So I Married A Deaf Man: I won't say it.

How many times have you been somewhere and you heard someone say something that was awkward, inappropriate or down right rude? You walk away thinking to yourself, "I can't believe they actually said that. Out loud."

Welcome to my life.

You see, we, the interpreters of the world, are the voice and ears for our clients. Most the time, I love what I do. I love connecting people.

The flip side is saying things I don't want to say. You see, we are working with not only two languages, but two cultures. Things that are funny or totally acceptable in one culture have the potential of being offensive and inappropriate in another.

When at work, where I am being paid to interpret, I am required to interpret everything: appropriate or not, embarrassing or offensive. It must be interpreted or I am not doing my job. Sometimes the translation can be softened. Many times, however, it just is what it is.

At home, it's a totally different story.

Let's be clear. My husband is not rude or offensive in the least. Not at all. He is super sweet and kind and all of that. But his humor...I love it, the Deaf community loves it, but it isn't always appreciated in the hearing culture. And other things...cultural things.... that just don't translate.

Plus there are just things that I don't want to say. 

And so, guess what. I don't. I refuse. Not often.

I simply say, "Umm, nope. I'm not going to say that. You can write it down if you want, but I won't. You can't make me."

Call me mean. Call me cold hearted. Maybe even oppressive.

That's just the kind of wife I am.

But maybe...

...if he paid me.


I thought I would share this video that totally goes along with this post. Enjoy!!

That's gonna leave a mark

It burned. Really Really bad!

It was the summer of my Seniorr year. I was on the varsity volleyball team. School hadn't started yet, but practice had.

For some reason,  I thought that it was important to have my hair curled to go to practice. Why? It's not like it was a coed team, so there was no-one to impress. I was just going to flatten it with my sweat. No, wait. Those were the days of perms. Flattening wasn't an option. 

Whatever the reason, I curled it before I went.

This particular morning, I was curling my hair in my bedroom. However, the desk that held the mirror was not close enough to the outlet so I had put the curling iron, the hot, scalding curling iron, on my chair while I changed into my shorts.

I eyed it while putting on my knee pads and telling myself, "I better move that thing or I am going to sit on it."

Well, I became distracted by something, probably a song or my image reflecting back at me. I grabbed my shoes and sat down, you guessed it, on the fiery wand of fire. It took about one second for me to realize, "Oh my heck!!! I am sitting on that curling iron!" Zoiks!!!!

Up I shot, knocking the chair and the iron across the room. I ripped the plug from the outlet, set it down and ran to the bathroom. After locking the door I stood on the toilet and checked out my wound. All I could see was a  huge red spot forming directly below my right tush.

I cried a little. Okay, a lot.

I came out of the bathroom and my mom asked me what was wrong. When I told her I'd burned myself with a curling iron, I am sure that she thought, "Why are you crying? That hurts, but tears? Really?" What she probably said was, "Ouch. That probably hurt."

"It did. I think it is really bad. Look." I pulled up my shorts and everyone's jaws hit the floor.

"What? Why are you all looking at me like that?" I asked, turning pale.

I looked again, and there was a huge white blister that was forming all across my upper leg. My parents had me sit in a cold bathtub for a few minutes. 

I sucked it up and went to practice that day, without my hair curled. It hurt like heck, let me tell you. The blister, not my pride. Okay, maybe both.

But the worst part? This was the year that they decided the volleyball team needed to wear butt-huggers...you know uniforms that look like granny underwear. So everyone and their dog got to see the nasty healing process that a deep burn goes through.

Needless to say I learned my lesson.

Never put a curling iron on a chair and think you will remember it's there.

Chances are....

...you won't. 

It's how I roll....

It's "Find My Butt Friday" over at my new blog Ooops...there goes my butt. Come join the fun!

Speaking of losing my butt, I made cinnamon rolls today.Yup, that's right. I actually baked up some yummy goodness. Well, I am assuming they are yummy.

I didn't get to eat one.

Not because I am trying to lose weight. C'mon! That's not enough to keep me away from a piece of Heaven.

Nope. The reason I didn't get to have one was because I let my two little rascals help me.

"Let me measure that."
"I want to pour that in!"
"Can I stir it, Mommy?"
"Just one little taste? Pleeeeeease?"

As wonderful as it is, and it is, it also about doubles the amount of time. Time well spent, if you ask me. Problem is, I had to work tonight and if I waited for the rolls to be done, I would have been fired. Okay, not really, but you get the idea.

