Insert Catchy Title Here

about Not Sup Sat

2011-09-29T11:37:00.000-07:00

"Not" Super Saturday will be Friday, October 21st. Check out the link and take a gander to see if something peeks your interest.

http://www.notsupersaturday.blogspot.com/

about backpacking

2011-08-02T22:04:00.000-07:00

Can we come to an agreement that camping is difficult? It's difficult and dirty and hot and cold and have I mentioned dirty and tiring and dirty. And while camping is all of those things, this past weekend we Draney's made things even more difficult by packing everything onto our backs and walking a mile away from the dedicated ipod charger that is our car.

After the exhausting mile hike up the most treacherous terrain known to man, also referred to as Horton Creek Trail 1: grade gentle, we picked the site we deemed would be most suitable for unicorn sitings...

... and a few gypsy children were spotted as well.

This gypsy girl gave a convincing modelesque pose...

...and of course man did the stupid manly stuff that man does when he's in the manly wilderness environment.

It's the poor, wincing manly-man on the bottom who came up with the grand idea to leave our DVRs and memory foam pillows. Our meals consisted of virtually weightless Mountain House dehydrated beef teriyaki, oatmeal, and a bag of crushed, dry peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Trader Joes sponsored our excursion by providing us with plenty of dehydrated fruit to snack on, as well as a carton of mush that once resembled inside-out carrot cookies that someone thought would last the trek smashed between 2 sleeping bags (all fingers point to myself). We truly lived off the land and used the creek to supply our water for cooking, washing, and re-hydrating.

We only suffered through a few injuries -
a broken toe by the 4 year old after a powerful stubbing and a thrown out back by the 34 year old manly-man after trying to escape what he claims to be a fire-breathing wasp.

I did my best to steal this baby's affections...

... and while her mother slept in until 9am(!!), the cutest baby in existence napped on my shoulder while I whispered subconscious disapproval about her mother still sleeping even though she and her brothers had been up since 6am and I would never do that to her and I would never take her backpacking if she didn't want to go and I would always give her cookies for dinner...

Asher somehow managed to become more God-like in that he suddenly became buoyant enough to walk on water...

... oh, nope, that's just a rock he's standing on which makes more sense since somehow he managed to set the world record for being tattled on for bad behavior 54.9 times in the span of 24 hours.

Good highlights you ask? I'd have to say it was the fabulous pork burrito I finished off for my friend at the Mexican restaurant we dined at on the way up to Payson. And for good measure I'll throw in the mushroom, garlic, tomato pizza we ate on the way out.

And maybe also the company and memories but don't tell Clint or Ryan I said that since they'll use it against me when I say no to the next backpacking trip.

about cheesy yearbook quotes

2011-07-11T18:18:00.000-07:00

Stay Sweet!
Don't Change!
2 Good 2 B 4-gotten!
KIT!
Have A Kick Butt Summer!
1953 wants their hat back.
Why do your lips look weird?

about losing my stuff

2011-06-23T08:28:00.000-07:00

We're going to play a little game called WHERE IS JAYLEE'S WALLET and/or KEYS and/or PHONE and/or WEDDING RING?

At any time, I'm unable locate one or more of these objects. My wedding ring comes in first place as the most sought after article. I frequently remove it to wash my hands, clean the dishes, scratch my bum bum, etc., and I place it on whatever pseudo-flat surface is within arms reach. Last week it was precariously placed on the top of the couch's arm rest for several days. A year ago, my ring went missing for several weeks and after much searching, I assumed it had fallen out of my pocket (another favorite place I keep it) in some parking lot. To my great relief, I finally found it shoved in the crease of our couch. After wards, I vowed to always know exactly where my ring was. That lasted about 9 minutes. Clint once found my ring amongst the carpet fibers on our bedroom floor and seized an opportunity to teach me a lesson. I quickly noticed it was MIA, and searched for several days, not letting on to Clint that anything was amiss, unaware that he had full knowledge of it's hidden location and was enjoying my panic. Tird.

The Second place/First loser reigning champ is my wallet. Recently, on a grocery shopping excursion, I grabbed for my wallet as I was getting out of the car, only to find it wasn't there, nor in any other of it's usual 12 spots. I figured it must have been left behind at Sunflower. Without panic, I drove back, secretly thanking the stars that I had left it at Sunflower rather than Walmart. Isn't that a terrible thing to say? I associate Sunflower with hippy-dippy, Merrel clad, curry smelling folk who wouldn't dare rock Mother Earth's boat and keep a wallet's contents for themselves. Walmart is associated more with hip-hoppy, nike clad, $5 Little Caeser's pizza take-out smelling individuals who would probably flip off Mother Earth if she unintentionally cut in front of them at a Redbox. I found my wallet in the cart I used, the cart that I had precariously positioned between 4 conjoining parking spots (I'm a lazy cart put-er away-er). Crisis averted.

I made my way back to Walmart, bought my coveted Herdez salsa (only $1.68!), and continued on to Frys. As I was getting out of the car, I noticed my phone was missing. I was fairly certain that it came into Walmart with me, and after searching it's usual 12 spots, I got in the car and drove back to Walmart. I looked for my strategically placed cart, only to find the parking lot had recently been swept. I spoke with the greeter, my checkout lady, and I backtracked my shopping path, only to come up empty handed. Customer service was a bust, suggesting that I call my phone (with what?). When I got home and had a phone, I called my cell, fully expecting to hear it ringing from some recess of the car, only to have someone answer it. Walmart's customer service was in possession of my phone and had been while I was at the store asking about it. They required that I fully explain my background image before releasing it back to me.

It's an inappropriate picture of a 4 year old?

I think I'm doomed and won't learn anything meaningful from these near misses until one time I actually come up empty handed. Any words of advice?

about sandwiches

2011-05-18T17:03:00.001-07:00

This past week, Emma's girl scout troop volunteered to prepare 100 sack lunches for distribution through the Phoenix Rescue Mission, which is an organization that serves the Phoenix homeless. Five squirrely 9 year olds got together and pb&j'ed the heck out of 200 slices of bread. After the bags were packed and the sandwiches were sufficiently squished underneath bottles of water and granola bars, I offered to drop them off to the Mission's main campus. Since Asher was going to be tagging along, I took the opportunity to explain to him what exactly we were doing and how our actions were benefiting those less fortunate. He was very interested in the fact that people can live outside rather than in a home and asked where they slept. I told him that I've seen quite a few gentlemen sleeping on park benches. I'm sure to him that sounds like the ideal situation - play at the park, sleep on the bench, and repeat. As I pulled up to the center to speak with the gate keeper, I noticed there were at least 30 men of the homeless variety milling around the gated entrance (and by gated I mean a locked barbed wire fence). Asher noticed the men as well and quickly seized an opportunity. He proceeded to take off his seat belt, roll down his window, and stick half his body out of the car to yell loudly

"WHY DON'T YOU GUYS LIVE IN A HOME?
DO YOU SLEEP ON THE SWINGS TOO?"

about Easter

2011-04-27T22:16:00.000-07:00

A comparative look between my Passover Seder and the Internet's Passover Seder

A respectable Jewish family's Seder pic lifted from Wikipedia

Elijah's cup is the understated silver goblet downstage

My Grandmother's Seder

Martha Stewart's adaptation of a Seder place setting

My Grandmother's adaptation of a Seder place setting

What Mrs. Stewart does with her Matzo crackers

What we do with ours

Emma showcasing a few of the 10 plagues - Frogs, Lice, Locusts...

and Darkness

10 minutes prior to Seder

10 minutes into Seder

11 minutes prior to Seder

11 minutes into Seder

and after all that Seder business was over, we Draney's celebrated Christ's death via Zombie Booth (the most disturbing app ever)

about customer service

2011-04-25T17:03:00.000-07:00

Are there any among you who are as irritated as I am with Hobby Lobby's method of ringing up merchandise? Hand entering prices seems antiquated, and it makes for very sloppy receipts since I have to write all over it to remind myself what I purchased since SCRAPBOOK ITEM is a bit vague. Because they don't use a barcode system, they must count every item while ringing up customers, rather than scanning each item and letting the computer do the math. I recently purchased 10 of the same item, and while I was at the cashier, we both took turns counting how many items I had. Twice I came up with the number 10, and twice he came up with the number 11. He stared silently at me, willing me to break and agree that he was correct, being that he must have had hours of special training during his orientation on how to count merchandise and since I was at least 10 years older than him, my eye sight and mind clearly was, let's just say, more far gone than his own. Needless to say, I broke and said "fine, ring it up for 11."

As most of my purchases go, days later I decided to return my 10/11 items. Lo and behold, the returns cashier counted 10 items, and proceeded to credit me for only 10 items.

Breezy Jaylee - "Oh, you only credited me for 10 items. The receipt says that I purchased 11 items, but that's only because one of your cashier's counted incorrectly."

Decently Nice Cashier - "Hmm, well, I can only credit you for the items that you're returning, which is only 10."

Ironic Jaylee - "Yes, but when the cashier was ringing them up, he and I took turns counting and I kept counting 10 and he kept counting 11, and we ultimately decided to go with his count. "

Stern Cashier - "I understand mam, but since you're only returning 10 items, I can only credit you for 10 items."

Flabbergasted Jaylee - "Why would I by 11 items? Doesn't that seem like a weird number? I know I only took 10 items from your store that day, and I was incorrectly charged for an additional item."

At this point she calls the manager over and explains the situation.

Unapologetic Manager - "Mam, we can't credit you for an item that we don't have at the time of return."

Furious Jaylee - "Look, I shop at Hobby Lobby all the time, more than I do your competitors. I understand your policy, but it was YOUR cashier's mistake, and I don't feel like I should have to pay for his mistake. Can you please credit me for that additional item, and chalk it up to good customer service?"

The managers turns to the cashier and says "Just give her the credit."

Take that Hobby Lobby!

Oh, I forgot to tell you what type of items I purchased. They were 10 sheets of scrapbook paper on sale for .05 each. Cha ching!

about real important stuff

2011-04-15T13:00:00.000-07:00

True things -

Facebook has replaced catching up with friends. Don't know if she had the baby yet? Check her page. You'll get the birthing play by play from her status updates.

The older-ly ladies at LAFitness have NO qualms with the nude female form. While in the buff, Myrtle and Gertrude had a lengthy conversation about embroidery floss.

After 20 minutes or so, your spinach and blueberry smoothie will cease to look bluish/purple and will revert to it's default color of greenish/brown.

My Iphone is much more user friendly than Clint's Droid Incredible.

I'm fascinated with Utah's culture, but would not, could not, ever live there, unless supposing I were elected Emperor of Utah.

If I were elected Emperor of Utah, I would ban the word "Anthro".

There's nothing hotter than a man in an apron holding a pile of raw meat.

When people start a sentence with "I don't mean to brag" I think, in fact, they do.

I don't know how to say no. I can barely type it. That's why I don't answer my phone.

Doritos and Tomatoes.

Being inquisitive isn't considered nosy when you're Diane Rehm.

I frequently confuse the words Entomology and Etymology.

The rebel in the white shirt must have the darnedest time finding tattoo-showcasing apparel in his town of Cedar City, UT. Cruella on his right stole his jeans from an 11 year old girl.

Passive aggressive behavior: Blech.

It's annoying when people start most of their sentences with "I heard on NPR the other day....". I never do that.

I heard on NPR the other day that Glenn was leaving Fox. Poor Glenn. No more hour long sessions standing in front of a whiteboard, sketching out a complicated diagram of the world's demise which inevitably sends me running to Costco for a 20 lb bag of rice.

And what do you know to be true?

about the saucer breast

2011-04-14T10:00:00.000-07:00

A friend recently came across the silliest nursing cover in existence.

Does "nursing cover" come to mind? All I can see (or not see since it's camouflaged) is "flying saucer".

Depending on surrounding company, I may or may not choose to use a cover while I'm nursing. With each consecutive baby, I seem to become a bit more brazen, so come my 6th kid, I won't even bother wearing a shirt. A blanket has sufficed when needed, so I've found that all the new en vogue "hooter hiders" are overkill. But I think the giant flying saucer takes the cake.

It's intended purpose, in case the picture's point didn't come across, is to be used as follows -

The website touts it's a modern bonnet, but how can it be modern when I found it's Arizona version while thrifting at an antique store?

In case you'd like to grab one of these puppies for yourself, here's the website. I promise I won't laugh too hard.

about Asher-loo

2011-04-13T14:40:00.000-07:00

Asher was recently in and out of a room where The 5th Element was viewing. Later, he was inspired to channel Leeloo, but in a butched up manner. Leeloo was certainly well represented, but somehow using mom's elastic hairbands curbed the desired butchness that even a sword and batman mask couldn't rectify.

I'm done trying to think of witty titles

2010-11-17T11:47:00.001-08:00

Today I attended a focus group study about Hallmark. I have stepped into a Hallmark store approximately 0 times, so my knowledge of Hallmark is through commercials and whatever Target decides to sell of theirs. In recent years, Hallmark has created many products apart from cards. In my focus study, we discussed several new products Hallmark will be releasing in the year to come, with a moderator present to help prompt us to give our opinion, and at least 6 Hallmark executives standing in another room watching our session through a two-way mirror. One such product demonstrated to us was a microphone that changes your voice when sung into. After our moderator sang a rousing rendition of "Dashing Through The Snow", we were asked if it were something we would consider purchasing for our families. The 5 other women who had previously been very at ease with giving their opinions suddenly became very quiet and stared at each other uncomfortably, squeaking out comments of "Ummm, I don't think so" or "It's not something I would want my kids to play with" all the while averting their eyes from the actual product. The moderator looked at me and said,

"Jaylee, what do you think about this product?"

I answered,

"It's phallic and looks like a penis."

Study groups need more people like me.

Halloween 2010

2010-11-05T15:31:00.000-07:00

FYI

2010-09-26T20:16:00.000-07:00

For all those that didn't get an email -

http://www.notsupersaturday.blogspot.com/

2010-09-02T21:55:00.000-07:00

My cell phone's voice mail greeting is completely unprofessional. I'm (slightly) embarrassed after my doctor's office, Emma's school, etc. have left voice mails because I know what they had to listen to in order to leave a message. In spite of this, I haven't changed it. My greeting is basically me saying "Hello? (long pause) Wait, say that again? (long pause) Aw, just leave a message!" It's completely believable. Every one falls for it, and some several times. I know, it's nothing original, but it's so funny to hear people's reaction in the messages they leave - laughter, frustration, sheepishness. I'll be changing it soon. It's run it's course. Any ideas? Should I use the standard, dull as rocks greeting of "Hi, you've reached Jaylee (I know you know who you're calling, but I like the sound of my own name). I can't come to the phone right now (yeah, you're going to ask me to sub for you in primary, ergo I'm screening my calls), but leave a message and I'll get right back to you (on Monday morning after I know you're not looking for a sub anymore). My last voice mail message went something like "Yeah, I don't ever remember to take my phone with me, and I have no idea how to check my voice mail messages, so just keep calling and you'll eventually get a hold of me". Accessing voice mail has become easier since I received a hand me down Iphone; checking voice mail means pressing two buttons max. Although FYI I still don't check my voice mail left on my home phone. A few nights ago, late into the evening, I had misplaced my cell phone. I called it several times and could vaguely hear it ringing from the recesses of my couch. On my final call and attempt to figure out exactly where it was hiding, I heard someone answer "Hello?". I froze because it was 11:30 at night and freak, who had I called this late and woken up? With trepidation, I answered "Hello?" back. A few anxious seconds later, I heard "Wait, say that again?". Humbleness and karma learned in one lesson.

Star Trek IS Great

2010-06-07T21:36:00.000-07:00

Recently, Emma drew Clint and I each our own picture. She placed them both under our pillows for us to find when we went to sleep. I asked her the next morning what the picture signifies. She said it's a picture of how we spend our time with her.

Here is how Clint and Emma spend their time together -

Apparently, here is how Emma and I spend our time together -

Her picture is completely inaccurate. Picard never smiles, and for most of the seasons, Worf's hair is longer.

I may the lazy parent, but at least I'm not an idiot.

Alexandria Draney

2010-05-17T21:49:00.000-07:00

Everyone needs a Christine in their lives. The Christine in my life recently learned how to reupholster, and she asked a few acquaintances if they had any furniture she could practice on. For free. I may have knocked down a few pregnant ladies while tearing home to bring her my chair.

