Seared might not be strong enough of a word...

People say that there are moments in each person's life that are so emotional that, when one looks back, they can remember where they were and what they were wearing.

A few of those memories for me are:

The day Challenger exploded.

Sept. 11, 2001

The day my Grandpa died.

Thursday November 5, 2015 will forever go down as a day I will never forget; neither what happened nor what I was wearing.

What happened on Nov 5, 2015?

It started out as a normal school day. My older kids had just gotten off to school. My younger kids were piddling around getting ready, as was I.

I went into my room, shut the door and laid my clothes for the day on my bed. **

** Side note: Does anyone else think it's weird that my master bedroom door doesn't have a lock?? I mean, if ever there was a room that needed a lock.... Right? Apparently not. **

So with my clothes on the bed, I proceeded into the master bath- which, thankfully, does have a lock- and took a shower. I stepped out, dried off, put my hair in the towel and went to put on my clothes.

I opened the bathroom door and looked up at my bed, which directly faces the bathroom.

To my horror, there sat my innocent 11 year old son…

1-2-3… Eyes on ME!!!

Yup. That day will be forever seared into my memory…down to the clothes that I was NOT wearing!!

He may need counseling.

I need to get that lock!!

All tubes are NOT created equal

Hello all!

We finally had snow! Enough to get a two hour delay but not so much that it wasn't melted by the end of the day. Gotta love NM weather.

Last week, Hubs had to travel for work for 3 days. When he arrived at the hotel, he realized that he hadn't brought any toothpaste. No biggie. He ran to Wal-Mart and grabbed a new tube and a few other things and hurried back to the hotel.

Well, as he got ready for bed, he pulled out his new toothpaste and began brushing his teeth. But something didn't feel right. "Meh," he thought. ('Meh' is deaf for shrugging one's shoulders.)
"Meh," he thought, as he grabbed some water and went to bed.

But as he was brushing his teeth to leave the next morning, he knew something wasn't right. His mouth felt extremely thick and sticky. His lips began sticking to his teeth. "What the...what?" ('What the...what' is deaf for Why are my lips sticking to my teeth!')

He decided to take a closer look.

"Adhesive Gel."

You know that stuff people use to keep their dentures stuck to their gums...yeah...that is what he was using to brush his teeth. Hahahaha.

That's one way to get lock jaw.

Don't look!

"Don't look," he said as he stepped to the sliding door of the van and unzipped.

Like we wanted to look.

Two and a half hours in the car after downing 16+oz of fluid meant that he couldn't hold it any longer....not even the last 10 minutes. So to the side of the road we went. (Don't worry....we were still in the sticks.)

"Promise you won't look!" he repeated.

"I promise I will not look. This is me...not looking."

A few seconds later we hear, "Holy cow! (Giggle giggle) Look how far I can pee. (Hahaha!) Wow! That is far! Did you see that??"

So of course we all looked...you know, without looking. And let me say...that boy can pee. As in he could probably go all the way to nationals in the "Standing Man Pee" contest...if there was such a sport....(Though I wouldn't consider it a sport. Would you? I mean, how would you even practice for that? Would you need a coach?) Nevertheless, I am glad there isn't such an event.

All of us were laughing....Hubs was crying. He'd never felt so proud. Not really. He was just imagining the passing cars seeing the stream. Hilarious.

Ahhh, yes. Good, old fashioned, home grown entertainment.

See what happens when you aren't looking.

Love of my life....

I love my iphone.

Love it.

For so many reasons.

I can call. I can text. I can email.

I can bank. I can calendar. I can photograph.

I can read the news. I can read my scriptures. I can surf.

I can blog. I can map things. I can listen to and buy music.

But mostly I love my iphone because where else can you do this to your husband???

or this...

or...

...what about this...

Oh, yes.

 I love my iphone.

Suck it up!

Some people blog for money. Others blog for their posterity. Still some people are really talented and blog about it so the rest of us can feel like idiots.

Why do I blog? Because my sister told me, "You suck at blogging."

 Now, before you go and start hating her, you must know that she was right.

You see, when I first started out, I was private...as in you only read my blog if I invited you. Yes, I was exclusive. A snob. Truthfully I didn't really understand what public blogging meant. I only had 3 readers: Me (I was there reading everyday...my first follower), Hubs (who still will only read if it's about him) and my sister.

