About Nuts

Congrats on surviving through the end of the world.  I imagine that since it's only 11:45pm, I still have 15 nail-biting minutes to get through, but I'm feeling pretty confident that my 10 year old potato pearls will yet again fail to see the light of day.

In celebration of the possibility of dying, a well-connected friend and her daughter treated Emersen and I to Ballet Arizona's Nutcracker.  Who else would I want to spend my last night of human existence with than my friend and 2000 strangers?  We can all fight over gum and linty Werther's originals when we hear the asteroids starting to land.

I LOVED it.  The ballet, not the Apocalypse   Emersen liked it.  Not enough to deserve an underline, but enough that she would be willing to see it again next year ("why does the plum girl dance so long?").

It was the Nutcracker on crack (ha!) i.e. the mice threw in some Thriller moves and Mother Ginger was most definitely watching Gangum Style on his phone while waiting in the wings.  Mr. Sexy Lady would have been proud.  No joke.

Speaking of Nutcrackers, one of my most favorite family members brought this little nugget to a white elephant party.

Hillary-arious.  

Made that one up myself. 

Could you eat any nuts that came from between those legs?  I can't.

We all knew I'd fail at my countdown

Some over-zealous yahoo at Target thought it would be a clever idea to partner up with Neiman Markus.

Dear Over-Zealous Yahoo:  

Target is where I purchase my q-tips for $.20 less than Fry's, hangers for $.25 less than Big-Lots, and Rubber Maid bins for $2 less than Lowes. 

Target exists solely for the cheapskate who likes to buy the occasional purse on clearance while crossing off tampons from her list.  

I inquire this - who did Target have in mind as their target audience (that's funny) when it signed the contract to sell clothing designed by Tracy Reese?  (who btw designed this jacket, I want it I want it I want it, and will only cost me 15 plasma donations)

The frock in question

Priced at

 

Marchesa's name graces this dress

As well as her price point

No Target customer I know would ever purchase a hideous, 5 lb be-jeweled shirt for $80, or a $100 white (white!) dress for their 4 year old.  That's about 4-5 plasma donations each.

And "Hand Beaded" doesn't evoke a sense of worth; I only imagine the severely under-paid 14-year-old in Indonesia.  

I look forward to seeing the above merchandise on the clearance rack, because we both know you're not moving many of these puppies at their current pricing schedule.

Sincerely,  

Bewildered

Countdown Day 3

I'm on a roll people.

For the past 4-5ish years, our family has kicked off the holiday season by doing a bit of ornament procuring.  The kids each pick out an ornament to their liking, with the minimal condition that it may not be bigger than my outstretched hand.  The winners this year:

My children fill their gender roles so effortlessly.

When they're grown, they'll take all their ornaments with them to hang on their own trees.  My hope is that they'll remember the wonderful family memories we've created each year picking out our tree's eye-candy.  I imagine their reminiscing will go something like this:

Asher:  Hey Emma, remember when you got this ballerina ornament?

Emma: Yeah, it almost didn't satisfy mom's hand ruler requirement.  Didn't I get that at Michaels?

Asher: No, I think it was Joannes.  Michaels wasn't 50% off that week.

Emma:  Oh yeah.  But, wait, what about your tractor ornament?  I thought that was from Joannes?

Asher:  Nope, wrong again.  That was the year mom forgot to take us, and Hobby Lobby was the only store that still had ornaments in stock in February.  But your snowflake was from Michaels.

Emma:  Umm, I'm pretty sure that was from World Market.  If I remember correctly, Dad was working that night and Mom needed a mixing bowl, so we picked up our ornaments at the same time.  She had a coupon or something.

Asher:  That's right!  Isn't that the year we didn't put the tree up till Christmas Eve?

Emma:  No, that was the year she told us we'd go see the Temple lights and get hot chocolate, but we just ended up driving around a few times in our cul de sac drinking some warm capri-suns that were about to expire.

Asher: I think she had a girl's night out planned that night.  

Emma: Ah yes, the true spirit of Christmas.

Such sweet, sweet memories.

Countdown Day 2

Flee at once and go purchase yourself a box of these tanned, cheerful men-folk.

 



Upon receipt, please report back that you, as well, fell victim to consuming these stout little boys by the fist-full.  This December, let's celebrate elastic waistbands and empire shirts.