Everyone also needs a Heather in their lives, or H² as I like to call her. That's her rapper name. Mine is J-Dawg. The Heather in my life sold me this chair for only $25.

She needed to rid her house of the chair because her newest little baby has huge, chubby, deliciously kissable cheeks, and they need the space to grow.

My plans were to reupholster the chair myself, which would have most likely resulted in this hot mess -

Rather, Christine saved the chair from it's fate, and she turned it into this -

I'm in love with my chair, Alexandria, which in turn makes me a bit protective. Only personages over the age of 22 are allowed to sit on her. And if you have gas, you're not allowed to occupy the same air space as Alexandria. Just kidding. Kind of. Her cushions are filled with pig hair, so if that deters you from plunking your bottom down, no hard feelings. It's probably for the best. And if you're wearing any kind of cotton, polyblend, or jean material, I'll have to ask you to sit elsewhere. Yeah, Christine told me that a cotton/polyblend/jean interaction with Alexandria may result in spontaneous combustion. Crazy, I know. I kind of think she's over reacting a bit, but better safe than sorry, right? Wow, it's all so confusing. I guess for arguments sake, let's just stick with the rule that if you're name doesn't start with a J and end with an aylee, you're living in couch city.

Alexandria and I have already been through so much together. Here she is with me back in 1948 -

And here she is just last night. Oh how I love her. And Doritos. And salt. It's a trifecta of love in this picture -

Christine will be teaching classes for reupholstry-inept individuals like my self. If you are interested, please leave a comment, and I'll get you in touch with her. And feel free to stop by any time to take a gander at Alexandria. But not for too long.

Stay away from 7th Ave and Indian School

2010-05-13T23:05:00.000-07:00

This is a parking spot.

This is a fabulous store that carries a wide array of vintage dresses.

This is an oil lube shop.

This is an island.

This island is supposed to deter drivers from making u-turns in the lube shop's parking lot.

This is my car stuck inside the island after I backed out and forgot I was parked next to a freakin island that was 10 feet long.

This is Jose and Jesus (not the savior kind of Jesus, the hispanic kind of Jesus). They are friends who hold hands. I think Jesus is a bit jealous of Jose's abundant hair. They both work at the lube shop.

After I said GRRRR!, I went inside the lube shop and sheepishly asked for help, and "Could someone come outside because I did something really stupid?". Jose and Jesus asked "Did you get your car stuck in the island?". Evidently, I was the second car this week, and like the 147th car since the installment of that contemptible island.

Jose and Jesus have a dedicated jack, cinder block, and spare tire devoted to helping expel idiots from the island. After a few fancy maneuvers, Jose and Jesus extracted my car.

After my many thank yous, and "I feel stupid"s, Jose picked off an oleander blossom from a bush nearby. He said "Doesn't this smell good? When you think about today, smell this blossom and don't feel stupid, feel good."

Jose, dear Jose, I just vinyl'ed your wisdom across my dining room.

Anybody getting rid of any bowls?

2010-05-06T12:23:00.000-07:00

Earlier today, a friend mentioned she was baking cookies. I said jokingly "what a good Mormon thing to do". If you were to read between the lines, you would have heard "I'm just jealous that you actually have the motivation to bake cookies for no other reason than just to bake them".

I was a dessert deprived child. My mother was a busy, working single mom, and while raising her heaven sent, well-behaved child, she was writing a Master's thesis in her spare time. If dinner was on the table, it wasn't followed up with dessert. Don't get me wrong; I didn't stare longingly at the cookie sheet while the sound of my mother's typewriter clicked in the background. I could always count on my Grandmother to provide me with baked goods, and the occasional $1 from my mom for an ice cream sandwich via the store. Eating dessert sparingly in my youth has molded me into what I am now: a salt fiend. Given my upbringing and lack of glucose enriched foods, I developed a molar-sized salt tooth. I've learned to enjoy dessert more as I've gotten older, but I don't have the unquenchable need to chase every savory dish with something sweet. With that said, I don't bake to bake. I think the last time I made cookies for that reason was back in 2004. Any baked items produced from my kitchen are linked to a cause, such as Teacher Appreciation Week chocolate chip cookie dough cupcakes which I thought were meh, and "the bananas are going bad and I can't stomach wasting food" banana bread. I think my lack of enthusiasm is also connected to the fact that I lack many of the necessary tools for baking, and I don't want to buy those tools because then I'll have more stuff and stuff drives me bonkers. So, I tend to borrow what I don't have from friends and family, which drives them bonkers (I have yet to discuss my wildly, out of control habit of borrowing that which I could easily buy; watch out for that 5-part post). Recently, my no-buy-just-borrow mentality failed me. A few days ago, I was making the cupcakes mentioned above for Emma's teacher. The bowl I was using was just that: a bowl. Not a mixing bowl, just a bowl. It was one of my larger bowls, but it's intended use is not for mixing in. I do own a proper mixing bowl. It's large, made of flexible plastic, and sufficient for my needs. But I own only one. At that moment, it was sitting on Asher's nightstand moonlighting as a throw-up bowl. Gross, I know. Do not fret future eaters of my food: that bowl is now the dedicated throw-up bowl and will be replaced post-haste. I should own two mixing bowls since the baking process usually involves separating wet and dry ingredients, and every time I bake I think "I should own two", but I bake so infrequently that it seems frivolous to own two mixing bowls. Frivolous to own TWO WHOLE mixing bowls? Yet it's not frivolous for me to own fifteen pairs of jeans. My priorities are a bit scewed. Anywho, into my small bowl went butter and sugar. I needed to cream them together, add eggs, vanilla, etc. I was attempting to bake at the wrong time of day: naptime. The walls in our house are paper thin, and Asher is a light-as-a-feather sleeper. I choose to take care of the mixing in the garage so as not to wake him. Our garage is currently full of furniture that I'm in the process of painting. The first available surface that was closest to the outlet was a desk, which had all it's drawers taken out and set on top of. Rather than removing the drawers from the desk's surface, I just shifted them towards the sides, giving me working space in the middle. I set the bowl on top of the desk and started mixing. My hand mixer has two speeds: high and sonic barrier breaking. I began to cream the ingredients, and after adding each egg one at time (placing the shells into a desk drawer, of course) the bowl's contents increased steadily and started flying out, landing all over me, the desk, it's drawers, the water heater, the ironing board, etc. The experience only increased my disdain for baking. And of course I blame the baking itself, not the fact that I only own one mixing bowl. Yet I want my grown children to fondly recall their mother in the kitchen, rolling out pie crust for her homemade apple dumplings, while wearing heels and lipstick. Currently, their memory stands at mom digging through the last two years of their Halloween candy, finding a package of sour gummy worms that aren't completely stiff, throwing it across the room, and asking them to share the package between themselves. Sad, right? But they know no different, and they LOVE when it's a dessert night, meaning they both choked down something they had a hard time eating, which roughly translated means they probably ate something healthy. Sorry kids, you're not entitled to an old Hershy's kiss after you've had pizza for dinner. I once made a goal to bake at least on Sunday nights. I failed on the first attempt. We ended up sharing a package of Runts (I gave all the bananas to Asher cuz they're blech). Maybe a pretty, red Kitchenaid will help motivate me. Does your Kitchenaid motivate you? I fear I would use it only to mix up concoctions involving tomatoes and Doritos.

The Bed That Satan Made

2010-05-02T21:30:00.000-07:00

A few months ago, I was drooling over this bed and was willing to sell my soul for something like it:

Sell my soul I did.

I happened upon a listing of an identical bed posted on Craigslist. The bed had matching lines and curves of the black vision seen above. I was giddy with the possibility of owning a similar piece. I debated the purchase for about 4.3 seconds and by the time second 5.5 rolled around, I was driving to pick it up. Satan was living in Litchfield at the time; the mileage was not a deterrent. I would have driven to Quebec at that point. Upon viewing the bed up close, I was heartbroken. The head board and foot board were two different colors of varnish (who uses varnish anymore?) and applied thicker than necessary, which had resulted in many clumpy, drippy areas. Undeterred, I set aside my disappointment and loaded the bed in my truck; I had already driven a bazillion miles and would not leave empty handed.

The bed sat in my garage for a few months. Asher was still sleeping in his crib, so I wasn't in any hurry to set it up. I was debating painting the piece or leaving it in it's current state: drippy brown goo.

I had no qualms about painting it. I've painted plenty of furniture, and this would be a breeze. But Satan doesn't do breezes. They're more like tornadoes.

I choose to paint the bed white. I wanted a color that I wouldn't have to repaint in the future. I love the sleekness of the black bed, but Asher's room is loosely based on a vintage alphabet theme. Black seemed a bit severe for that.

I rarely prime or sand any furniture before I paint it. This bed would be no different. I purchased a quart of satin white paint and got to work. I started on a spindle, but it proved to be a challenge as it was very awkward to paint. It took about an hour to paint one spindle, and I noted that the bed would probably need 3-4 coats. After waiting a few hours for the paint to dry, I began to apply the second coat, and as I brushed it on, I noticed my brush was tearing off my first coat of paint. The first coat wasn't adhering to the wood. I threw a mini tantrum, wiped off all the paint with a damp rag, and decided to prime.

After priming the entire head board, I started painting only the flat parts. I painted and painted and painted, and after I painted on about the 5th coat, the bed still looked like crap. I did a little research online and decided to shell out a few more dollars for a quart of Dunn Edwards paint. The clerk at the store promised me that the bed would look great after two coats. 3 more coats later, I threw my brush towards the heavens and stomped off to sulk and reassess the crap fest that was this bed. It sat unfinished in my dining room for a good two weeks. Each time I passed it, my hatred for it grew. But by this time, I had already invested too much time and money to give up.

I eventually decided to strip the bed of both it's paint and varnish layers, and hopefully discover that the natural wood would look decent enough on it's own. I applied stripper to a flat part of the wood. After it started to bubble, I gently started to scrape off the paint. I got a few good strokes in and was able to take off a lot of paint, but I knew I wouldn't have the patience to apply stripper, scrape, and repeat, which is what it needed. I found a guy that strips furniture professionally. I warned him of the disaster he would be seeing. As I pulled it out of the truck, he laughed. And laughed. And laughed. He apologized and explained that he had never seen so many different botched attempts on one piece of furniture. After a few days, I got a call from the laugher. Something went wrong while trying to strip the bed. The molding on top of the foot board was primarily made of plastic, and while it was soaking in the stripper tank, it melted off.

And as if that wasn't enough, the bed seemed to be made of two different types of wood, meaning the color of the head board and foot board didn't match. I think I consumed about a shaker full of salt that day.

Clint took some type of saw (who can keep track of all the names) and lopped off the top of the footboard. After some sanding, it almost (and I use that term loosely) looked passable. As far as the two different colored boards were concerned, it seemed the only coarse of action would be to paint the wood. It would be much easier now that I was starting with bare wood. I settled on painting the bed the same green that I painted Asher's nightstand. Fearing the time I would spend painting the spindles, I wised up and borrowed a paint sprayer. I purchased a quart of paint with the primer already mixed in, set up my spraying area in the backyard, and loaded up the hopper. As I was standing over the bed with my finger on the trigger, I couldn't find the nerve to start. It seemed like such a waste to paint beautiful wood. The pieces I've painted in the past all started out looking like they'd been marinated in cow manure. So, I chickened out and cleaned up my mess. While drowning my sorrows in a tub of T.J.'s pico and everything bagel chips, I devised a new plan. I would use the head board for now and store the foot board away until I was ready to paint the entire bed when Asher was older and in need of new decor. This plan required me to purchase a bed frame, and Clint figured out a way to secure the headboard to the wall. After setting it up and seeing the end result, I hated it. I hated that the end of the bed was visible while a beautiful foot board was sitting in the garage. It just looked so bare. I'm sure anyone else viewing it wouldn't think so, but I knew it's potential. I devised a new plan of attack: since the foot board had a red tone, I would stain the lighter-colored headboard mahogany, and would only apply a coat of poly to the foot board. After MANY MANY hours of sanding, I was pleased with my initial testing of stain:

We're nearing the home stretch people. After the bed was good and dry, we set it up in Asher's room. The bed comes with two rails that hook into each board. Clint layed the box spring on the railings. Turns out the minions in Satan's wood working shop thought it would be humorous to space the railings apart two inches wider than a normal bed frame. When we placed the box spring on the rails, it just fell onto the ground. I hated the bed. I wanted to chop off one of my arms just so I had something to throw at it. Clint went back to Lowes and purchased a piece of plywood the length and width of the bed, which the box spring now rests on.

And, here is Asher's bed today -

I'm pleased beyond belief with how it turned out, but with a bit more searching, I could have found something similar that wouldn't have required as much effort and money. It's my most expensive second-hand piece of furniture yet. Here's the rundown -

Bed - $40
Quart of white satin paint - $15ish
Quart of Dunn Edwards paint - $20ish
Professional stripping - $80
Quart of green paint - $15ish
Twin bed frame - $30ish
Stain - $5
Plywood - $20ish

Lesson learned.

If furniture could talk...

2010-04-20T21:54:00.000-07:00

...I think these chairs would scream.

poor pitiful Emma on her stationary horse

2010-04-19T22:53:00.000-07:00

A few years ago, Clint and I took Emma to DisneyWorld. It is hands down the happiest place on earth. I become intensely jealous when someone mentions their upcoming vacation to D-Dub. We were only able to spend 3 days total visiting the parks, which was insanely difficult given there are a total of 4 parks, and each one is about the size of Wichita.

Before leaving, I researched each park like crazy and created spreadsheets designed to help maximize our visit, listing each ride by height restriction, average wait time, proximity, etc.

If we were only able to spend 3 days at 4 parks, I felt I needed to organize and create some sort of schedule to help me capitalize on our lack of time.

However, as I was looking through pictures of our vacation, it appears that I spent a large percentage of my time at the happiest place on earth planning how I was going to squeeze out every last ounce of enjoyment I could have whilst visiting the happiest place on earth.

Are you seeing the pattern? For most of our vacation, I was obsessively checking and cross referencing all of my printed out spreadsheets and maps, and I failed to look up for pictures, parades, singing wooden puppets, etc.

The irony isn't lost on me. By the middle of the second day, I realized my folly, and I found that I could enjoy myself while walking without purpose and living in indecision.

I did, however, meet one goal I set for myself before our trip: I ate in EVERY country at Epcot.

Nuggets for you

2010-02-28T22:04:00.000-08:00

In case you want to know how to jimmy rig your icing syringe if you've misplaced the piece that affixes the tip to the tube -

Strapping tape: good for sending packages and pastry decorating.

In case you're on the fence as what to cook for dessert at a dinner party -

Rancid Blackberry Cupcakes: Who knew flour went bad? And I mean it went Ted Bundy bad.

On another note, why must everything I cook for potlucks be some new-fangled recipe and prefaced with "now, this is the first time that I've made this, so I'm not sure how it tastes..."? Why can't I bring a 9x13 glass casserole dish filled with enchiladas made with 7 cans of cream of chicken soup, and feel content with my contribution? Beware you potluck inviters: I will no longer be bringing any dishes that require ingredients that can't be purchased at ghetto Fry's. And Sunflower. And Trader Joe's. And Whole Foods because they have exotic salt.

Funny story: Last spring, as I was leaving a friend's potluck, I declared to a watchful crowd "I decided that the origin of potluck means that everyone brings a pot of food and you're lucky if it tastes good." I then turned on my heal and left. Beware you potluck inviters: I no longer practice gracious exits and I'll probably be saying adieu out of the sides of my mouth because my size 9 1/2 foot will be occupying most of it's space.

When you fail to plan

2010-02-14T20:52:00.000-08:00

My contribution: about 4 hours of a Thursday night.

Emma's contribution:

From Fugly to Fab

2010-02-10T21:49:00.000-08:00

I think all those blogging "Teach Me Tuesdays" and "Thankful Thursdays" etc. are a bit cheesy. I'm dubbing today the "I ate too many pita chips, nothing good on tv, stupid knee won't bend, cupcake is yelling at me to eat it, already ate a cupcake today, don't need to eat another cupcake, cupcake starts crying, don't want to give cupcake self-esteem complex, eat cupcake, eat salty pita chip to balance out taste-buds, eat more pita chips because you forgot how yummy pita chips are, decide to blog, got nothing to say, post a picture of some version of progress being made in your life albeit this particular progress took place 6 months ago but you don't think anyone would agree that 'eating the last cupcake so you can wash the tupperware it was housed in', or 'eating all the pita chips so you can trash the bag to clear up space in your pantry for more pita chips' could be called progress Wednesday".