Plus I really wasn't all that interesting....in blog form. AND I only posted once every 2 or 3 weeks.

The blog wasn't all that great and I was okay with that.  

Until the word suck was used to describe it. I was not going to suck at anything.  Not totally true. If she would have told me I sucked at keeping up with laundry...no problem here. Or that I sucked at craft making...no offense taken. My fashion yup...with a capitol S.

But for whatever reason, "You suck at blogging" ignited something deep within me. I may suck at a lot of things, but blogging wasn't going to be one of them.

So I rolled up my sleeves and gall darn it I wrote. I wrote about something. And everything. And nothing. And when I felt like I wasn't getting enough attention I was good enough, I came out of the blogging closet. YUP, I went public!!!!!

And guess what? I really liked it. The more I wrote, the easier it was to express...well... me. In my way. In my voice. And people like me. You like me. (I'm not subliminal at all....you will give me all your money, you want some Diet Coke, you like me...) Two hundred of you like me enough to follow me...with your faces. That is brave.

So Sister, who I love...like a sister...Thanks! Thanks for telling me I suck.

What got you blogging?

That's just plain awesome.

We have a new tradition. It semi-started last year but became full fledged this year. We make homemade shirts for the Super Bowl. Homemade as in "going to Hobby Lobby, choosing a T-shirt and getting fabric paint" shirts...

...not to be confused with the "go Jo-Anne's, buying fabric and a pattern that you don't really understand, and spend hours and hours making a shirt that you wouldn't be caught dead wearing" homemade. 

Right.

 

So we made our shirts on Saturday night. It was a lot of fun.

Briggy got so into it. He would squirt paint, then brush it around, then squirt some more of another color. It actually ended up pretty great. We were all praises and encouragement. Lots of fun.

We woke up Sunday morning and my boys insisted on putting their shirts on before church. When it was time to get dressed, there was no taking off Briggy's shirt. "No. I am wearing this shirt." I told him he could wear it the minute he got home. "No." He suggested wearing his church shirt under his Super Bowl shirt. 

I was finally able to convince him that he could wear his shirt under his church shirt...unbuttoned. Ugh. Some fights just aren't worth fighting, I tell ya.

But all through the first hour of church I tried convincing him how great it would be to button up his shirt. He wasn't having it.

I tried one more time. "Briggy. Are you sure you don't want to button this up."

"No, Mom.Those guys," pointing to the boys passing the Sacrament, "might see my shirt and say, 'Hey! That's awesome!'"

Yes, he was really proud of his shirt.

You made me do it!

Never let your husband cut his own hair.

Just don't.

I did. He told me he was going to. At first I laughed. When I saw that he wasn't laughing with me...I swallowed and said, "Alrighty then."

He needed a strong comb. Not the strong one that we already had...the one that I use on our boys all the time. Nope, he needed a new one. Oh, and a hand mirror.

Before he started, I asked him, "Are you sure you want to do this? Do you think it is a good idea?" I used to cut his hair. I started off "Pretty Bad". Moved up to "Not good." I am now at "Could be worse." It was time for him to get professional help.

And he has. Apparently his place of choice gives him a head and shoulder massage along with a hot hand towel on his face. I should probably feel a little uncomfortable about that, right? But whatever, I was just glad it wasn't me doing the cutting anymore. Plus his hair looked great. But it was also costing $30 every 3 weeks. Those massages haircuts are expensive.

So like I said I made sure before hand this was what he wanted to do. "Yes. Yes. I know what I am doing. I can do this. It's no big deal." And with that he headed up the stairs.

Five minutes later he hollers, "I messed up!!" I walk up the stairs and into the bathroom. It was slightly uneven, but it was fixable. The problem was that instead of starting with the  #6 guard or #5 guard, he had decided on going with the #1 guard. You know, the attachment that is one step up from scalping yourself. That one.

I told him that it could be fixed. He wanted to cut the top first before he tried to finish up. So I went downstairs to help with the circus happening there...always happening there.

About 5 minutes later he stomps down the stairs fuming, scowling and all around ticked off.