Countdown Day 1

In theory, it sounds like a superb endeavor; however, I'm acquainted with myself well enough to know that I will most likely fail, hard.

But alas, I'm giving it a go.

Hello neglected blog and 12.5 readers (.5 for the one of you that's pregnant).

For you, my sweets, is a holly-jolly get-you-in-the-mood-while-it's-87-degrees-outside countdown to Christmas (forget the hot chocolate, who's up for a Slurpee?)

Check it -

Ugly Sweater Christmas Party 2012

This baby did NOT take home the grand prize.  Surprisingly, there were attendees clothed in sweaters as awful as my own, and mine has peppermint swirls for buttons.

A recount you say?  I agree.  We're puzzled.

About my ying and his yang

Both Clint and I nervously spoke in church this past Sunday.  Clint's talk was spiritual and thoughtful.  A couple sitting in the second row sobbed.  My talk was irreverent and amusing.  A wife had to shush her husband because he was laughing so loud.   Both Clint and I had the missionaries over for dinner tonight.  Clint asked them how God's errand was going and about their general well-being.  I asked them what's the worst meal they'd ever been served, what they want to be when they grow up, Paul Ryan Yeah or Nay (Paul who? they said), and if we could play a round of guess their first name.  The visit ended either two ways - they left feeling spiritually uplifted or they left feeling refreshed by the change of pace.  Both are good feelings.  So invite us to your parties.  Clint will inspire you to finally make that change you've known you should have made a long time ago, and I'll make you feel like you're doing everything right.

    

about NPR

My unenviable children have only the sweet sounds of NPR's lulling commentary to listen to while driving with me.  

Clint's better at balancing talk radio and Top 40, and is their source for all things current.  For the 8 minutes a week the kids are alone with Clint in the car, they suck up all things Katy Perry and the like, committing to memory every verse and chorus, to later use as ammunition on the playground against the assault of "you're the loser who can't sing along with your friends cuz you don't know the words cuz you're mom's a loser too".  Unfortunately for my children, I'm the head chauffeur so NPR is their primary source of sound waves.  

And they're listening.  Sort of.  Emersen's probably learning a thing or two through osmosis, but Asher's paying attention.  While listening to All Things Considered, Asher's interest was piqued and it lead to a very enlightening, albeit controversial, exchange.

Asher: "What does "the Republicans want Obama out" mean?"

Me: "It means there's some people called the Republicans that don't want Obama to be president anymore."

Asher: "How do they make it so he can't be president anymore?"

Me: "A bunch of grown-ups get together in a room and they say "Raise your hand if you want Obama to go away" and if most of the people in the room want Obama to go away, then he does."

Asher:  "But isn't Obama the President of America?"

Me: "Yes."

Asher: "But doesn't Jesus love America and think that America is the best ever?"

Me: "Yes."

Asher:  "So does that mean that Jesus doesn't love the Republicans?"

Me: "........"

For safety reasons involving myself and family members, my response to last question will not be made public at this time.

NPR's reporting runs the gamut; some reports are preceded with disclosures about possible upcoming inappropriate material for the younger listener. 

Here is the reply I offered Asher to his question while listening at home to a streaming episode of Diane Rehm.  Tell me if you could have done any better -

Me: "Uh, hmmm, well, it's a, it's you know, um, a, uh, thing that maybe, uh, maybe when you're a little older I will, um, I can explain it to you."  





Asher's question: "Mom, what's Gay Sex?"

about free food

Deal of the Day at Sonic: 

When you order a Large Dr. Pepper, 2 Corn Dogs, a Cheeseburger, a Power-Aid Slush, and Medium Sweet Potato Tots, your order is free!  It's a $10 and change savings.  