How about "Lose you readers Wednesday"?

This chair is part of a set that I found at Qcumberz. I slapped on some oil-based paint and stapled fabric over the existing mess of tacky burlap. It's previous owner was a bit heavy-handed with the sandpaper. They're as uncomfortable to sit in as they look.

Before:

After:

Stay tuned for "Thankful for stretchy underwear Thursday".

I had to sit this one out. Blasted tumor!

2010-02-03T12:32:00.000-08:00

There is fun to be had, but you must hurry. Arizona snow is fleeting.

Get started - this took about 8 weeks of preperation

2010-01-24T20:39:00.000-08:00

I received a few compliments on my hair this morning while I was at church. I thought I would follow up by giving a tutorial.

I'm no professional on self portraits. I didn't even think it through enough to pull the shower curtain closed.

Step 1 - Grow a tumor in your knee, stand up, see a doctor, and get surgery.

Step 2 - Decide the days of caring about your appearance are officially over until your walking abilities aren't hampered.

Step 3 - Obtain a husband who travels quite a bit.

Step 4 - Wash your hair two days before you plan to wear this hairstyle. Don't blowdry or straighten it. Let its natural frizz do its thing.

Step 5 - Host a friend's birthday get together that same night. Yap for 8 hours straight and finally kick the last 3 remaining women out of your house at 3:00am.

Step 6 - Wake up after little sleep and decide you have no energy or time to take care of the frizz nest sitting atop your head. Put a hat on and wear it all day long, no matter how itchy it starts to get.

Step 7 - Stay up late that night and watch Tess of the Dubervilles, which will take you forever to get through because you have to continuously rewind the DVD since you can't quite understand what they're saying through their heavy English accents (no subtitles were available).

Step 8 - Wake up late the next morning and realize you have no time to wash, blow dry, or straighten your hat-matted, frizz-nested hair.

Step 9 - Bunch your hair up into a funked up bun, bobby pin it in place, and stare in amazement at the ladies who said they liked your hair.

Emma asked me why I was taking pictures of my gray hair. I sat her down for an impromptu lesson on how genetics work. She'll curse my name when she's about 30.

What my garden would sing were it British

2010-01-24T20:33:00.000-08:00

The Tomatoes are Dead!

Long Live the Broccoli!

Update

2010-01-24T20:32:00.000-08:00

Unfortunately, instead of meeting my long lost twin, I was introduced to a large celled tumor of the tendon sheath. My healing has been slow going. I'm pain free at this point, but I still can't bend my knee and frequently walk with a cane. A family member had a walker on hand and brought it over for me to use. Pre-surgery, I vehemently swore I would never have a need for it. Post-surgery, I sheepishly swallowed my pride and have used it quite a bit in the privacy of my home. This experience has been both physically and emotionally draining. Currently, my knee is calling the shots and it's very humbling. I've tried to retain some semblance of a normal life. Recently, the chickens were out of water, and rather than calling my neighbor over to take care of it, I took care of it myself. What should have taken 3 minutes for any able bodied individual took me 20. It was a ridiculous sight to say the least. I've been able to help a few of my friends fill their spiritual cups with the service they've provided to me. Dinners, books, flowers, movies, visits, phone calls, etc were a constant presence in my house for the two weeks following my surgery. My dearest friends were able to feast upon the sight of Jaylee sans makeup. It's a very rare sight, akin to the rumored to exist Ivory-Billed Woodpecker. Thankfully, emotions and physical abilities seem to be moving towards the positive. I start physical therapy tomorrow. I was hopeful I could skip out on that aspect of most knee recoveries, but it seems I am not able to control that either. I asked my doctor to promise me that my knee would eventually recover. He promised, and apparently I need someone to yell at me, call me a baby, and force me to bend my knee for him to make good on his promise.

Wish me luck...

2010-01-04T16:04:00.000-08:00

It has been confirmed that an orthopedic surgeon will be slicing my epidermis open sometime around 11am this Thursday. It will start out arthroscopicly, and most likely end with a nice big scar sized to the dimensions of the object he is removing from my leg. I googled my doctor in hopes of finding rave reviews, but found nothing out of the ordinary, except that he donated $1000 to the McCain campaign. It's up to you whether that's a deal breaker or not. Here's hoping that the mystery object he'll be removing from my synovium is a roll of $20s or the long lost twin I absorbed while in utero, complete with hair and teeth.

Thank you to all those that have brought me meals, have told me they will bring me meals, have visited me, have taken the newly minted sunbeam off my hands, have given me movies to watch, have shipped me books from out of state, etc. It's very hard for me to accept help, and even harder to ask for it.

Does anybody have a better explanation I can give to those who ask what triggered my knee difficulties? It currently stands at "I was sitting on the ground at my friends house while watching a pirated version of New Moon, and I stood up". I'd prefer a version that makes me sound heroic rather than moronic.

Christmas Checklist

2009-12-27T11:59:00.000-08:00

Cute new boots I'm sure the early Nazareth(ites) would have worn had they had access to a JCPenney - CHECK!

An in-town husband (something all too rare these days), a girl (fairly more common to see than the husband), and a boy (a little too common around here if you catch my drift) - CHECK!

A Jewish blessing complete with Menorah - CHECK!

Presents under the tree - CHECK!

General merriment complete with present opening obstacles, such as being blindfolded...

wearing mittens...

having your hands tied...

or using tongs - CHECK!

A surprise present for the twins...

Ma, it's a CALCULATOR! - CHECK!

more information here:

http://www.hulu.com/watch/47613/saturday-night-live-calculator

A swollen knee that has doubled in size over the past two weeks that was thought to be a meniscus tear, then was downgraded to a capsule tear, and is now currently diagnosed as having a piece of errant cartilage that was dislodged after standing two weeks ago (yes I've been dealing with this for two weeks, and yes, all I did was stand up), and will maybe, probably, I don't know, really can't say, require surgery - CHECK!

A thankfulness that 2010 will see me much happier than I was when 2009 ended - CHECK!

Halloween '09

2009-12-01T19:04:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving Checklist

2009-11-26T18:26:00.000-08:00

Cute new shoes I'm sure the pilgrims would have worn had they had access to a Kohl's - CHECK!

A dish to bring - CHECK!

http://thepioneerwoman.com/cooking/2009/06/the-best-spinach-salad-ever/

An in-town husband - CHECK!

A superhero/clown/lasso wielding cowboy - CHECK!

An 8 year old - CHECK!

Skewed depth perception due to a scratched cornea - CHECK!

An empathetic family - CHECK!

My very own "Mad Eye" Moody eyeball - CHECK!

A thankfulness that by Sunday I will have stopped putting my pants on backwards and running into walls - CHECK!

Grab a pair of pencils and start jammin

2009-11-21T07:47:00.000-08:00

Asher's favorite YouTube video -

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_mR0tzt9XaM

Anybody got a sharp ax I can flash around?

2009-11-19T19:16:00.000-08:00

Our stupid, worthless chickens have currently taken a hiatus from laying eggs. For whatever reason, the colder climate has them convinced they're entitled to some sort of sabbatical one gets after earning tenure. Time outs aren't working, nor are my stern looks. However, they have been molting for the past few weeks and have generously left their feathers strewn about the pen. Rather than being mortified by their appearance and hanging their beaks in shame, they prance around and mockingly suggest that I use their feathers to stuff a pillow for my sissy head. I guess laying eggs while exposed to the harsh Arizona climate somehow makes them hard-core and I'm some sort of house-dwelling mamby pants. I've decided to put the food dish on top of their coop. I will very much enjoy watching them flap their useless wings in an attempt to reach their daily rations - a perfect reminder that poultry = pathetic.

It's as if women's lib never exsisted

2009-11-08T20:45:00.000-08:00

As I was driving down Mill Avenue yesterday morning, I came upon a sea of pink-shirted individuals with catchy phrases written across their chestical area:

SAVE THE TATAS!

I KNEAD MY KNOCKERS!

When did this happen? When did it become socially acceptable to refer to your cantaloupes as anything other than breasts? I'm at odds as to whether I think it's a very creative way to peak interest in the safety of my num nums, or a dumbed down solution to raise money in the name of milk jug research. All I know is that badoinkie cancer is serious business.

Giving Away

2009-08-20T19:10:00.000-07:00

There are currently a few crafty items in my house that I've no use for. After dispersing what I can amongst friends, I've still got some left over items that are cluttering my home and mind. If you'd like any, please leave a comment letting me know which item(s) you'd like, and next week I'll randomly pick a number and make known who the lucky beneficiaries are. If you live out of state, I'd be happy to mail them to you free of charge (seriously, you're doing me a favor by taking them) unless you live in Zanzibar or something. We'll have to talk in that case. If I'm freaky enough to have lurkers, feel free to de-lurk.

I have two sets of Advent Christmas Stockings in various Christmas paper. Last year, every morning from Dec 1 to Dec 24, Emma pulled one off of a ribbon. On the back of each stocking, I had written an activity for us to do that evening (write letters to Santa, decorate the tree, etc). I'll provide you with the paper stockings, a list of activity ideas, and a set of mini clothespins.

This is my set from last year to give you an idea of how they look hung.

I have the VINYL ONLY for this board. I can give you instructions on how the board was completed if you plan on making one. You could always just stick the vinyl on the wall above where you hang your stockings.

1 FAMILY set of photo holder binder clips

1 FRIEND set of photo binder clips

1 cute picture of Emma as a baby

I have two sets of these laminated babies. They're perfect for little hands to flip through after you've exhausted your supply of fishy crackers on Sundays. I think there's about fifty different ads in each set. Each card is 4x6 (don't quote me on that).

Back to...

2009-08-11T14:44:00.000-07:00

...having to leave the house no later than 8:28am in order to make it on time.

...eating a banana and toast in the car on the way.

...praying that I catch the green arrow to turn left.

...embarrassing encounters (like, say, being pulled over for speeding) with other adults that include me bra-less, wearing Clint's size 11 running shoes because they were the closest thing to the door.

...embarrassing encounters (like, say, running into the back of someone's car) with other adults that include me bra-less, shoe-less because there were no shoes close to the door.

...frantic searches for my sunglasses to hide the mascara smudges around my eyes.

...school.

I've got to get at least one post in for July

2009-07-31T22:03:00.000-07:00

A crafty friend of mine decided our today would be much better spent channeling the urban, uber-hip spirit we both have in our souls, the spirit we sometimes feel trying to claw her way up from underneath the pile of crushed Cheerios and dried-out markers. It takes a huge incentive for me to warrant skipping Asher's nap (I paid dearly for it tonight), but escaping the suburban storefronts in lieu of eclectically painted exteriors was incentive enough. Regardless of the fact that our quasi adventure took place in a minivan (my zippy red don'teverwanttotradeitinforaminvan civic would have aided in our guise, but alas, with four children between the both of us, it was a necessary evil, if evil is considered having rear air conditioning and plenty of leg room), I think we played it off well. Our first stop was Smeeks candy shop located in downtown Phoenix.

(Photo not courtesy of me. I hope that's all the copyright lingo necessary)

It's a super-duper cute little store filled with all the vintage inspired goodies your heart could wish for. Before entering the store, my uber-hip friend (we gave ourselves new personalities for the day and uber-hip sounded better than craftily-hippy) listed the rules to her children (no touching, no begging, basically don't act you age), and I lazily said "Draney children, ditto", and if all the rules were met, we would reward them with a trip to Urban Cookies. It's sometimes all about what gets you through the experience, and rewarding good behavior at a candy shop with the candy that you bought from the candy shop didn't occur to us. Or, we just really wanted some cookies that were urban. The rules were broken (they acted their age, the little heathens), but not visiting Urban Cookies would have nixed all our urbanitedness that we'd been so carefully nurturing all day. While we hip moms dined on gourmet cupcakes, our little ones quickly ate their ice cream sandwiches before they melted. When asked if they were happy with the day's events, one of the little ones responded, as ice cream was running down their arms, that "this was not a good idea". Oh well. At least we adults felt like our urber-hip spirits were smiling, and I think mine was enjoying the rear air in the minivan as well. And hey, it turns out that the necessary evil of taking the minivan was kismet, because what urban mom experience doesn't include a drive by browsing of the furniture located in the parking lot of an antique store? Browsing quickly turned to buying, and my totally cute vintage bookshelf would not have fit in my waytoosmallbutstillnotgettingaminivan civic's trunk. We ended our uber-hip, SOCIETY'S RULES SUCK! AND WE WILL NOT CONFORM TO YOUR STEREOTYPES! day by sitting on the floor of my crafty friend's sewing room, making yo yos so that I can make a pillow. For now, suburban spirit is grateful she's back, and smiling at me as I made two different dinners tonight out of leftovers. She also gave me a high five when I graciously let me husband leave me home alone on a Friday night, with an overly tired, screaming 3 year old, so that he could shop for power tools. See you tomorrow at Target. (oh, she just patted my bum)

What we do

2009-06-30T14:26:00.000-07:00

Oh sure, while camping, I could fill my time with nature hikes, bug collecting, star gazing, etc., but have you met me? This is what I do.

And sure, you can bring different activities for the kids to occupy themselves with, things to keep their little hands busy, but have you met our kids? This is what they did. With a brand new croquet set.

Emma was dedicated to having a picnic of tree sap.

And, since we don't drink, we try to find other recreational activities to fill our time with.

Okay, okay, you can call off PETA. It's not like I swatted a fly or something. Geez people, what kind of a monster do you think I am? We were aiming for the tree on the left. And if not, so what? It's not like we were sling-shotting water balloons towards them. It was, uh, big balls of grass and other stuff, you know, like some leftover alfalfa and corn from our lunch. The woods aren't really known for having much vegetation, so, you know, we thought we'd help the poor guys out. Come on, they wouldn't stop staring at us. It was starting to bug.

*Disclaimer: NO ANIMALS WERE HARMED DURING THE MAKING OF THIS POST! *

I know. You can't get over the shock. But I promise the cows are alive and well and continuing to produce more cow pies for other unsuspecting campers to pitch their tents on, so chilax.

Our only crime was that we saved these beauties for ourselves.

Where's the flood, Clint?

Emma's Dance Recital

2009-06-23T11:07:00.001-07:00

A few stumbles occurred, but overall it was a success. Yet again, I'm waffling as to whether she should continue taking classes. The lazy mom in me wants to keep her home, reading all afternoon.

Emma's Recital from Jaylee Draney on Vimeo.

Our 2nd Harvest

2009-06-16T15:01:00.000-07:00

Our Armenian Cucumber

You know what they say about Armenians.....

.... they have big salads.

yes, I know you can see my underoos

Asher Jack

2009-06-15T23:08:00.000-07:00

HAPPY

It's no secret that Asher was not a planned-for child. Nor is it a secret that I wasn't, shall we say, thrilled that he was going to be of the "male variety". It was a difficult pregnancy to endure, but only because I choose to make it difficult. I was a grumpy, wretched person to be around. While pregnant with Asher, I couldn't wrap my head around the fact that I would be the parent to a boy. In the last 3 or 4 generations of my family, the only men around were there by marriage, not by birth. And because I didn't grow up with an available father, I didn't learn whatever that characteristic is that encourages you to enjoy boys and all their idiosyncrasies. I couldn't get past the fact that most boys seemed to be rough, gun-loving, smelly creatures who didn't wipe their noses and had icky boy parts. But none of that mattered. Following Asher's birth, I fell in love with him, and I immediately mourned for those last/lost 9 months; 9 months that I choose to live in that miserable state. I've since learned how to parent a boy, a boy who is the epitome of boy-ness, a boy so completely opposite of his sister. When Asher was young, I fooled myself into thinking that I could replace those male tendencies with cupcake making and bird watching, but he didn't fall for it. Asher inherently seems to be able to manipulate any toy into some sort of weapon, he's loud, he's rough, he's aggressive, but he's as sweet and loving as they come. Whereas before I shunned any type of male paraphernalia i.e. shirts that said "Mommy's Little Monster", I find myself naturally adding dump trucks and tool sets to my Amazon shopping cart. Now, I can't imagine life any other way.