"What happened? Are you okay?" I cautiously asked.

"No! I am not okay!! Look! Look at my hair. You were supposed to come fix it! And you didn't come. Now look what I did!!" he fumed. He was mad alright. At me!!

What? How? Why is it my fault? I am not the one with the clippers in my hand. If I remember correctly, I was not in favor of this arrangement. I don't remember casting one of those "Why-don't-you-try-trashing-your-hair" spells. At least not recently.

Can you believe it? Yeah...I know. I. Know.

I fixed him. His hair, that is. (Although he is fixed...so sorry...tmi...) I may or may not have left a stripe or two on the backside of his head...you know, for spite.

One thing is for sure: next time he decides to cut his hair...

...I'm outta here.


PS. I still love Hubs, short(er) hair and all.

Are you an Acapuc?

Before you read this post, you need to go visit my friend, Chawlie's blog post about Acapucs.

Raisins should never be cooked.  Never. Not ever.

Not in cookies. Not in bread. And most definitely not in cinnamon rolls.

For whatever reason, once they hit the oven they become fat and squishy and chewy and all together disgusting. The only way I can eat a raisin is if it is uncooked and covered with chocolate....because let's face it, everything is better with chocolate.

Even rabbit turds.

No, I haven't had chocolate covered rabbit turds. But my great aunt did. Good old Aunt Norma.

You see, she was a joker. She and her husband were always playing practical jokes on each other. On this particular day, she decided that she was going to take some of their rabbit droppings and cover them with chocolate and trick her husband into eating them.

Mean, right?

Once the poops were covered with melted chocolate, she filled a bowl full of these pieces of chocolaty goodness and set it on her counter. In plain sight. Where a husband walking by couldn't resist taking a handful.

Only she walked by first.

And couldn't resist.

And took a handful. (cringing) Yes, oh yes she did.

She ate them. (ugh) Knowing full well what she was doing. (stomach churning)  That would be eating the chocolate covered rabbit droppings...that she had made!!! 

I know. You can't make up stuff like this.

But then again... 

...she was not an Acapuc.

How do I say this....

This morning my two year old, Brig, snuck into bed with me. He crawled over my half dead body and plopped himself right next to my face.

I closed my eyes and had almost fallen back to sleep when I hear him say,

"How about let's not do that."

"Huh? What did you say? What are you talking about?" I asked.

"This," he said and then he closed his eyes and began breathing. "That. How about let's not do that."

"Breathing? You don't want me to breath?....(processing...it is early, remember)...Oh, you don't want me to breath on you. Is that right?" I clarified.

"Yes. That. Let's don't do that."

Polite little boy, isn't he. Except that he was in my bed, on my pillow, in my face, asking me not to breath. But other than that, he's awesome!

Wish I had a better picture of him, but Hubs uploaded then deleted all the pictures off my phone and so this is what I have to work with. But believe me, he is as sweet as that cherry dipped cone, I tell ya.

X Y Z

There is nothing more embarrassing than looking down, at the end of a long day, and realizing that you went the whole day with your fly down. And no-one even told you....

Unless you went the whole day with your fly down and your pants on backwards. 

Yeah, that's embarrassing.

Oh, and that happened today. Thankfully not to me; to my kindergartener. And the worst part? I didn't even notice it this morning before he left. I was just happy he had put on his pants without help. 
 
Chuckling to myself, I asked his teacher if she had noticed them throughout the day.

"Oh, boy. Nope. Didn't have a clue."

No worries. Once he found out, he shrugged his shoulders and continued climbing those monkey bars.

Kids are awesome!

Bearly made it

Sometimes I wish I would just not say things out loud.

You see, I love to camp. I grew up camping, every summer...a couple times actually: my family, my parents' family reunions and Girl's Camp. It is nothing new to me.

I am not sure, though, at such a young age, that I truly understood the potential danger that the wild presented. Particularly bears. No, I have never actually seen a bear while camping. I have never known anyone who was mauled by a bear. But I have heard stories. Many.

Like the lady in AZ who was attacked by a bear...twice in one night... by the same bear. Then there was my brother-in-law who had a bear sniffing around his cabin a few years ago. And let's not forget the bear that entered my sisters' camp two months ago and spent 30 minutes trying to open an empty cooler because it smelled like food.