See the sacrifices that we moms make. For what? So that our kids will look back with fond memories and say....

"Wow! Mom was in a really bad mood when she left."

Baby, it's cold outside

I am going to start listening to Christmas music now. Okay, yesterday. Really, this last Monday.

I just can't help myself. There are so many good songs!! Who was the meanie that decided that we have to cram all that good music listening into less than 30 days? Who?

I have a friend who doesn't listen to Christmas music until after Thanksgiving. It is prohibited. Who bans Christmas music for 11 months out of the year?

Not me. I start listening to it after Halloween.

Don't judge. If Hobby Lobby, Wal-Mart and Michael's can do it, then why not me? It's not like I'm making money listening to it. Totally not commercializing Christ's birthday in any way. If anything, I am extending my celebration of the Savior's birth.

Granted, there are a few Frostys and Sleigh Rides, Jingle Bells and Rudolphs. But the majority are uplifting and celebratory of the Savior's humble birth.

And it's the good stuff too: Carpenters, Amy Grant, Mannaheim Steamroller, Frank Sinatra, Jewel, Johnny Mathas, MoTab (Mormon Tabernacle Choir), Charlotte Churchill. Okay, there is some Mariah Carey, Josh Groban, Clay Aiken, Bare Naked Ladies. A little Martina, Faith Hill, Brad Paisley, Burl Ives, Harry Connick Jr. A bit of Hilary Weeks, Michael McLean, Point of Grace, Sarah McLachlan, and Veggie Tales.

So many songs and so little time. So why limit yourself?

So go ahead. Don't hide in your closets!! Take off the headphones and crank up the "Jingle Bells", "Silent Night"s and "Chestnuts roasting on an open fire...."

It's that time of year, people! Enjoy it while you can!


ps...Blue is my favorite Christmas color. Just a little FYI.

"Girl Fight!!!!"

I remember looking behind me and seeing the bottle of moisturizer flying toward my face....

Rewind. Rewind...To really understand this story, you have to get some background. I grew up in a home with 7 girls and one boy at the end. Needless to say there was drama. Lots of it!

I was an early bird. Not because I loved mornings, although I do. Not because it takes me a long time to get as beautiful as I am. No, I would wake up early...we are talking 5am early... so that I could get to the shower first. And the blow dryer. And the curling iron. And, sadly, even sometimes the mirror. It was worth waking at the crack of dawn to not have to wait for anyone.

Something else you need to know is that my older sister had somewhat of temper in her youth. She is now one of the kindest, sweetest, most considerate people I know. But back then, she could be a little scary if you pushed her too far.

Well, one morning I got up a little late, still earlier than everyone else, but not by much. And I, not wanting to lose my right to first-ness I hid one of the curling irons...the favorite one. My thinking, "Hey, I still was the first one up and if I, the most deserving, couldn't have it first, then no-one could." (You know, typical teenage rational)

She walks in right as I was finishing up blow drying my hair.

"Where's the curling iron?" she asks.
"I'm getting ready to use it in like 2 minutes," I reply.
"Well, I'm ready to use it now," she states, losing her patience.
"But I don't want to have to wait for you. Just wait 10 minutes and I will be done," I plead, slowly walking backwards.
"That's stupid. You aren't even ready to use it. Just give it to me or I will take it." Looking back, she has a good point. I just didn't see it then.
"No!" was my not-so brave response. 

At this point I pick up the curling iron and run for my life. She is on my heels, and I did what any selfish, helpless teenager would do. I locked my fingers around that iron, fell to the ground and started to scream for help.

She tried to pry my fingers off, but I have a freakishly strong grip. Just one of those hidden talents that comes in handy every now and then. And come in handy it did. Somehow, by some miracle, I wiggled myself free and made it across the room before I looked back.

That's when I saw it. A turquoise colored Avon face moisturizer being flung at me. It wasn't one of those soft, rubbery tubes of lotion. No. This was one of those bullet-proof, shatter-proof, use as a weapon jars.

She was a good shot, that one.

It hit me. Hard.

And it hurt. Bad.

And I cried. Loud.

And in the end, I got to curl my hair first.

Because that's what matters.

Participating in both Mama Kat and Jen Matlock's fun!

So I Married A Deaf Man: I don't dance

I have always really liked to dance. It's such a fun way to express yourself. When I was in high school, I could lead foot like nobody's business. I wasn't the best dancer, but I wasn't emabarrassing either.