They sure are pretty though

2009-05-24T23:47:00.000-07:00

Our 1st harvest.

Too bad radishes taste like crap and dirt.

He looks a little tall, don't you think?

2009-05-01T23:57:00.000-07:00

Ahhh, how sweet. Clint and Asher are husking corn together.

I love it when the both of them bond over woman's work.

It's nice to see my husband partake in learning activities with the kids. If I were not around, say, on account of my brain tumor reoccurring, I'm confident that Clint would provide the kids with a loving, nurturing, and most importantly, safe environment.

Or maybe just an environment...

...where grilled corn is the only thing for dinner.

I guess I can never die.

It's just all too much, people, really

2009-04-28T16:47:00.001-07:00

Seriously guys, it's more than I can handle.

I'm on the in with way too many famous people. It's hard for me to keep up with all the Facebook friendship requests, emails, check the box yes or no if you want to be my friend letters, phone calls, etc. I need to start implementing some type of lottery system since the number of celebs flocking to my doorstep is more than I can handle.

Wait a second. You question me? You question the feasibility that I have many illustrious acquaintances? Do you need a breakdown, a play by play, a bullet pointed presentation?

---- Well, firstly, I'm a descendant of Mary, Queen of Scots, which practically makes me modern day royalty. If the Scottish government still recognized their royal family, I would be, like, 2,745th in line to the throne. I bet that's closer than you, you measly commoner.

Seriously, the resemblance is uncanny. If she were alive today, we'd be sharing ruffs and doing each others hair.

---- Secondly, long ago, I had a deep, meaningful relationship with David Hernandez from American Idol.

"David Hernan-who?" you ask.

He was on American Idol, season I have no idea, and he made it through, like, two cuts or something. He has some night club gig here in town where they serve fancy stuff like Margaritas and Mohitos, and he has his own Wikipedia page. You know you've made it big when you're on Wikipedia. Not just anyone can post on Wikipedia. Or anyone can. I can't remember how that works. For the sake of my argument, only cool people are on Wikipedia. Anydoodle, the several times David and I spoke while working on opposite sides of the floor at Chase Bank were some of the most intense, deep conversations I've ever had. We actually made eye contact, if you can believe it. Three distinct encounters are burned into my subconscious:

"Jaylee," David said, excitedly. "Do you have any paper?"

"Yes," I answered.

"Jaylee," David said, provocatively. "The bathroom has no toilet paper. Can you call maintenance?"

"Yes," I answered.

"Jaylee," David said, earth-shatteringly. "The paper you provided gave me a paper cut. Do you have a band-aid you'rehotdoyouwanttogooutwithme?"

"Yes," I answered.

All the photographer had to say was "Think about all the paper clips Jaylee has given you," and then he snapped this shot. Is there nothing sexier than a man's armpit hair? I would venture to say there's not.

Come on people? How much more proof do you need?

---- Thirdly, and I'm not sure what the draw is, American Idol alums seem to be lining up outside my door (of the building I go to church at). I know you know (even though I didn't know) who David Archuleta is. Well, and you may want to sit down for this, David actually SAT THROUGH AN ENTIRE SACRAMENT MEETING IN OUR WARD! He was sitting right in back of me, I'm sure the entire time looking at my hair. I'm thankful I remembered to rinse and repeat that morning. He came, we dined on bread and water together, and then unfortunately he had to leave before the teenage girls flocked to him for an autographed picture of me. He promised that he would remember our brief hour together; there's a reason his song is named Crush.

---- Fourthly, I'm not just famous amongst the celebrities. I also have many politicians in my back pocket. I once ate breakfast in the booth next to Tempe Mayor Hugh Hallman, and the mayor of Honolulu almost came to our ward for church. Did you hear that? ALMOST CAME TO OUR WARD FOR CHURCH! That's closer than you've ever gotten to churching with Honolulu Mayor What'sHisName.

---- Fifthly, look who I'm bestest friends with in the whole wide world. MybestfriendsAprilandRyanSauerarefamous. That's right, my closest friends on the entire Mother Earth are featured in the May issue of Phoenix Home and Garden, which like, everybody subscribes to, right? April and I are tight. We're like this (I'm crossing my fingers right now). She recently asked me to bake her two loaves of banana bread. Not one, but two! How lucky am I? We've painted each others toenails and pillow fought in our underwear (wait....have I crossed over into Ryan's fantasies?), and she recently left her son's shoes at my house.

That's how BFF we are. She actually trusts me to care for her son's shoes. They'll be up on Ebay in a few days if you want to bid. Under my advice and direction, they've started a blog to showcase their many crunchy granola lifestyle choices. You can check it out here.

---- Sixthly and lastly, it's worth mentioning that my friend's therapist is best friends with Stephanie Meyer's best friend, and my aunt once dated a family member of the girl who was in Point Break and A League of Their Own. So, I practically know Keanu Reeves and Madonna. I call Stephanie, Steph.

And so ends the proof. Due to the various renowned acquaintances I have, I myself am glossy 8x10 ready. Now, who wants to be my publicist? Does anybody want my leftover banana peel?

Asher eating eggs from our chickens with a plastic fork

2009-04-22T08:40:00.000-07:00

HAPPY EARTH DAY!!

Here's to a day full of ironies.

How To Re-Do Your Coffee Table

2009-04-21T19:14:00.000-07:00

Step 1. Find a coffee table to re-do. I happened to have this one just lying around my living room. It was kismet, I tell you.

Step 2. Research the dickens out of how to refinish a coffee table.

Step 3. Compile a long list of different products to use, methods to enact, prayers to chant.

Step 4. Throw out your research because it's all too confusing and decide to just wing it.

Step 5. Sand the freak out of the coffee table.

Step 6. Don't spray on a primer coat, even thought it was suggested.

Step 7. Spray on black satin paint in long, clumpy, uneven coats.

Step 8. Let dry in between coats and do step 7 a bunch more times.

Step 9. Let dry outside while you watch bugs land on it's shiny, wet surface, and get stuck.

Step 10. Remove the bugs.

Step 11. Sand the freak out of the coffee table, only this time, have your husband do it since he is much more mindful of the aesthetic qualities needed to give it an antiquey look, or you can try it yourself like I did, screw it up, and then turn it over to your husband. It's your funeral.

Step 12. Lug the coffee table, by yourself, onto your kitchen table.

Step 13. Mix a stain with some glaze. Don't measure anything, don't try to figure out why you're mixing the two products, just do it because someone else's blog said that's what you're supposed to do.

Step 14. Slop the stain/glaze mixture unevenly over the entire table, and then just as unevenly and sloppily, wipe it off with a rag.

Step 15. Make a HUGE mess.

Step 16. Decide you'll be needing to throw this bowl out after your done.

Step 17. Kinda start to dig the way it looks.

Step 18. Complete one of the messiest, stain producing activities ever invented, without changing out of the brand new, Ann Taylor pajamas your husband purchased for you for Christmas because you just couldn't be bothered with walking the 15 feet to your bedroom to change into something more practical. You know, because lugging a coffee table 5 feet into the air by yourself is cake, but moving your arms and legs around to change your clothes just all seems like too much.

Step 19. Let dry outside while you watch bugs land onto it's shiny, wet surface, and get stuck.

Step 20. Remove the bugs.

Step 21. Haul it inside, plop your feet on it, and thrill yourself to bits that you just changed the entire look of your previously fugly coffee table.

Step 22. Look at the back of your shoes and notice they're smudged with black.

Step 23. Review your thrown out list to see what the problem may be.

Step 24. Drive to Home Depot (the one you should own by now with all the freakin money you've spent in there) and purchase a spray poly top coat.

Step 25. Spray on a poly top coat in long, clumpy, uneven coats.

Step 26. Let dry in between coats and do step #25 a bunch more times.

Step 27. Let dry outside while you watch bugs land onto it's shiny, wet surface, and get stuck.

Step 28. Remove the bugs.

Step 29. Bring it in your house, take a picture, start the blog post for it, and publish it 4 months later.

That's it. You too can re-do your coffee table in 29 easy steps. Clear as mud?

Tout petit pain, avec beurre, crème fromage, tomate, et sel

2009-03-25T23:23:00.000-07:00

It's time to share with you my all-time favorite meal. I'd like to think I invented this dish. In my short 31 years, I've eaten this meal many times, but it wasn't until I was married that I perfected it, and I am finally ready to impart it's deliciousness.

The official recipe is so aptly named tout petit pain, avec beurre, crème fromage, tomate, et sel. Please set your mouse to scroll, as I have many pictures included in this tutorial. You must follow each step carefully, so as not to disrupt the harmonious nature the ingredients have with one another.

Step 1: Toast an Everything Bagel.

In my earlier years, before my children existed to hinder my carefree nature, I embarked on a bagel tour. My travels took me to many exotic locals: Frys, Bashas, Costco, Chompies, etc. I sampled many different bagels, all subtly different, yet easily distinguishable from one another. I finally settled on the perfect brand to act as my petit pain. It had the ideal ratio of sesame seed to salt, the perfect amount of chewyness, and flawless post-toasted browning. The brand: Thomas; The store: Unlimited: The cost: You can't put a price on perfection. Please, when making this recipe, do it justice; don't buy some flimsy knockoff that will harden as soon as it's out of the toaster. Bagels from a grocery store's bakery have been sitting for days, molested by harmful tongs, and exposed to the hardening air-borne agents. At the very least, make sure you purchase bagels that have been lovingly encased in protective plastic. Chompies runs a close second, although if you purchase the Chompies brand at Costco, you must purchase 2 packages, which is too much for my little family to eat before mold begins to ravage the uneaten, helpless bagels. But I digress. Purchase what you may, but if you find you don't enjoy the dish, you have only yourself to blame.

Step 2: Butter Your Everything Bagel.

The saltier the butter, the better. If using a stick of butter, make sure it's at room temperature. Bagels are delicate flowers, and cannot withstand a pillaging knife trying to spread cold butter.

Step 3: Apply Cream Cheese

Yes, that's right. Apply cream cheese. Apply it right on top of the butter. The creamy in the cream cheese is what gives it a creamier taste. The butter in the butter is what gives it a buttier taste. Add those flavors together and all the world will open up it's marvels before your eyes. Be careful when applying the cream cheese; I suggest you use spreadable cream cheese from the tub, rather than the block. It's much easier to work with, and will do less damage to the bagel. If you must use the block because you're too lazy to go to the store to purchase the tub, you're not good enough to eat this meal, and have no business attempting to recreate this recipe, or read this blog for that matter. Click on the x in the upper right hand corner and begone with you.

Now that they've departed, continue on with your spreading. A nice even coat of cream cheese is all you need.

Step 4: Position Your Tomatoes

Roma tomatoes are the best for this recipe since they are smaller in size and one large Roma tomato, if sliced properly, will be enough to cover both pieces. I've no witty banter regarding the applying of the tomatoes, except that if you lovingly talk to them before laying them down, they may be a lot less likely to cause gastrointestinal (wow, I spelled that right on my first try (hook-ed on pa-honix work-ed for meh! If you have no idea what that means, you must listen to this) issues.

Step 5: Apply The Salt

If upon close inspection, you still can't see the salt, continue shaking.

Step 6: Cautiously Enjoy.

Confucius say "Each bite you take is one less bite you'll have to take."

Before enjoying the fruits of your labor, sit back and admire it's beauty. I usually smell it a bit to activate whatever glandular type objects I have in my mouth.

Step 7: Eat The Correct Piece

Make sure you begin by eating the top of the bagel first. The top of the bagel is the piece that has the bulk of the flavorings that give the Everything Bagel it's Everything. That way, as you're eating oh so carefully over your plate, whatever seasonings fall onto the plate can then be swiped up with the bottom/lesser seasoned/totally neglected side of the bagel.

Now, I'm not totally heartless. I have many friends that are probably saying to themselves "Jaylee, this recipe you've created and shared with me looks so tantalizing, but I'm grappling with my (depending on which friend I'm speaking of) ovo-vegeanism/lactose intolerant/ gluten deficint/hormonally challenged/just plain wierd eater, and I want to enjoy your recipe. Do you possibly have a vegan/lactose free/gluten free/hormonal free/just plain wierd version of your recipe?"

Why, yes. Yes I do.

Enjoy you freaks, and go ahead and click on the x in the upper right hand corner.

For all the others out there, be careful. I've been known to take pleasure in two servings of this baby in one sitting. It's my most favorite thing in all the many worlds to eat.

Stupid, stupid, disgusting chickens

2009-03-17T22:50:00.000-07:00

It wouldn't stop them even if they knew.

Tai Chi and me (plus a few others)

2009-03-16T16:28:00.000-07:00

To begin with, I'd like to apologize to several of my friends. They were unfortunately on the receiving end of a few of my grumblings. These grumbles occurred prior to a family vacation, about which I was very apprehensive. The next time I start complaining, please remind me that after the initial stress of planning and preparing, I will have a marvelous time. Or, just redirect me by bringing up a fabulous recipe you invented on the spot involving Doritos and tomatoes.

I was hesitant about this trip because it was going to involve camping and sand in my underwear. Had we planned a trip to the beach, and were staying in a hotel, I would have been singing the sweet song of happiness, rather than the doom and gloom of misery. My largest fear was that my kids would tire of the beach after the first day. I had a friend send me a long list of California activities in case we found ourselves with bored children and nothing to do. To my surprise, we did nothing from her list; my children wanted nothing more than to play on the beach. This was fantastic because all I wanted to do was sit on the beach and watch my children play. All was swell and enjoyable. Even the homeless lady who shared our campsite was somewhat comical. She sat in her tiny tent, listened to our conversations, and became skilled at bringing up tidbits from previous exchanges Clint and I had made to each other. She called the kids and us by our first names, without even being formally introduced. She was also very knowledgeable on how to become a state of California resident, raccoons, and resisting arrest. What I'm supposed to do with that 30 minute long awkward conversation, I'm not sure, but maybe someday it'll come in handy. She was loony, but sweet.

During the short 5 day stay, my children joyfully ran away from the waves,

and I did this.

While my child and a friend steadied each other at the onset of a wave,

I reflected on my habit of buttering both sides of my toast, wondering why it hasn't caught on.

While the children did the obligatory 'stay in one spot and let your feet sink into the sand as the wave recedes',

I perfected the Tai Chi art of sitting-stork-wears-sunglasses-with-folded-arms-and-crossed-legs.

While the children bravely let the chilly, icy waves splash on their bare, 1% fat content bodies,

I wondered how much money I would need to be offered before I would drink out of a toilet.

Holes were dug,

in which children were placed,

in which children screamed.

Sand castles were abandoned.

"The Duke" was amazingly good at surfing,

as well as amazingly good at aquatic ballet (Duclos will probably kill me for this picture, but I had to showcase my brother in law's amazing camera talents).

To change the balance towards the positive, another Duke surf pic must be displayed.

Clint also tried his hand at surfing.

Just kidding; he wishes he had a red board.

He was much better at doing this,

while I was perfecting this (again),

and the child did this.

A highlight of the vacation was the tide pools. Many an hour of gleeful screaming was spent searching for crabs, snails, sea anemones, and dodging gull poo.

The End.

I'm Well On My Way To Hemp Clothing And Smelling Like Patchouli

2009-03-08T15:53:00.000-07:00

Compost +

Fertile Dirt +

A Husband's Ripped Jeans (that unfortunately fit) +

A Bunch Of Vegetables That Look Like Lettuce +

Unhelpful Children +

Two Stupid Chickens =

My Personal Biosphere 3 Minus A Million Dollar Price Tag And The Creepy People Inside

There's nothing like the fear of a brain tumor

2009-02-24T22:14:00.001-08:00

A few weeks ago (I can't remember exactly when it was on account of the tumor hindering my memory skills), I woke up with a headache. Big deal, right? Except it was. It was a big deal because I've had a headache 0 times in my life. Or, quite possibly, I've had multiple headaches and my brain tumor is attached to the synaptic nerve that contains my headache memories.

Fine, fine. I'll settle on claiming that I had an almost brain tumor last week. Well, almost might be pushing it a bit. Maybe I could venture to call it a not quite brain tumor. Except I was pretty sure is was quite a brain tumor.

