 now.

Ambulance arrives.

Coughing subsides.

And Rachel tells a lie.

Mr. Officer...we were cleaning the bathrooms.

Not we really. Only he.

Part of a deal we made.

So he could get laid.

Just kidding.

But that part rhymed.

So the ambulance and fire trucks left.

And she watched him breath.

And breath.

And breath.

And was glad.

Did you like my interpretive story? It's best if you're snapping your fingers rhythmically. Feel free to share at your next short story book club.

Moral of the story:
If your husband is nice enough to help with the bathrooms, don't mix ammonia based cleaning products with chlorine.

Sorry, babe.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Coming soon...

I fished....and feasted. Thanks for the comments from my less vocal commentators (and emails). I love you, and my loyal "regulars'" shout outs...

More to come. Not in the mood to post today.

Upcoming Post titles:

1. Why it's best NOT to accidentally mix chlorine cleaning products with ammonia and almost kill your husband: An ambulance story. (Don't worry, happy ending.)

2. Book review: The Strong Willed Child.

(Oreo face Lily. I'm really into summer pics lately, apparently. This one was too cute to be missed.)

Until then, I'm off to consume the box of Hostess chocolate cupcakes I have on special order from my now recovered husband on his way home from class. With a glass of milk. Kiss off, scale.


Wednesday, March 18, 2009

Perfect Day


The sun was shining.

We went walking. Had a picnic at the park. Fresh, cold egg salad, strawberries, chips, and iced Diet Dr. Pepper. Yumo.
We saw the ducks, strolled around the Marina, and enjoyed good conversation with Cas, 90% of which centered around our sadness of hearing the rumors of marital woes between Jon and Kate Plus 8.
Me n' my girls finished off the afternoon with a Dollar store binge on art and craft "keep Lily busy while I cook dinner" supplies, and a leisurely slushy slurp at Sonic.

It was a good day.

My rear cute.

Ps. Why do you, and I mean YOU, not comment ever? I know I have a fairly decent handful of people reading my blog from time to time - I've even had some random folks approach me with a kind word of interest. But, what I don't understand is why, even when I bring up topics of controversial nature, can I not get anyone to say anything? I peruse other favorite blogs to find hosts of good conversation, or even completely pointless banter. And I always seem to have something I'd like to chime in on (surprise, surprise). Am I too strong minded? Am I freaking you out? Is it boring to hear monotonous details of my life? If you don't like me, or agree with me, there is that lovely little anonymous comment option, so why not use it? I'm not angry with you, just curious.
I blog for my posterity, yes, but let's get real: I also do it because I'm hoping someone is reading it, and wanting to give a shout out back. My own little community. But I've gotta tell ya, I'm getting lonely. My kids won't care about my opinion on Nadya Suleman in 30 years as they peek into my past, so maybe I should stick to more simple family itineraries and thoughts on parenthood and keep it to my personal journal. But there's more to me than that, or so I'd like to think.
Sorry, thinking out loud, or thinking out blog I should say. To blog or not to blog, that is the question. Enough.

Hope you had a good day too.


Tuesday, March 17, 2009


I had a few other words for the homosexual producers and writer of Big Love, who crossed all bounds of self-professed "tolerance" (it's ironically funny how intolerant the gay community can act towards people who don't agree with them - not necessarily all, but certainly their most militant leaders) by choosing to bully members of the LDS faith for expressing their opinion on Prop 8 and blatantly airing sacred temple rituals in mock and inappropriate fashion on an HBO series...but I think this did a much better job:


Sunday, March 15, 2009

My language

Today the question was raised:

Are we taking good care of our spouses?

I leaned over to Tyler and sadly mumbled that he took better care of me than I did of him. I think it's true.

I'm just not the sufficiently "doting" type.

Fiercely devoted. But not doting. For me...that word care instantly brought with it an ensemble of connotative meanings that conjure pictures of the ever soft spoken, never complaining, scribbled love notes on napkins in his homemade lunch sack sort of wife.
I wish I was softer. I wish I were sweeter. I wish I were the type that receives no greater thrill than making sure he has a crisply ironed shirt every morning for work. The type that constantly searches for little cute ways to make lovely gestures of adoration.
But the truth is, I wake up grumpy. I can be atrociously stubborn, and even unfair. I'm a tally keeper. I think that if I've spent the night breastfeeding the last thing he deserves is fresh laundry or non-expired milk for his cereal. Check for me, check for him. There, we're even.

Not the nicest way to sustain a great marriage. But thankfully, due to a miraculous level of patience from him, we remain happy. I think it is because he knows my language. He knows how I love. It's not in the obvious, sentimentally expressive ways...usually.

When I love,
I'll usually cook.
I'll want you around, even if we aren't talking.
I'll obsess about your safety.
I'll ask you how you're feeling. Maybe too often.
I'll make the bed. I really like you to feel excited for the end of the day in it, with me.
I'll expect the best out of you.
I'll be interested in what you have to say.
I'll say a lot right back.
I'll make time for you.
I'll make an effort.
I'll send you naughty emails. Sort of.
I'll want to read the same books.
I'll resign myself to the fact that I'm willing to change your diapers in old age.
I'll have offspring with you. This is a biiiig deal. Mammals aren't supposed to do that with just anyone.
I'll take pride in you.
I'll allow you to take "Before" fitness photos in my skivvies. Post partum.
(What is she smiling about? Yes, she's flexing. No, you can't see the rest.)

I'll raise the aforementioned offspring. Happily.
I'll fry the bacon you bring home, and make it last.

I'll allow the distinctive line between you and me to become fuzzy. What makes you happy, will make me happy. And vice versa. As Charles Williams said,

"Love you? I am you."

That's how I love.

Thursday, March 12, 2009


Summer harvest '08 - Uncle Danny & Auntie Ali's garden

Whenever I hear
The song of a bird
Or look at the blue, blue sky
Whenever I feel
the rain on my face
Or the wind as it rushes by

Whenever I touch a velvet rose
Or walk by a lilac tree
I'm glad that I live in this beautiful world
Heavenly Father created for me

He gave me my eyes,
that I might see
The colors of butterfly wings
He gave me my ears, that I might hear
The magical sounds of things

He gave me my life, my mind, my heart
I thank him reverently
For all these creations of which I'm a part
Yes, I know Heavenly Father loves me

LDS Children's Hymn/ Lily's favorite lullaby

Singing to my children before bed has been an unexpected favorite part of being a mother. I've always loved the idea of the typical Gerber baby and Johnson &Johnson lotion commercials of mothers singing sweetly to their children, but am also realistically aware that my singing voice is comparable to a cat's screeching while in heat. It's that bad.

What came as a pleasant surprise that had escaped my self-demeaning logic was the actuality that my children would come into this world only knowing one voice: mine! And as long as I'm careful to always fast forward through any Disney singing episodes and dispose of all Mariah Carey cds throughout the house I might, just might, have a small window of opportunity to allow my "ignorance is bliss" theory to permeate the nursery during bedtime.

And so I sing, and have sung, for a long time. Quietly in the bedroom, rocking my sweet babies, wrapped up in the gratitude and awe that the peaceful pre-bedtime minutes provide. Tonight I held London. My fat, sweet, cuddly London. With her four fresh teeth and mullet hair. She held tightly onto her favorite pink blankee and I stared and marveled at her perfection.

It is a magical time of the day for us, if we can squeeze it in. And a perfect moment when I am reminded that someone really loves me too.

Monday, March 2, 2009


SuGar N SpiCe...

n' EvEryThiNg NiCe...

ThAt's WhAt litTle GiRls aRe MaDe Of.