So last week, my family had a camping reunion up in Colorado. I was very excited to see my siblings and their families. I was not excited, however, to sleep with the bears.

"Oh, the rangers haven't seen any bears in this area all season," my sisters tried to comfort me. "Yet," I would add. Still, to be on the safe side, Hubs brought his gun and slept on it every night we were there. For my sanity. Never mind that by the time I woke him, explained to him and he loaded and aimed, I may be dead...but at least I felt better.

Around 8pm the first night, right after dark, I made my way into my tent to set up the beds. And there, in my tent, was a bear!!

Just kidding.

I stepped into my tent, and there on the floor...all over the floor...was half of a Chex Mix bag...minus the bag. It was everywhere. I am not kidding.

Nothing screams, "Hey, Bear! Come eat me!! I have got the strongest, longest lasting, most potent smelling snack every made to man all over my sleeps!" like Chex Mix. To say I was frustrated would be an understatement. I didn't even buy Chex Mix. What the heck!?!

Have you ever tried cleaning that stuff up by the light of a child sized, $.99, Wal-Mart special flashlight? It was pathetic. I borrowed my brother's hand-held broom and started flinging the snack toward the door. I couldn't just fling it out the door because...hello! The bears would figure out where that stuff came from. I took me a good 30 minutes to clean it all up.

I was so annoyed. Then I shot my mouth. Unfortunately 3 of my younger children were around to hear me shooting.

"Great! This is just great. Now the bears are going to come and try to get Chex Mix. And guess where they are going to look. Right here. In this tent. Where we are sleeping. Lovely!!"

Yeah. They were scared. And worried. And now had lost all desire to sleep. "Are the bears really going to come here, Mama? What if they try to eat me? Do they like to eat people?"

"Don't worry, my little children. Mommy has it all worked out. I cleaned up the mess. We threw away the mess. If that doesn't keep the bear away...

"...Daddy has his gun."

My husband is VERY Hot

Master Cleanse.

That is what it is called.

Hubs is doing the Master Cleanse. What, exactly, is this Master Cleanse. I wish it meant that I could take the kids for a day and when I came back, my house would be squeaky clean.

I am not that lucky.

The Master Cleanse involves drinking a nasty looking concoction for 10 days. What exactly is this funk that he is putting into his body every morning for the next two weeks?

2TBS lemon juice
2 TBS maple syrup
1/10 tsp cayenne pepper
8 oz water

That will clean you out.

The first day Hubs tried it, he misunderstood exactly what was meant by 1/10 tsp cayenne pepper. He thought it meant 1-10 tsp. So the first day he put in a whole teaspoon of cayenne pepper.

He couldn't believe how hot it was. But, if it was going to clean his insides, he could handle.

On day two, he put in 1 1/2 teaspoon and I think I saw fire shooting out his eyeballs and heard fire alarms going off inside his head. After he was able to catch his breath, I asked what had happened. And he explained.

I got out our 1/8tsp and told him that 1/10 was less than that.

I always knew Hubs was hot.

I guess I never  knew just how hot.


Swing by Jen Matlock's ABC Thursday for more V posts.

What's In Your Vent?

My son, Brody, never ceases to amaze me. Today was "REALLY clean your bedroom" day. I was in his and Camden's room cleaning it all by myself helping them get things organized. He had just discovered that he and Kobe could communicate through their heater vents.

So there I am, trying to figure out which clothes are clean, and which ones are dirty while the boys are yelling through the vent to each other. Lovely!

Kobe yelled from the other room, "Can you see the light?" Brody couldn't so he called me over to the vent.

I crawl up to the vent and notice something in the vent.

 "Do you know what is in the vent?" I ask Brody.

"Yes. That is my food trash."

"Food trash?!" I ask, puzzled. I wasn't sure that I wanted to know what that meant. 

I lift off the cover. Lucky for me the heater was on and so once the metal cover was lifted, about 50 trident gum wrappers, along with random crumbs start blowing in my face.

After the cloud of ...whatever it was...settled, I saw this...

 

 Oh my!!

Note to self: Buy Brody a trash...a real food trash. 

Second note to self: Check the vents regularly!

What's in your vent??