Come on, you know what I'm talking about. Whenever anything funky starts happening, something out of the ordinary, you automatically assume the worst. For me it was headache = brain tumor, and then right along side with Googling "natural ways to cure a headache", you Google "brain tumor symptoms".

Please tell me I'm not the lone person out there who jumps to ridiculous conclusions.

Here's the gist - I woke up on a Monday morning and as soon as my body was upright, my head throbbed a good 10 seconds. Then, upon standing, my head throbbed for 10 seconds. Then, after bending over to pick Asher up and standing upright again, my head throbbed for 10 seconds. So, basically, any elevation change resulted in my head throbbing for 10 seconds. It was miserable each and every time, but the pain was undetectable if I made no sudden changes of altitude. This continued for several days, of which I spent countless hours researching possible maladies that might be causing my headache. And, for those several days, I seriously went there. There being the place you go when you think you're going to die. While cooking dinner, I made a mental list of all the women in my life that would be able to care for Asher while I was in the hospital recuperating from my tumor-removal surgery. While dropping Emma off at dance class, I added "call my life insurance guy and up my policy" to my to-do list. While blow drying my hair, I decided I would make a series of videos of myself for my kids. And throughout all of this planning, my head continued to throb. Luckily, towards the evening of each day, I would feel some reprieve and my head would throb for only 3 seconds instead of the usual 10 upon an elevation change. And guess what? The #1 symptom for a brain tumor is a headache that is out of your normal pattern, one that will usually subside in the evening hours. That sealed the deal for me. I also began to notice odd behaviors. One night during the ordeal, I was typing an email and I began to miss keys, resulting in gibberish words on the screen. Before I grabbed my quill to pen my last Will and Testament, I chalked up my misplaced fingers to the lack of lighting in the room (it was midnight and the house was shut down).

After a few days of living with my brain tumor, after a stop at Whole Foods for some advice on an herbal remedy, after a day of Tylenol, and after waking up for 5 days praying each and every morning that when I sat up, my head wouldn't throb, I made a doctor's appointment. I don't advertise this much, but I never visit the doctor. The only doctor I've seen since being married is my gynecologist. I usually feel great, unless I'm sick, and then what is a doctor going to tell you? "You're sick Mrs. Draney. Gimme $20." No thanks. However, this warranted paying $20, so I sucked it up and made an appointment with Clint's D.O.

I was told it's possible I have a sinus infection that's run a muck. Over the last several months, I've been fighting a continuously itchy, stuffy nose. My face was touched and poked for signs of swelling, and apparently one of my nasal passages was puffier than the other. A course of antibiotics was administered, a course was taken, and 48 hrs later, my headache was gone. My D.O. asked me to return for a follow up appointment, which I have yet to make. I don't need to hear, "Yes, you indeed had a sinus infection, you paranoid freak. Gimme $20."

The silver lining through all this is that my headache changed my perspective. Instead of my usual daily fears of the recession turning into a depression, the next flu pandemic, or a nuclear Iran, I was focused on the fact that all I wanted was to live, and that if I could survive a brain tumor, by golly I could survive anything (except Clint losing his job, getting bird flu from my chickens, or another Hiroshima). I'm continuing to indulge in my daily routine of checking into NPR to hear what the doomsayers have to report, but I'm not as frightened now, just mildly apprehensive.

However, I'm still not convinced IT'S NOT A TUMOR (said in Arnold fashion).

Drum roll.............

2009-02-22T20:41:00.000-08:00

Your suggestions were overwhelmingly fantastic. Emma has taken to calling them Peck and Waddle, so she's going to be a bit disappointed after hearing their new names, names she's probably never even heard of. So, with much hullabaloo, I present to you

It's hard to resist Patty and Selma. I've already heard several groans when asked what I've decided, but it seems so fitting. If chickens had fingers, I'm sure mine would be smoking cigarettes underneath their coop to help alleviate the stress Asher causes them. One of these days, that racket he keeps throwing at them will hit it's target. And, we'll of course have to name the third chicken we acquire Marge, which is fitting since she'll look so out of place next to these two behemoth monsters. Tweedledee and Tweedledum were perfect middle names for my stupid chickens. Congrats to Jennifer and April. I've got a dozen eggs for the both of you.

The fruits of our labor/pocketbook (mainly Clint's)

2009-02-11T22:46:00.000-08:00

Only 843 more eggs to go until we break even.

NAME THE STUPID CHICKENS CONTEST

2009-02-10T19:14:00.001-08:00

These chickens need a name. They're not responding as well as I would have liked to Stupid 1 and Stupid 2. Since these ladies are sisters, I'm looking for names of famous sister duos, i.e. Charlotte and Emily, Mary-Kate and Ashley, etc. If I pick your suggestion, you'll not only have the honor of naming these stupid chickens, you'll get the first dozen of free range *organic eggs I pass out, personally delivered to your doorstep. If you live out of my driving range, I will instead send you a monthly update on how your namesakes are doing, as well as a photo of them in various locations around the yard (or we can just call it good with the whole "honor of naming" scenario). We'll have none of this "contest is over at midnight EST on the 17th of February 2009". The contest will conclude after you've left the perfect set of names.

*Can I still claim the chicken eggs are organic if they eat my left over Tostino's pizza rolls?

Can you keep a secret?

2009-02-05T23:31:00.000-08:00

Please don't tell his boss. If it gets out that Asher periodically wears a skirt to the office, his colleagues will poke fun at him. It's hard for Asher; the stress from pushing a lever back and forth is overwhelming, and his coping strategy manifests itself in woman's wear. He figures that sitting at a desk all day allows him the opportunity to inconspicuously wear a skirt. I've told him time and time again that he's getting dangerously close to being caught, but with the economy in the state that it is, and with the difficulty the lever has been giving him lately (I've suggested he change the batteries, but that stubborn kid won't listen to me), his apparel choices are evident that he's crying out for help. I've proposed that he quit his job and let me support him - maybe we can take another whack at potty training. Unfortunately, Asher is a man with priorities and he won't stop unless he feels he's accomplished his lever duties. In the meantime, he'll continue to cross the line between suitable toddler apparel and objectionable dress-up clothing. His coworkers know he has pirate costumes and the like; they've seen as much at their playdates. 3 year olds can be quite harsh, and until Asher succumbs to the taunts and ridicule, he'll carry on and push that lever back and forth in hopes that the train eventually gets somewhere, all the while wearing his nylon/polyester blend gingham skirt.

I didn't cry...

2009-02-05T23:20:00.000-08:00

...however, I may have sworn.

2 things: 1 important and 1 not so much

2009-01-21T19:54:00.000-08:00

1. Ghetto Fry's purchased new shopping carts. I now feel regal as I push my ranch dressing around.

2. I am currently the proud owner of this:

which will be home to this:

which started out looking like this:

The chicks were raised by my stupid chicken sister Felicia (taller chicken with the red comb in the background of the picture above - you can't miss her) who thought they were birthed from her loins, when actually, their real birth mom is back on a farm in Ohio, probably still walking around aimlessly wondering where her eggs went. You see, one day Felicia decided she didn't want to get off her nest, which in the chicken world means she was broody. It was at this time my/our mother purchased a dozen already fertilized eggs off Ebay, and upon arrival, they were placed underneath Felicia's bottom, and since Felicia is a chicken and chickens are stupid, she thought she laid them herself and has raised them from egg to animal under these false pretenses.

I visited the stupid, albeit slightly cute, chicks early on in their life. I had a cold that day, and I tried to pass it on to see if I could be cause to some type of reverse avian flu virus.

It didn't work.

So, I've decided the only way to get past my aversion to my poultry sisters is to steal their fake chicken babies.

I'm taking two of them, and am hoping to purchase a third from the chicken rescue organization (of which my mother is the chairwoman, president, and treasurer).

In a month or two, my nieces should be laying an egg a day (or it's off to the fryer with them), which, when adding in a third chicken, translates to 21 eggs per week. Our household consumes no more than 6-8 eggs per week, so I will be swimming in eggs. Since I can't stand wastefulness, I am creating an egg donation rotation list. Please comment if you would like to be added to my list, and I will let you know when to bring over your saved egg carton, which will in turn be filled with organic eggs, fresh from the fallopian tubes.

The word 'fat' is in this post 15 times

2009-01-20T19:41:00.000-08:00

I've had a lot of luck finding great recipes off blogs. Here are a few of my favorite spots -
http://www.omnomicon.com/

http://www.annies-eats.com/

http://crockpot365.blogspot.com/

http://thepioneerwoman.com/cooking/

I recently came across a blog that had recipes for all things Cafe Rio. Now, I'm not from Utah, so I haven't had much experience with the joint, but it seems to have decent food, is somewhat inexpensive, and healthy(ish). If you get the chance, go give it a whirl. One thing I really enjoy is their Pork Barbacoa salad. The above mentioned blog contained the recipe for Cafe Rio's pork. I've become aware that Cafe Rio requests their employees to sign a confidentiality agreement not to disclose their top secret recipes. It makes sense. So, what many people do is test out ingredients at home and then post some pretty dang close tasting recipes to the original. It's been a few months since I've had Cafe Rio, so I decided I would try it out (I also made the cilantro-lime rice and the creamy tomatillo dressing). The recipe called for a picnic pork roast; something I've never heard of since I don't cook pork often enough to know the different cuts. It just so happened that there was a picnic roast on sale, so I purchased the 4 lb hunk of meat and stuck it in the crock pot. I should include that I don't enjoy touching raw meat but my aversion doesn't prevent me from cutting off fat, dicing, etc. This particular roast I purchased was covered in a layer of fat. I chose not to trim it off because I had (this is where the story starts to go downhill) watched Top Chef last week and the head judge critiqued someone for removing the fat from their pork loin. Apparently, the fat gives the pork most of it's taste, so, stupid me thought "then this should be a great tasting picnic roast". According to the recipe, I was to fill the crock pot up half way with water, place the roast inside, and cook it on high for 4 hours, after which I would remove the roast, drain the water, remove the fat, add the sauce mixture, and cook on low for an additional 4 hours. So, four hours pass and I began the preparations to remove the roast and discard the water. When I lifted the lid off the crock pot, the stench of death began wafting out of the pot. I had to plug my nose with my lips (a choice few of you have seen this trick of mine) to prevent myself from gagging. I pulled the roast out, placed it on a cutting board, and began to examine what fat I would be trimming off. As I'm looking at the meat, it doesn't look like any pork underneath the fat has cooked. It's still very red, and lukewarm to the touch, which shouldn't be the case after being in a crock pot on high for 4 hours. I turned the roast over and I noticed the fat is puckering in an unusual way. I began to try to remove the fat, but my knife won't cut through it. By this time, I had to let go of my inhibitions and I began to touch it everywhere, examining the unusual, stinky fat layer. As I looked closer, I noticed the fat almost looked like it had pores on it. I lifted the fat up away from the meat a bit and I noticed that there was another layer of normal looking fat underneath the layer of unusual, stinky fat. I recoiled in disgust, realizing I had just cooked a picnic roast in my crock pot with the dead pig's skin layer still attached. This explained why the house smelled of rotting flesh, the "fat" layer was impossible to cut through (like leather), and why the meat inside hadn't cooked through the 1/4 inch layer of pig skin. At this point, it's all hands on deck; I went to work, lifting up the pigs skin and cutting away at the fat underneath, which was no small feat since the skin had to basically be rolled off as I cut away it's bottom layer. Anyway, it was gross, and it didn't cook in time for dinner that night. It was eventually cooked correctly, and I now have the yummiest shredded pork for my salad. So, to recap, picnic roasts come with the dead pig's skin attached.

Whose still hungry after reading this?

Crap Day

2009-01-15T12:35:00.000-08:00

About a year ago, I was driving Emma to school. As usual, I was running late. Emma's school is located inside a residential neighborhood. After I turned off of the main road onto the residential street, I continued driving at the same speed. It's very easy to forget to slow down. I'm still not even sure what the speed limit is in a residential neighborhood, but I was going well above it in hopes of getting her to school on time. As it turned out, I was driving 37 mph, and a lovely man on a motorcycle drove up behind me. He was parked off to the side of the street, preying on desperate, speeding mothers. I won't dispute it in court, but I plead entrapment. Anywho, I was close to Emma's school, so I continued on while he followed me. I drove into the drop off lane, and when I stopped to let Emma get out of the car, he immediately got off his bike and walked to my window. I was hoping he would at least let me pull out of the school and drive away a bit. He was immediately a jerk (don't they all seem jerky when they're pulling you over?), which caused me to become a bit defensive. I wasn't disputing the fact that I was speeding, but I asked him, "Why didn't you let me pull out of her school and away a bit so that I wouldn't be sitting here blocking other cars?".
He replied, jerkishly, "Why, are you embarrassed?".
"No," I lied, "but I would rather not be blocking other cars."
"I let you drop your kid off, didn't I?" he retorted, smugly.

He was both smug and jerkish.

So, for the next several minutes, I had to sit in the drop off lane while he filled out paperwork for my ticket. Sometime during this, he had apparently called for back-up because another lovely, smug, jerkish man drove up on a motorcycle, and engaged his cop-friend in a conversation about which long sleeved shirts work best underneath their uniform. All the while, parents where eyeing my car suspiciously, making a mental note not to set up a carpool with the mom in the red civic. So, the ticket gets issued and I'm on my way back home. Waiting for me at home was a friend who was going to watch Lost with me. I tell you this because it will matter later on in my tale. After my friend left, I checked my mail, and wouldn't you know, I had a letter addressed to me which contained a picture of me turning left through a red light. Maybe it was a good thing I got both tickets in one day - why spread out the misery when it can just be piled on me all at once? I paid my tickets, did my traffic school, and all is well. Although, I still believe the photo radar ticket was invalid. I remember getting flashed that day. Previous to my turning left, a fire truck had gone through the intersection, and they're always messing around with the traffic lights. So, the time allotted to my green arrow was half as long as normal. I tried to fight it, but it was useless.

This morning, I woke up in a strangely good mood. I'm not sure what triggered it, but I was feeling pretty swell. As I was driving through the drop off lane at Emma's school (I was shockingly on time today), I noticed a parked car, with a lovely, jerkish, smug man on his motorcycle behind it. His latest victim's car looked an awful lot like the car of the friend who was waiting at my house last year to watch Lost with me. I thought that it would be a terrible coincidence that the same cop would pull us both over, and to embarrass us by doing his job while we waited at our child's school. As I was driving through the drop off lane, I turned my head to see inside the car, and I determined it was NOT my friend's car. As I turned my head back to look straight in front of me, I found myself to be entangled in a shiny black Tahoe's bumper, or in other words, I rear-ended a guy, who I think was a doctor because his license plate said AZOBGYN. Well, wouldn't you know, the same lovely, jerkish, smug man cycled himself over to our little accident, and gave me another ticket. My great mood quickly soured. My car is still drivable, but it looks terrible. My auto body shop won't be able to get to my car till Monday, so I need to wait until then to drop it off because I'm limited as to how long I can have a rental for. I asked about the raise to my insurance rate. I was told that as long as the total damage doesn't exceed $750, there's no raise. $750 sounded doable, since it looks like just my hood needs to be replaced, and the other guy's bumper was only scratched. Well, there's a reason why I'm not an adjuster, because mine was just here and he left me with a $5,969.64 estimated cost to repair everything.

I think you have it out for me, you lovely, jerkish, smug motorcycle driver.

To My Friends

2009-01-10T11:43:00.001-08:00

When I kid around with you, that means I like you. I realize it's a very passive aggressive way to give you a compliment, but nonetheless, you should take it as such. It's something I would like to change, but it's not yet on my "Terribly Urgent Things To Change About Myself" list. I'm working on incorporating an eye wink into my delivery, but I still have some work to do on the timing.

Where should it be placed?:

wink wink Hey there, you, what are you doing? Enriching your child's life while I post on my blog? Har Har.

Hey there, you, what are you doing? wink wink Enriching your child's life while I post on my blog? Har Har.

Hey there, you, what are you doing? Enriching your child's life while I post on my blog? Har Har wink wink.

I've compiled a few recent situations I've been apart of with several of my peeps. All names have been changed to you to protect anonymity:

- When I tell you that you're to bring a snack to our girls night out so just go ahead and grab that bag of barley you have sitting on your counter, that means I think it's swell that you eat so healthy and I would like to be the kind of person who has barley sitting on her counter.