Once I hit college, I was introduced to the world of country dancing. Boy, was that fun! I was thin back then and so flipping and swinging and tangling was easy and so much fun. I really enjoyed doing that throughout my college years.

Gone are those days.

Hubs doesn't dance. Can you blame him? If you can't hear the music, we do look a little spastic flopping around on the dance floor. Oh, there are times, in the privacy of our home, with our kids, he will shake his booty a little and get jiggy. But you will never see him dancing in public. There is no way!

Never.

Except for that one time when we were engaged. He was the best man at his best friends' wedding. The wedding was beautiful...except for the fact that I, by default, had to interpret the ceremony because the interpreter was so late she missed the ceremony. I blundered the last names of these two deaf friends whose last names I had never heard and believe me, they were not easy names. But I digress....

After the ceremony,  there was a dance.

The bride and groom, like Hubs, are deaf. So they would sway back and forth, with or without the music. They couldn't hear when the music had stopped. They were dancing more for their families' traditions, and smiling all the while.

Hubs and I were on the sidelines, just chatting. The father of the groom came over and gave Hubs a hard time for not asking me to dance. He practically dragged us onto the dance floor. Thankfully, it was a slow song and all we had to do was sway.

I remember thinking how Hubs must be feeling. For one thing, I was leading, and that in itself would make one want to run and hide. More importantly, though, is when you are slow dancing, both your hands are unavailable. No hands= no talking. I remember thinking he must have felt awkward and silly. He never said so, but I never wanted to make him feel that way again.

So my dancing days are over. At least with my favorite partner.

But there is still the next life...

I can just see Hubs doing the Roger Rabbit, taking down the house!

(Yes, I know the Roger Rabbit isn't cool, but it is hilarious. Don't you think?)

Do-do run run run

I run.

Well, I am not sure you can count what I do as running... But I call it running. My legs are moving faster than they do when I walk, and I breath faster, so that constitutes as running, right?

Why do I run? Because I like to sweat. Not the "walk-out-of-your-house-in-mid-July-in-Phoenix" sweat. I mean the "I-want-to-fall-down-and-die-because-I-can't-take-another-step sweat. There's just something about feeling like you are going to collapse from exhaustion that does it for me.

I have always loved to run. Okay, not true. Totally not true.

My first year to really try out running, I was in Jr High and I decided to try out cross-country. A little advice, cross country isn't for the casual runner. Oh, no. But my older sister was a state champion cross country runner. So I thought, "What the hay!" But then on my first meet I thought, "What.The. Heck!!" I wanted to cry. I think I did. In the middle of the desert where no-one else could see me.

And I spit under a rock. My grandma told me it would make the pain go away.

It didn't.

One season. That was the length of my cross-country career.

Track. Everyone likes track, right? I was in Jr High. Track translated into boys. Hours at a time with boys. I liked running short distances: short, sweet and less pain. But, again, my sister was a state champion long distance runner and my coaches must have mistaken me for her. So to the 800 I went. I hated it.

I remember running in my last track meet and my little sister coming up behind me. I could tell that she needed to pass me but didn't want to hurt my feelings. "Just pass me. I don't care." And off she went. On my last 200meters, I heard my dad cheering me on from the side. I yelled to him, "I never have to run another lap in my life after this!"

So, like I said, I haven't always liked running. But I do enjoy it now.

Maybe because, lately, I have been doing it on my treadmill. You know, where there is zero wind resistance, I can control the uphills and downhills. I am forced to keep a steady pace. I know exactly how far I've traveled and how many calories I've burned. I can watch 19 and Counting and lose track of time wondering how in the heck that mama does it!

But today I tried something a little different. I ran outside. I put on my new running shoes, styled my new ipod arm band, got my stick of gum and off I went. I decided on the whole interval approach: run 5 minutes, walk 5 minutes, then run another 5 minutes, and then walk, etc.

I was really surprised that I was able to go the 5 miles without falling over and dying. I had chosen the uphill for the first half of my journey. I was very thankful at the 20 minute mark. But I did it. And I didn't die.

One problem. I got the hiccups. And they keep showing up at random times: While drinking water. While yelling at reproaching my children. Interpreting a phone call about a dying grandmother. None of these the ideal time to hiccup.

But that's not my point.

My point is, I like to run. I like to sweat. I'd like to fit into my pre-baby jeans. And that is why....

...I run.


PS. I'm on a journey to find my cute butt at my new blog Ooops...there goes my butt.  (See above tab.) Care to join me? Find your own butt too.)