But you must act quickly

Here's the deets- 

Starting at 9:30am, paint your daughter's ceiling.  90 minutes later, stupidly rinse out a paint tray in the gutter.  Plead to your God that the neighbor cop won't come out of her house since you're clearly breaking a law concerning the proper disposal of a chemical substance.  Swear a bit when you notice that the more hose water you spray, the more you add to the stationary pools of white water in the gutters of the two houses flanking your own.  Swear again and spend the next 20 minutes herding Benjamin Moore Dove White down the gutter towards the storm drain that looks to be 37 miles away.  You'll run out of hose before you can make much of an impact, so you'll arrive at a point where all you're doing is wasting water.  After you feel you've done all you can to shift the culpability from you to another neighbor, run inside and quickly change out of your dedicated painting apparel - very low slung since the elasticity has stretched to it's limits during both pregnancies, gray GAP yoga stretchy pants, with a 6 inch hole in the crotch, that you purchased 20 lbs ago.  On the way out the door to pick up your already waiting at the curb Kindergartner, whose asking at that very moment "why is my mommy always late, teacher? doesn't she love me?" grab your wallet since you promised the little ones lunch from Sonic.  Upon arriving, order the meal as stated above.  Notice you have $6 dollars in your wallet and no debit card (the misplaced debit card is a highly occurring event as most of your friends can attest to since you have a running tab with at least 4 of them) to pay for a bill of $10 and change.  Curse to yourself that YET AGAIN, it's looking like you'll need to drive up to the window to tell them you have no way to pay for your meal (you're no stranger to this).  Pat yourself down and say a silent prayer of gratitude that in your haste to dress, you clothed yourself in the same apparel as yesterday, which has the thin plastic form of victory in your back pocket.  At the point of sale, with your debit card between your legs, patiently wait for several minutes.  The line in back of you will be at least 6 cars deep, all waiting on you and your tots.  Panic will start to set in because you know that when you're waiting in the drive-thru 6 cars back YOU blame the gluttonous driver at the window for the delay because clearly they've ordered too much food for the the poorly staffed kitchen to quickly microwave.  After several more minutes of listening to the employee yell at thirty second intervals "How's it going on her tots?", "Her tots ready yet?", "Lady's waiting for her tots" you're now VERY aware of the drivers in the waiting cars, watching their 30 minute lunch break tick to an end.  After waiting at least 8 minutes, weak with anxiety, Sonic will finally hand you your items; you'll be too relived to notice the outstretched fingers waiting for payment - just gun the gas and drive off with your debit card still between your legs.  

Not to fret.  Hell is still a ways off.  About a mile down the road, you'll realize your folly, but continue on.  5 hours later, swing by and they'll thank you for your honesty by comping your meal.  And they'll throw in a mint.

About my happenings

Bi-annual posting coming your way.  Because I tend to ask more questions about you than I answer about myself, it seems the only insight you can glean regarding my happenings are provided by my hanging on a thread blog.  I'm like a blank canvas.  Let's color it in a little with irrevocably true information about the last 6 months - I've ran a marathon a day; I've slogged through Moby Dick and didn't skip ANY of the whaling chapters; I've learned Cantonese.  Twice. Dà Zhīfáng Sāhuǎng.

For realsies.  Our home address is a little different.  We're a few miles east of our (sniff sniff) Alameda house.  After reviewing 9 offers, we chose to sell it to an older-ish couple who both grew up in Tempe and whose family 25 years ago owned the liquor store I frequented with my mother as a wee lass and from which I 5-finger-discounted a pack of rolos.  The smuggled goods were later quietly fished out from my pants pocket where the warm summer day had turned 10 individually wrapped rolos into 1.  It was devoured in it's entirety, paper and all - the fear of chocking on aluminum wrappings and being caught completely tainting the experience.

The new homeowners won our hearts after writing a letter gushing and goo-ing at the beauty of the house.  We closed on a Thursday afternoon and by Friday morning, the Alameda estate's beauty included a stripped kitchen and several demolished walls.  The homeowners are making room for their custom ordered sink from Paris.  No joke.  Miss you orange Formica countertop.

The children fair well.  Emma's in 5th grade and Asher's in Kindergarten.  Do I have a picture of either of them on their first day of school?  No. Did I have every intention of photographing them on their second day of school and lying about when it was taken?  Yes.  Did I photograph them on their second day of school?  No, and neither any subsequent day.  They'll forgive me for the missing scrapbook page.  Wait, I don't scrapbook.  Terrible mom am I.  A mess all around.  I do have a picture of Asher doing his best impersonation of Ray Charles.  Is it PC to scrapbook a picture of Asher impersonating a blind man?  Jury's still out.