- When I call you a loser for not responding to my email about going out to sushi, that means I think you're swell and I just want to spend more time eating sushi with you.

- When I tell you that I haven't ascertained whether you indeed do canoodle with your husband, that means I think it's swell that you don't spill your entire canoodling history with your acquaintances (as I have occasionally) when the conversation inevitably rolls around to that subject.

- When I ask you, my out of state friend, "When the freak are you coming to visit?", that means I think you're swell and I just miss you. And when you say "I'm not sure. When are you coming to visit me?", it does the job.

- When I ask you not to talk too much to the girl you're sitting next to at the movie theater because I worry that you may become best friends with her and forget about me, that means I think you're swell and I that I worry you may meet someone you like better than me and you may not continue to be my best friend and you may give me back the other half to our heart shaped locket.

- When I type something like I just did, and you actually believe that I worry that someone would not be my best friend anymore, then stop reading my blog.

- When I tell you to stop reading my blog, that means I think you're swell, but you don't understand my dry sense of humor. So, please, stop reading my blog.

- When I joke with you that I should get more pea soup than everyone else, that just means I think your pea soup is swell.

- When I joke with you about all the different kitchen apparatus' (what is the plural for apparatus?) you have, that means I think it's swell you're so hip on all the different products out there.

- When I joke with you about the fact that the white elephant gift you brought probably contains a monogrammed, hand embroidered tea towel, that means I think it's swell that you are so talented, and have many enviable skills.

If I haven't gotten to you yet, don't fret. As I drive away from events, hang up the phone, or close the door after my friends leave my house, my mind immediately starts to inventory all the clarifications I need to get to.

Over and out.

Why our house will never be finished

2008-12-20T21:31:00.000-08:00

Last weekend, Clint and I painted our living room Taupe. This weekend, Clint and I repainted our living room because our walls looked like we blended up liver pate and deviled ham, took the mixture to Home Depot to color match it, and foolishly purchased two gallons of the Taupe disaster because we didn't want to waste our money on a quart of paint to use as a sample. We applied one coat on the walls and stood back as the color began to dry. It was scary ugly. In hopes we could temper the color a bit, we convinced ourselves it would look better after a 2nd coat. After a full day of painting, it began to look eerily reminiscent to the color of cat food. We've spent the last seven days complaining about how much we hate it. Too make matters worse, I mistakenly painted all of our new baseboards, crown moldings, and casings with flat paint. I'd like to apologize to our niece for missing her birthday party. I'm sorry you're related to two anal individuals who don't think through projects as well as they should, and can't seem to live (not even one more day) with the consequences of their mistakes. I hope Emma did a good job being our proxy. We, however, are covered in Behr Antique Brown, that so far, does not look like anything edible.

Thanks a bunch!

2008-12-03T20:52:00.000-08:00

Thank you Mother. Thank you for letting me invade your closet tonight. Thank you for letting me poke and prod through your wardrobe in search of church appropriate vintage dresses. Thank you for allowing me to take a few home. Thank you for not bringing up the fact that for the first 20 years of my life, I made fun of the vintage lifestyle you led. You said I would appreciate it all some day, blah blah blah. Thank you for not throwing that back in my face. You were right.

And a special thank you to my Nona's Thanksgiving stuffing, for affecting my ability to zip up my Mother's vintage dresses.

FYI

2008-12-02T19:54:00.000-08:00

A word of caution if you happen to visit me this week at home:

The matter of the economy has caused my stress level to rise to a ridiculous amount, and my mouth is paying the price. I'm struggling with a doosy of a canker sore, and my constant companion, anbesol, just isn't cutting it. It's very painful when I talk, so I've been saving my communication for only the most important of situations, like "I thought the lunchmeat was on sale for $6.99 a lb. You charged me $8" or "Clint, I'm leaving and I won't be back for 43 hrs. Good luck". So, if you would rather not hear me yell at you at the top of my lungs, then please don't touch the bananas, because I've already told the 2 year old several times to stop touching the bananas, but he continued to try to pull them apart, and right now for me, each spoken warning is accompanied by a shooting pain, and after several excruciating pleas, I finally broke down and screamed STOP TOUCHING THE FRICKIN BANANAS!, which caused the two year old to cry with fright, in turn causing me to kneel at his side and silently gesture like Lassie that I'm sorry I scared him.

Fair warning.

10am on a Tuesday Morning

2008-12-02T19:50:00.001-08:00

Asher's got it right. I can think on nothing better to do on a Tuesday morning than to study a caterpillar's act of gluttony, clutch fast to my fairy wand, and practice hopeful optimism that one day I can turn myself into a ravishing butterfly as well, all while sporting my sister's pink high heels.

This is the life.

Something I've been thinking about lately

2008-11-28T22:18:00.000-08:00

Lately, I've been feeling like I'm a lousy friend. I'm awful at nurturing relationships. I'm capable and willing, but time and ignorance prevent me. I never feel I lack for friends, which causes me to have a terrible habit of taking friendships for granted. What's the best way to show those you care about that you still value them?

Always check

2008-11-23T00:30:00.001-08:00

Tonight, I spent time with some mighty good friends. We partied hardy and hit all the hot spots of Mesa: Red Robin, Starbucks, AMC Theatres, the parking lot..... adventurers we were.

I also had the pleasure of trying a Salty Caramel Hot Chocolate from Starbucks. It was delish. My friends and I sat outside and enjoyed our beverages. After the first few sips, I commented that it had a slight coffee flavor. A friend remarked that Starbucks uses dark chocolate, which explained the bitterness I was tasting. I was surprised that none of the ladies I was with was having an aversion to the drink. Most of them have never tasted coffee, and they should have found it to be too strong a flavor. I, on the other hand, have had coffee in the distant past, and I enjoy(ed) it's taste. I remarked several more times that it had a strong coffee flavor. A friend grabbed my drink, took a whiff, and said "It's because you're drinking coffee". Other's whiffed my drink and concurred. I tried a friend's Salty Caramal Hot Chocolate, and was dismayed that it did indeed taste sweet and salty, the flavor combination I was missing in my own. I had mistakenly grabbed another's drink order, and drank half of a Grande sized White Chocolate Mocha coffee. Remember how I joked about Emma not knowing the difference between a lobster and a scorpion? I'm 31 and I mistook a cup of coffee for a cup of hot chocolate. Karma paid a visit tonight.

Salutations

2008-11-19T20:17:00.000-08:00

Helena -

You run a close 2nd to salt.
Yours is a friendship more pleasurable than snapping a crayon in half.
For you, I would sacrifice a hair coloring appointment.
You're first in line as my VP.
And if you needed the space, I'd delete 4.72 hours of tivo.
Now if that ain't love, baby..........

Happy 26th Birthday.

-Jaylee

Emersen Paris Draney

2008-11-17T20:15:00.000-08:00

My oldest is seven (and four days). I told her it's her lucky year. Not sure how so, but it seemed fitting.

TIME FLIES! is also very fitting to say. Cliche, but true.

Come hold my virtual hand as I take you on a trip down memory lane. Or, for those that had not the pleasure of my company during these times in Emma's life, it'll be a trip down the scroll bar for some pictures of a maturing Emma with interspersed anecdotes and tidbits.

On Emma's infancy - I've never been one of those moms who declares their children to be the cutest of all in existence. When your friend down the row says the exact same thing about their own children, it seems to be a moot point, right? In the spirit of keepin it real, I can honestly tell you I did not think Emma was an attractive newborn.

Is it just me, or did Emma look like a frog? Granted, it may not be a flattering picture, but she didn't grow into her looks for another 2-3 months.

This is how I remember Emma's earlier days. She only fell asleep if swaddled and in our arms. She was not not an easy baby. She was never a champion nurser or sleeper. I remember many times having to nurse her while standing and swaying from side to side, and the minute I would sit down, she would declare treason and all was lost.

The following pictures are Emma at around 6 months old. Now, I will as a dutiful mother, claim that at this age, and henceforth, she was/is beautiful.

Aren't all little girls deserving of a picture of themselves dressed in some outlandish fashion, surrounded by tulle and feathers? My mother still makes fun of me for taking this picture of her.

After Emma's first year, she began to grow into her personality and finally let up a bit and became easier to care for.

Emma at 2. This is one of my favorite pictures of her. I love how her foot is out in front of her, kicking the air.

Emma at 3.

Emma at 4.

Emma at 5.

Emma at 6.

Emma at 7.

A few interesting tidbits about Emma -

She is, by far, the most agreeable child I've every known.

She is always thinking about me and ways to make my life easier. There's not much she can do, so she does small things - she'll open all the car doors before she gets into the car, or she'll frequently say "I'll do anything you tell me to do". The guilt I feel is overwhelming sometimes. It's tough to give her a hard time about doing her homework in a timely fashion after she's just offered herself up to do my bidding. Here is her love note to me after being told she had to wait to eat a piece of bread until she had eaten more dinner.

Emma has never watched (at least on my watch) Hannah Montana or any other tweeny show of the like. I'm not saying she never will, but I'm not ready for her to be grown-up enough to start watching a show with a laugh track. And, to her detriment, the 2 year old in our house rules the tv at this point, so Emma doesn't have much choice but to sit back and watch Muno from Yo Gabba Gabba sing about being nice to worm babies. I wouldn't think it was such a big deal that a six year old would prefer cartoons over real life actors, but it seems that Emma's entire 2nd grade class of girls knows all the characters in High School Musical. I just don't understand what draw that show has to 7 year old girls who have no clue what the subject is about. Then again, I've never watched an episode of Hannah Montana, so maybe the show is about how you should brush your teeth for 2 minutes and make sure you flush the toilet after you're done going potty.

Along those lines, Emma doesn't listen to music on the radio. Right now, it's because I'm usually listening to NPR, but when she's older, I know her and I will have many arguments about our listening choices. Sometimes we'll listen to The Beatles or The Doors, and Clint has her hooked on the latest Coldplay cd, but will a time come when she's made fun of because she doesn't know every word or appropriate gyration to the hit song at the moment? I could very well be preventing her possible Student Body President win.

She reads when she goes to the bathroom.

If asked, she will prefer to wear a dress above all else, but when I tell her to throw some clothes on, she will put together some very interesting, yet slightly embarrassing ensembles.

She's taken for granted. By me, that is.

She's going to be the easiest teenager. Shut up, I'm not in denial. I'm trying to put out good vibes.

I don't think I compliment her enough because whenever I do, she hugs me and tells me she loves me.

She sings all the time, and very loudly, except for when she's supposed to sing (like at church).

Asher is her best friend and she is a wonderful older sister to him.

She's sensitive to other's feelings. We watched Monsters inc recently, and towards the end of the movie, when Boo and the big blue monster (I forgot his name) were saying goodbye to each other, Emma started to wail. I chuckled, and then she yelled at me for laughing at her.

Emma has been such a joy to parent. I've always been firm yet loving towards her, and I used to think that it was me that shaped her into the obedient child that she is. Then I had Asher. He stomped and spit all over that theory.

Do you every purposely put your chair on two uneven surfaces so that you can shift the weight of the legs back and forth for fun? I've been enjoying the click clunk sound the entire time it took to write this post.

I Love Veteran's Day

2008-11-11T12:00:00.000-08:00

I Love Tempe.

I Love That Every Year Tempe Hosts A Veteran's Day Parade.

I Love Going Every Year.

I Love Supporting Our Proud Veteran's.

I Love Watching The Parade With Emma's Friends.

I Love Watching The Parade With My Friends.

I Love Marcia's Mop Brigade. I Look Forward To Marching With Marcia's Mop Brigade In 30 Years.

I Love Shriners.

I Love Shriners In Funky Cars.

I Love Shriners In Little Cars.

I Love Shriners In Minuscule Cars.

I Love Seeing My Alma Mater. I, However, Do Not Love Seeing Their Size Diminish With Each Year.

I Love Ladies Who Grow Older With Pride.

I Love Ladies Who Strive To Stay Youthful.

I Love My Boys.

I Love Boy Scouts. I Love That Emma Will Probably Marry A Boy Scout. He May Be In This Picture.

I Love That Police Officers Get A Break And Can Ride In Our Parade.

I Love Emma's Little Bum.

I Extra Special Double Dog Heart Adore Swoon Love Firemen.

I Love Living In Tempe.

(missed you Tricia)

"The Art of Friendship: A Woman's Tale of Love Lost and Found"

2008-11-08T22:31:00.001-08:00

Dedicated to Monica and Janica.

Prologue:
This account is based on an actual fictitious event. Names have not been changed.

Chapter 1:
"Jaylee, both my good friends have moved. Will you be my new best friend?" asked Jeanette.
"Yes," replied Jaylee.

Chapter 2:
The two new best friends take a picture to commemorate that special moment in their lives.

Chapter 3:
Monica and Janica fume in Colorado and Utah, respectively.

Chapter 4:
It's their fault they moved.

Epilogue:
And so ends the sordid tale of how Monica and Janica lost their friend.

A Good Day

2008-11-07T21:11:00.000-08:00

Emma learned to ride a bike

Asher peed in the potty

Ate some yummy chili

Bart is no longer a houseguest

There once was a man from Nantucket....

2008-11-05T22:09:00.000-08:00

We have a mouse in our house (sounds like the start of a children's poem).

It's a teeny tiny little mouse,
Who probably has a little spouse.
This teeny mouse is a louse,
For it's eating up my drywall.

This teeny mouse is very smart,
It deserves a name; how about Bart?
"Bart!" I yell, and as quick as a dart,
Bart scampers back into my drywall.

Now, I'm assuming Bart, you have large brood,
You're probably out scavenging for food.
You better be careful because I'm not in the mood,
To see and hear you chewing up my drywall.

Hey little Bart, you're in for a treat!
Peanut Butter! Oh my! It can't be beat!
Now hurry up your little feet!
And please ignore the apparatus underneath the peanut butter, next to the drywall.

I tried to warn you; I tried to be humane,
But Bart, your droppings are such a pain!
I clean them up, but it's all in vain,
Because you just keep pooping next to my drywall!

Bart, I'm sorry, the time has come,
You must die die die and something else that rhymes with come!
And then another great sentence that rhymes with come,
Geez Bart! Come on! What do you expect? You're living in my drywall!

You're gross! You're yucky! You probably have rabies!
Okay, maybe not rabies, but maybe...... scabies?
And you're popping out a horde of little pinkie babies,
and I can't have you and your filthy family living in my drywall!

So Bart, please eat the food; it will all be over soon,
And while you're dying, I'll sing you a tune.
As we sit together underneath the moon,
I'll serenade you this sweet song:

Die mouse, die die die!
Poor little mouse, where's PETA to save you now?
You think you can come into my house and set up shop?
Time to meet your maker!
I hope you burn!
(insert maniacal laugh)

Did you like that song, Bart? Hey, I think I see a light!
Go to it Bart! Give up the fight!
Oh, it's pretty Bart! So nice and bright!
What a tender moment we're sharing next to my drywall.

I promise Bart, I'll take care of your litter,
Stop yelling at me Bart! Now's not the time to be bitter!
Oh Bart! You're not breathing!
psst, hey Clint, can you fix this drywall so none of Bart's rat babies can get out? And call Terminex while you're at it?

Frustrating

2008-11-05T20:41:00.000-08:00

I had an idea for a post that I thought was funny, but the time and energy it took to accomplish it wasn't worth it. Much too much time was spent on that last post. Not in the actual creation, but in it's execution. Stupid blogger's preview link is a misrepresentation of what your blog will actually look like after you've hit the publish button. I created 5 different posts, all of which I deleted 2 seconds after opening up my blog in a new window. The picture was either too big and didn't fit, or too small to read the writing. And, in my Google blog reader, EVERY SINGLE deleted post was available for viewing. Don't you think if I've deleted my failures, they should not be available for the public with reader feeds to view? What if I fall asleep on my keyboard, my head hits the CREATE NEW POST key (what, your keyboard doesn't have that?), and it rolls from side to side causing my ear, hairline, cheek, nose/lips, cheek, hairline, ear to type out "I pee my bed sometimes", and as I wake up, the shock of falling asleep on my keyboard causes my head to jerk awake and hit the PUBLISH POST button? What then? I should, in theory, be able to delete that post, causing it to disappear from cyberspace for eternity. Instead, when I run for city council (yes, I plan too) in 10 years, this blog and it's ramblings will be fodder for my opponent to create one of the best smear campaigns Tempe has ever seen.

If someone knows how to change the margins on my blog so that the wasted space on the left side can be used towards posting material, please leave a comment. If you come over and do it for me, I'll pay you in grass clippings or oreos. You're choice. Also, I'm sorry if you can't read the writing in my last post because of the picture's size. It was very funny when I wrote it. Not so much anymore.

Have I missed the grace period to post pictures of my kids in their Halloween costumes?

2008-11-05T20:29:00.000-08:00

Denver

2008-10-30T10:13:00.000-07:00

Geez, October was busy. It's worrisome since it only gets worse as we enter the Holiday Season (Holiday Season - such an overused term, most likely coined by ad execs to promote spending. Due to the current state of our economy (yet another overused term), I think this year the new slogan for retailers forecasting dismal sales will need to be "You'll Get Lucky If You Buy Your Wife This Lovely Necklace").

Moving on to more uplifting prose.

The family and I attended a wedding in Denver last week. It was beautiful. Who wants to move there with me? I could write an entire post on the trees. Their trees are colorful eye candy. The beauty still amazes me every time I visit. Don't you agree that of all the cities in the United States, Phoenix is by far the ugliest?

The wedding was gorgeous. I love, but am not able to attend many, non-LDS weddings. It was a 3-day party. And eclectic to boot.

Friday night, we were scheduled to attend a dress rehearsal. I've never understood the importance of dress rehearsals; isn't it just a matter of walking from point A to point B? However, after witnessing it, it was proven to be necessary. The wedding party consisted of many bodies, 2 of which were children, so making sure it wasn't an awkward mess on the big day was essential. Of you who know Clint and I best, you may snicker, but we were late to the dress rehearsal by 25 minutes. It was required that Emma attend since she was a flower girl, and for 25 minutes, all wedding party bodies, parents, photographers, coordinators, wives and husbands of wedding party bodies, and an especially frustrated mother of the bride waited outdoors, after the sun had gone down, for our procrastinating selves to show up. We were lazily sitting around Monica's house, debating different methods of applying butter to toast, and had lost track of the time. It was an uncomfortable first few minutes, many jokes were made at our expense, but people got over it.

At the end of the evening, all involved with the wedding were invited to dinner, which was held at this house...

...we dined on tofu, salmon, edamame, and miso soup, while being serenaded by a duet of guitar and flute, played by a hippie husband and wife. Can you believe there are loads of houses like this in Denver? Problem is, you need loads of cash to purchase them. One can dream.

Saturday, the Big Day, was again spent lazily laying around Monica's house discussing dirt bikes, and again time escaped us, causing a mad dash out the door (what is wrong with us?). Emma had her hair professionally styled by this diverse woman...

...and eventually she turned into a miniature version of a woman (they grow up so fast).

Then it was off to the ceremony (which started 20 minutes late, but I swear it was not on account of me (or Clint)).

It was located at Cheesman Park in downtown Denver, and it was spectacular. This tiny, ill-taken picture doesn't do it justice. While the guests waited, they were serenaded by the bagpiper in the lower right hand corner, who also performed the processional music.

This is a better picture of the pavilion, for which I can not take credit for. It captures the beauty of the structure and it's surroundings.

Yet another terrible picture taken by moi. The ceremony was held in the afternoon, underneath a huppah, and interestingly enough was officiated by a a rabbi and a preacher.

Afterwards, we attempted a nice family portrait. I think Emma's the star of the picture since she so closely resembles a wedding cake.

This is Asher's GQ money shot.

While we were waiting around for actual professional pictures to be taken, Emma twirled while Asher and Clint inspected the water grate; the highlight of Asher's weekend.

The reception was held at the Denver Museum of Nature and Science. An awesome thing about having a reception at a Museum is the all inclusive access to the exhibits. When else would I be able to take a sultry picture wooing a sea lion?

There's also no other time Emma can study ancient pottery manufactured by the People of the Amazon while wearing a dress that looks like a cake.

We dined on gourmet Mexican food, complete with all the churros and sopapillas I could cram into my mouth. A Reggae band provided the music, and Emma danced more than anyone in attendance.

She promised this little boy that she'd look him up the next time she's in Denver.

Why are pictures of sleeping kids so irresistible? At the end of the evening, Asher was spent, as was I.

Sunday morning, we attended a brunch at a Jewish Deli and dined on bagels, lox, and latkes. Wow, I'm noticing the bulk of this post is about what I ate. I enjoy eating more than is healthy, and I have to admit it was nice to go away for the weekend and not spend a dime on food. All in all, it was a very culturally diverse and enjoyable weekend.

Only because I like you Pam......

2008-10-14T09:21:00.001-07:00

Tags give me anxiety because instead of posting at leisure, I feel like I have a certain amount of time to complete it before it's too late. Plus, my brain is too wordy to just type some quick answer, but I threw this together as quick as I could and posted it so I could get it off my "to blog" list.

8 TV shows that I watch:
1. Lost
2. The Office
3. Mad Men
4. Yo Gabba Gabba
5. Grey's Anatomy
6. SNL
7. Survivor
8. Project Runway

8 Favorite Restaurants:
1. Restaurant Mexico
2. Harlow's
3. Claim Jumper
4. I'm out of ideas.
5. I like a variety of places...
6. so it's difficult to pinpoint a favorite.
7. I REALLY like Restaurant Mexico...
8. it's located in Tempe on Mill if you're ever in the area.

8 Things that Happened Yesterday:
1. Went to Costco. Spent $150 and walked out with 4 things (or it just feels like that sometimes).
2.Went to Kid to Kid for a pair of dressy white shoes Emma needs for a wedding. I refuse to pay full price for a pair of shoes she'll never wear again (white shoes on little girls never stay white). I wasn't successful.
3. Doctor's appointment. It was my first time seeing a doctor (aside for my OB) in over 7 years.
4. Art committee meeting at Emma's school.
5. Dress fitting for Emma's flower girl dress.
6. Shopped (by myself-yeah!) and found the perfect black dress for this weekend.
7. Gorged on hummus and pretzel sticks and gained 2 lbs.
8. Made a monthly pilgrimage to my holy Mecca - the Tempe Public Library

8 Things I'm looking forward to:
1. Heading to Denver this weekend for a family wedding.
2. A new kitchen. It's in the works, but on hold until the economic outlook of America isn't so bleak.
3. A potty trained Asher.
4. Super Creationism Day.
5. A new President and Cabinet.
6. A girly weekend in CA.
7. Naptime.
8. Dinner and a movie tonight with Clint.

8 Things on my wish list
1. Economic stability in the financial sector!!!!!
2. A dark horse, third party, write-in candidate winning the election. Preferably of the independent variety.
3. For the 2nd number on the scale to suddenly be one numerical value lower. I'm fine with the other two numbers.
4. For "Grey's have more fun" to be the new slogan. I swear I should own stock in Aveda hair color.
5. To be the successor to Diane Rehm so I can meet interesting people and ask them all sorts of questions. I'd also like to change the cheesy opening jingle.
6. For Asher to sleep through the night. Yes, that's right, he STILL WAKES UP!
7. For my next/probably last child to be healthy and plump.
8. Whiter teeth.

It's fitting that the first real post of this ladies blog be a tag (it's such a blogish thing to do) since she claims she has nothing to write about. To all the others, you're off the hook.

Come and be artsy with me

2008-10-12T14:21:00.000-07:00

Hello friendly ones. Lately, my time has been consumed with creating fine art for our Super Saturday (I wish we could think of a better name for this. It's kinds cheesy. Maybe something like "Splendid Creationism" Day.) I'm opening up our Splendid Creationism Day to friends/family outside my ward. The projects we're doing are listed below. Please email or comment if there are any you are interested in. It's on November 15th. My goal this year was to create pieces that I would actually use and keep. I really dig these items, and I was glad to hear today from other ladies that they dug them too.

This calendar is $12. You will need to provide your own 16x20 frame and glass. I purchased mine at Michaels for $15 using my coupon. You can probably find a cheaper one at a thrift shop. The vinyl is on the backside of the glass, so it won't be bothered when cleaning.

This Nativity Scene is $10 per block.

This is a great item for those without a mantle. This picture below shows what it looks like with the stockings hung.

You can have up to 5 large hooks on the front of the board, and 5 smaller hooks on the underside. Each board is $18, each large hook is $1.50, and each smaller hook is $0.25.

Each magnet is $5.50.

Each magnet is $5.00.

This is one of my favorite projects. It's an advent countdown for Christmas. There is a family activity on the back of each stocking to complete for the 24 days preceding Christmas, like make cookies, drive around town and look for Christmas lights, paint each others toenails, etc. I'll provide you with a list of activities, and as December gets closer, you'll include whichever ones you can complete in accordance with your schedule and other plans you have. Each set is $5. You need to provide your own scrapbook paper.

Each banner is $13.

She may kill me, but.....

2008-09-25T22:22:00.000-07:00

After my last post, I received this comment from an anonymous reader:

"Emma is more right than she knows! They are both invertebrates, and arthropods. The lobster is just a big sea bug. They sprang from the same evolutionary branch a long time ago. Wish it were a lobster....."

Huh?

Did some wacky shellfish expert from Harvard whose currently studying the DNA similarities between chickens and sea life, google the right combination of "lobster", "chicken", and "salt", find my blog, and leave a comment with his biological spin to Emma's confusion? Thanks Professor Crustacean know it all.

Several minutes after deciding that was the case, my mother called me asking how to leave a comment with her name attached to it because she had just left one and had to leave it as anonymous.

Whoops.

I should have known...

...since she is the reigning Miss Crustacean and all.

She's still waiting for the call letting her know when she'll be riding atop the float.

Differences

2008-09-19T20:08:00.000-07:00

15 minutes ago, while on the phone with Clint, I heard Emma screaming my name in terror. My reaction time was a tad sluggish because I had to wrap up my conversation with Clint, so by the time I was able to see what the commotion was, she was standing on the toilet yelling, "A lobster just went into your bedroom!"

A what?

Again, she yelled, "A lobster just went into your bedroom!" I was confused; she seemed so adamant, and for one split second I actually scanned my bedroom floor for a lobster. After quickly realizing I was being ridiculous, I asked her to again repeat what she saw. She was in near hysterics, and yelled again, "I just saw a lobster go into your bedroom!" I looked again on my bedroom floor and found the source of her concern.

A tiny scorpion.

Now, is it just me or should she know, as a 2nd grader, what the difference is between a lobster and a scorpion?

Don't get me wrong. I'm greatly concerned that there was an uninvited scorpion in my house, and even more displeased that had Emma not been in the bathroom at that exact moment, it would have gone unnoticed until it was in my bed biting me. We've only ever found one other scorpion in the house, and it was the day we had sod delivered to our home for the front yard. I'm assuming all the current work in the back yard is disturbing whatever habitat they've created for themselves, but honestly, I can't get it out of my head that my daughter doesn't know the difference between a lobster and a scorpion.

I've Learned

2008-09-16T08:48:00.000-07:00

This past week I have learned:

You cannot vacuum and read at the same time.

You should pee before going to a comedy club.

Velveeta never really goes bad.

Kayaking is much more fun but much more tiring than I previously thought.

If the pricing of a t-shirt is ambiguous, Gap will honor the lower price. If you ask if you can go back to the display to grab a few more t-shirts for the same price, they'll tell you not to push your luck.

Breakfast with a friend is a really great way to start the day.

I can only go 5 weeks between coloring my hair before my gray gets out of hand.

If I'm the one with the most opinions about a certain event, I'll be put in charge of it.

If you sit outside of Cold Stone at Marketplace on a Friday night, it will seem that everyone you've ever known will walk past you, making for many sweet reunions.

A simple phone call can sure change a few things around here, mostly face time with my husband.

I have a twisted need to have much more on my plate than I can possibly handle.

My mailman's name is Greg.

If I don't think about what I say, I can really screw up a conversation.

Along with that, I'm not good at backtracking my way through to clarify my point.

If you're in a car with multiple people, don't fall asleep with your mouth open because they can and will place things in it.

Congrats & Condolences

2008-09-14T14:01:00.000-07:00

Today, I may have shown you this -

But I was actually feeling like this -

It was mentioned that each bishopric member has a young family and to please be mindful. I'm thinking about vinyl lettering that thought onto the bishop's office door.

This picture was taken today. I wonder how much more grayer my hair will be in the picture we take the day Clint's released from his calling.

Could I sound more pessimistic? Seriously though, I'm thrilled. I think. Well, maybe not. Except I'm joyful. But scared. Optimistic? No. Um, how about sanguine? Yes, that sounds about right. I'm sanguine.
"So, how are you doing today Jaylee?" people will ask me.
"I'm sanguine," I'll respond.
"Oh, that's nice," they'll say, as they mutter to themselves that the new councilor's wife is a wack job. And guess what the new councilor's wife was doing at the exact moment the new councilor was receiving the phone call asking him to come in and see the Stake President? She was telling a dirty joke to a bunch of women. But, in my defense, it was a pretty funny dirty joke. Next time you see me, ask me to tell it to you. I will, unfortunately, have to tell you, "No, I can't, because I'm the new 2nd councilor's wife and I'm sanguine."

Look Ma, I Is Domesticatedtion

2008-09-07T20:47:00.000-07:00

This afternoon, I honed in on my homemaking skills. I took pride in being a woman. I practiced the art of familial nurture.

Then I decided I was done and yelled at my kids to go to bed so I could write this post.

I love tomatoes. Wait, I'm blogging. I should say it like this: I.love.tomatoes. or
I heart tomatoes.

I love tomato soup. I.love.tomato.soup. I've grown up eating the campbells version out of a can, (with milk, cuz water is ew) and was oblivious that homemade tomato soup was an option. A few months back, a crafty friend of mine posted a recipe for tomato soup she had made for her family. I was intrigued and decided to try it out. It did not go over well; Clint said it was a little to "healthy tasting". I suppose he was correct, since it was missing the artificial red look and tin metal taste of the canned version. The recipe didn't use milk, so it was truly a healthier tomato soup. I thoroughly enjoyed it, but agreed that since he is not a tomato lover, and egad, the soup actually tasted like tomatoes, it was not a viable dinner to add to our rotation.

But then I came across this website and found a different recipe for homemade tomato soup that looked delish, and it called for a whopping 2 cups of heavy whipping cream. I figured it would be safe to attempt again, which I did tonight. Oh, how yum it was.

Jaylee's (actually, this lady's) Yummy Tomato Soup

3 lbs of vine-ripened tomatoes
1 medium onion, chopped
2 cups tomato juice (not V8, it actually needs to say tomato juice)
1 cup cooking sherry (haven't you heard? The alcohol cooks out. I think... Crap. Don't tell my bishop)
3 T white sugar
1 bouillon cube (the website I got this from used gluten free bouillon. I'm just waiting for the day they come up with gluten free gluten (oh, by the way, I used 2 cubes because I like the extra flavor, and guess what - they weren't gluten free))
2 T chopped fresh basil
It's fun to change the colors

Use a 5-6 quart crock pot. Wash all your tomatoes and cut into quarters and place them in your crockpot.

Here is a picture of all of my tomatoes placed in my crock pot in case you had any questions as to how the tomatoes should look when they are placed in your crock pot because sometimes people want to see pictures of tomatoes in crockpots

No need to peel them. Add the onion and then cover with tomato juice, sherry, bouillon, sugar, and basil. Stir, cover, and cook on low heat for 6-8 hours.

You can leave it chunky, but my dinner table must be "chunk free", so I blended the soup in small batches and placed it into a sieve for some extra smoothness. Then I blended again what didn't make it through the sieve, and it all went back into the crockpot. Now if you're not careful, and think to yourself "but when I make my smoothies, I fill the blender up to the top and there are no problems", please take a look at my shirt and pants

I actually had one of those moments that you see in the movies where the top of the blender shoots up and the contents are splattered across your wall. Some also landed in my toaster. How the heck am I supposed to clean that out? I think it exploded because of some heat differential being more buoyant than the air particles, and the blender atoms couldn't contain that amount of centrifugal force for the duration of the liquefy cycle, so the fluidity of the soup couldn't occupy the same space because an object in motion stays in motion and an object at rest stays at rest unless acted upon by an outside force. Or, something like that. Seriously, small batches is the name of the game.

Moving on, after your soup is liquid enough, add 2 cups of heavy cream and stir. I added a bunch of shakes from my kosher salt box (maybe 10?) so you should add 5 since you're normal.

Here are the end results

I don't have the setting on my camera that makes your food look visibly appetizing (like my crafty friend has), so just take my word for it. It.was.good. I hearted it. My family hearted it to. Also, it made a load of soup, so next time I'll freeze half of it. I can't with this batch because (and correct me if I'm wrong) previously frozen milk based soups do not make for decent meals. So, next time I'll add enough cream for our personal servings, and freeze the remainder of the un-creamed soup. I'm sure I'll be making this recipe again (you've seen the size of my farm).

But wait, there's MORE!

I made cookies! That's two somethings in one day! I can barely do 1 something. The recipe is her e if you want it. They were a little too rich for my Dorito loving palate, so I probably won't be making these again. Here's a trick for these cookies. When you're creaming the peanut butter and cream cheese together, don't pull the cord far away from the outlet because you may pull the cord out while you're creaming the ingredients, and you may set the hand held mixer up right, and you may plug the cord back in, and you just may end up witnessing another splattering of your walls because you didn't turn the blender off before you plugged it back in, and you'll see the pieces fly everywhere, but not be able to find them until you arrive at your in-laws house to borrow some cinnamon, and they chuckle because you have tomato soup all over your clothes and creamed filling in your hair.

Also, make sure you use both beaters because you may spend 5 minutes wondering why the heck it's not creaming before realizing you've been one beater shy the entire time.

Viola! Jumbo Honey Roasted Peanut Butter Cookie Sandwiches (just typing the name added 100 calories to my hips)

From the website www.howtobealazyparentandstillenrich
yourchildslifebydoingtheabsoluteminimumin
100simpleactivites.com, number 28 - "Make sure your child licks a beater at least once in their life. The choice is yours whether to give them the second beater or not. Better get them used to disappointment now instead of later."

Nuggets of wisdom, from my home to yours.

Ack, there's also a finale! Pie! I made a pie! And if you've been wondering about my Apple Pie in a Bag recipe, I do actually use a bag.

I'm domesticated out. I've filled my quota for the year.

Labor Day '08

2008-09-01T21:44:00.000-07:00

Last week, I was speaking to my mother, letting her know that we would be camping over the Labor Day weekend. She scoffed and asked me why Clint makes me go camping when I don't enjoy it. I explained to her that I enjoy certain aspects of camping, but overall, no, it's not my preference to spend three days peeing on a fallen tree and picking bark out of the back of my thighs. After speaking with her, I realized that I should let Clint know how I felt about this hobby of his. I'm not sure what my true intentions were for speaking up; I think I was trying to passive aggressively tell him "See! See what I do for you because I love you!? See the sacrifices I make so that you can take part in what you deem to be "a relaxing vacation" but what I see as a "bark in my butt" adventure?" We sat down to discuss our trip, and I ended up disclosing my closely guarded feelings about camping. I told Clint that I really don't like to go camping, and could think of no fewer than 7 things I'd rather do over the Labor Day weekend. He promptly told me he didn't believe me because each time we had gone in the past, he knew I had a great time. I guess my tolerable attitude towards the entire event lead him to believe that I was raring to go every time.

I should be more clear about the "certain aspects" I was referring to. They are, in no particular order, the food and the family. I tolerate the camping so that I can eat all day long (our food while camping is gourmetish), and laugh my butt off at Draney antics. But, I feel strongly that the amount of work performed while camping far exceeds the amount of relaxation that occurs. Now, I should be clear; most of the work isn't performed by me. Clint does the set up, take down, and the other abundant manly chores, and my MIL does most of the meal preparation. I'm usually in charge of keeping the camping chairs warm, or delegating tasks, which usually takes place from said camping chairs.

So, here's a quick run down of my weekend. You tell me if I'm right in my beliefs, or if I'm just a big whiny sack of poo.

This picture was taken from a moving car, which accounts for the blurriness.

It took us 40 minutes to drive 5 miles. It could have been avoided if we had packed lighter which would have helped us to leave before 5pm, but instead, it took us 3 hours to pack; I bring EVERYTHING since being in the middle of the woods 40 minutes away from the nearest store makes me feel like I have NOTHING. Clint's all for camping only with whatever he can carry on his back, but he's had to make certain concessions for me and my suburban ways. I'll never understand those campers who strap on their chacos, pocket a granola bar, and call themselves ready.

Our campsite was a 30 minute drive off a dirt/jagged rock road which was not intended by God to be driven upon. We forged ahead and created our own campsite where no man had set foot before. Okay, I'll admit it was very nice to not worry that I'd run into another neighboring camper while doing my business.

After we arrived, which was around 9pm Friday night, Clint immediately started to set up shop. I asked him to hand me the suitcase that housed all of our clothing so I could put a jacket on Emma. Clint's face held a look of terror; he had forgotten to pack the suitcase. Conveniently though, Clint's backpack, which held his own clothing, was located amongst our belongings. Friday night was spent sleeping in our clothing we had worn that day.

Saturday was beautiful. Unfortunately, Clint and I were not able to enjoy the beauty of the day from the vantage point of the woods. Our morning was spent driving back out on the dirt road, that God did not intend to be driven on, to go purchase clothing for myself and my children.

4 hours later (yes, 4 HOURS!), we were back at our campsite, having driven back on the dirt road that God did not intend to be driven on, with Walmart sweat suits, underwear, socks, shoes, pants, jackets, etc. It was very tough to spend money on this pair of shoes.

Heck, it was hard to spend money on any of the items we bought. I had purchased for myself one shirt and a pair of jeans, both of which I knew I would not wear again. In the end, I wore the pants, shirt, and socks I arrived in, all weekend long so that I could return the unworn merchandise. I willed myself to deal with the stench of 3 day old pants, which had turned into a collage of many different patterns, weaving their way across my legs and lap, mostly consisting of Asher's nose drippage.

Okay, I do have to admit that Saturday afternoon was gorgeous and relaxing. Our dutch oven dinner and dessert were heavenly. Fine, 1 point to camping.

And then the rain came.

Saturday night was spent with the plink plink plink of rain all night long on our tent. We stayed warm and dry, and after waking Sunday morning, we were planning to hang out in our tent for awhile and wait for the storm to pass. It didn't pass, and about 10 minutes after waking, our tent started leaking. Rain had started to come in from the top and bottom of our tent. We quickly folded our blankets and sleeping bags, all the while yelling at our kids to stop playing in the water because they were going to get their socks wet and I didn't want to open up the package of socks I had purchased for Emma because I wanted my money back, and in my haste to leave Walmart, I had forgotten to purchase socks for Asher.

Sunday morning was spent in my SIL's pop up watching The Incredibles (they camp in style), while the rain continued on and on until I wanted to shove crickets in my ears so that I would have something new to listen to.

We did eventually brave the elements to spend some time underneath tarps.

Though, I do have to give 1 more point to camping because breakfast and lunch were fabulous. I'm telling you, food is a large motivator for me. I'll poo in the woods if you make me a breakfast burrito.

Ugg, I'll also admit that Sunday afternoon, after the rain let up, was lovely and relaxing. It was so much fun to watch Asher follow his cousins around and act goofy with them. It's much easier in that aspect than being home. It wasn't necessary to entertain him; he was contented to just run around. That was a great highlight. The filth wasn't.

Honestly though, the real reason I deal with the hassle of camping is because of the pure, unadulterated laughter that flows so easily all weekend long. The main reason I go camping is encapsulated in this one picture.

We ended up leaving late Sunday night since we did not have a functional tent. I'm sure Clint could have figured something out in the way of leak proofing it, but he was sweet/smart enough not to suggest it.

I guess, begrudgingly, I have to admit that I liked camping.

But don't tell Clint I said that.

If you've got a second, look over these pages. It's a form of the telephone game. Each person has a piece of paper to start out with, and they write a saying, quote, etc on the top of the page. The paper is then passed to the right, and that person has to then draw out what the saying, quote, etc means on the paper they've just received from their neighbor. The paper is then folded over so that the saying, quote, etc is hidden, and the paper is again passed to the right. At that point, all you have is a picture that is supposed to be descriptive enough so you can figure out what the original saying, quote, etc. was. You write down your best guess, fold the paper over so that the picture is now hidden, and pass it again to your right. It will then be passed around, and continuously folded over, until you have your own paper back in your hands. After sharing with each other what crazy interpretations we came up with, I think I laughed so hard a little bit of pee came out.

I sure have used pee and poo quite a few times in this post.

Landscaping Woes

2008-08-20T21:11:00.000-07:00

For obvious reasons, Clint's favorite subject is landscaping. My favorite subject is me. So, when we actually sit down to discuss landscaping, it goes something like this -

"Jaylee, what features should we design into our backyard?" Clint asks.
"I have a girls night out tomorrow night. You're babysitting," I respond.
"Jaylee, landscaping is about combining beauty with function. I need to know what's important to us so that I can incorporate it into my plans," Clint says.
"Will you put lotion on my feet?" I respond.
"Jaylee, focus. We have a large backyard and a great opportunity to incorporate many different elements. Please tell me what you consider important to you," a frustrated Clint replies.

Bingo. Now it's about what I want.

"Here," I say as I grab a nearby note card, "this is what I want."

I'm a simple girl.

As the weeks progressed, progress was made in our yard. The sprinklers were installed, a new sewer line was laid, and it soon came time to build my dream garden, which was, according to my specifications above, to be located in the back right hand corner, and of a squareish shape. Some how, Clint translated my squarish shaped garden into this -

The first time I walked out there and saw the monstrosity of this area, I freaked out.
"That's not what I designed! I designed a garden of squarish shape in the back right hand corner! What the freak is this! I can't garden in this! It's way too big! All I really want are a few tomatoes and maybe a cucumber or carrot! I can't garden in this!" I yell, as the exclamation marks so clearly state. I was feeling a bit of anxiety over the gigantic proportions of my new garden area, overwhelmed that I was now expected to 'farm' in this plot of land. I don't even own a garden trowel, let alone a tractor that was now needed to plant my crops. I want to experiment to see if gardening is something I'm interested in. Now I have to go to ASU, major in agriculture, and minor in horticulture. Seriously, what if I hate gardening? What if the picture in my head of me in my gardening chaps, lovingling picking out weeds and singing to my lettuce while Asher plays next to me on the grass with his watering can is un-realistic? Will it be more like me in my stained jeans, yanking out weeds with my blistered hands, swearing at my lettuce because I spent so long planting it and it hasn't sprouted yet, while Asher is climbing in the garden area, grinding my onion seedlings back into the dirt, all the while in 110 degree weather?

"But I showed you the plans," Clint says.

Here are the plans Clint showed me-

Now, I don't know about you, but I don't think in circles. I think in pretty, penciled in pictures, with arrows pointing to what's what. When he showed this to me, I got crossed eyed and mumbled something about it being fine. So, that was my stamp of approval, the garden was built, and now my new career will be selling produce on the corner. Please honk your horn and wave as you pass by.

(Does anyone see my swing set designed into the above picture? Where's my errant tree?)

My Letter to Emma and Asher

2008-08-12T21:54:00.000-07:00

August 12th, 2025

Dear Emma and Asher - Hi guys! How are you doing today? I Love You.

This is somewhat difficult to write, but I feel a need to attach some type of evidence that you did, in fact, participate in most of the standard activities that should occur in a child's lifetime.

I just received some upsetting news, and it appears that I am being blamed for your ongoing anger issues you both seem to be dealing with. Let me just say that I'm shocked and confused that I in any way contributed to your neuroses. I just chalked it up to coincidence that you both have had similar psychiatric diagnosis and happen to be on the same dosage of meds.

I truly did my best to create an enjoyable atmosphere for you to grow up in, but it seemed you tired quickly of trips to Mervyns to watch me try on shoes, and even though I called a day of errands a mommy/daughter/son date, you acted as though you didn't want me to call you back the next morning. After many years of trial and error, I did some searching and came across, what I would venture to call my saving grace, a website entitled www.howtobealazyparentandstillenrichyourchildslifeby
doingtheabsoluteminimumin100simpleactivites.com. It was a lifesaver while raising you little turkeys (come up with a nick name for your child/children was number 54). These pictures attached are number 32, which nagged me for quite some time since I did not have the means to create an atmosphere where you, indeed, could make mud pies. Hooray for a rainy Sunday and a landscaper husband who finally cleared out our backyard! I'm hoping that this letter will suffice for you and your therapist to decide to drop your lawsuit. I just received the summons in the mail along with your unpaid therapy bills and a note from Dr. Zhivago stating that after treating you both, I am being held responsible to pay for your 249 sessions you received from him, the electroshock therapy, and the lobotomies. So, I'm doing what I have done your entire childhood: refer to The List. I'm sorry Emma that I missed number 17 and we didn't get the opportunity to weave pony manes into dozens of tiny braids, or number 70 Asher, which was dress you in a shirt that had a dump truck on it and the phrase "I LIKE TRUCKS!". Asher, as you well know, because I told you every day of your existence, except for today because I haven't spoken with you yet on the phone, I wanted you to be a girl. That's why I dressed you in tutus and headbands, and not shirts that said "Boys will be Boys" with a picture of a boy coloring all over his mother's newly painted walls. But don't you remember number 15 when we flew a kite? I'm sorry there wasn't an actual breeze that day, and maybe if we had waited a bit longer than 7 minutes it would have gotten into the air, but I was really vying to check something off that week, plus my DVR que was full and I had to hurry in and watch at least an hour long show to be able to accommodate all that I had scheduled to record that night. Okay, what about number 43? It was a fun 5 minutes when I taught you both how to tie your shoes. Again, I've already apologized for it many times, but how was I to know that wearing velcro through the 7th grade was cause for embarrassment? I thought 5 minutes was plenty of time to devote to that activity. Remember when we cuddled that one day? Remember when I played half a game of Candyland with you? Remember when you said "I Love You Momma" and I said "Me Too"?

Okay, maybe I'll pay half.

Ya'll Can Breath a Sigh of Relief --- They're Back

2008-08-11T00:23:00.000-07:00

After a sprinkle of comments were left that I looked like an umpa loompa in my comical set of pictures, I decided I would go onto flickr and change them to a black and white format. My limited flickr skills obviously shone forth since I dim-wittedly deleted the old pictures from flickr, and with there being some kind of important and necessary link to an actual picture, they were deleted from my last posting, which is no fun at all.

So, without trepidation, I'm posting the improved versions of my yellow umpa loompa pictures. How do you know I wasn't going for an umpa loompa look?

I'm taking a re-vote, so, back by popular demand, making their colorless, slightly umpa loompaless debut, with commentary and all, somewhere in this mess of shameless material, I present to you (with some surprise additions), my future profile picture -

1. This is my current profile picture. I think it does a pretty good job at getting the point across that I think my blog is a joke and don't take me too seriously.

2. This one looks like Clint just poignantly pontificated and I'm saying with my body language that I'm listening and I think I like what he's saying, but please, continue on with your pontification so that I can further assess my position on the topic.

3. This is my favorite face to make at Clint because, with really tight ucky looking lips, I beg and plead for him to kiss me. He doesn't.

4. See, now this one looks like I'm bragging about the amount of hair I have.

5. Ahh, my favorite face to make. What's not to like? I'm smiling and my eyes look bright and colorful. Also, it's a good security picture as it shows I'm not red eyed and doped up.

6. "Oh Clint, you're just so funny. I love it when you poignantly pontificate. Please, continue on. While I'm listening to you wax poetic about your miter saw, I'll just sit back and listen, all the while tilting my head to one side and demurely smiling at you."

7. Okay, now can you see why Clint has such a complex about my chameleon-like facial expressions? This one is priceless. Best one yet.

This little gem was overlooked and not in my previous post, so here is number

8. It's like Gene Simmons and the Joker had a love child

9. Funky Funky Fresh Psychedelic Jaylee

Again, same rules apply when voting or not voting. I wonder if anyone thought I had taken them off my blog because somehow my dignity returned and I was feeling remorse for showcasing this little freak show. Sadly, dignity is not one of the names my other 10 personalities go by.

2008-08-09T00:28:00.000-07:00

Thanks H. for the shout out to my new profile picture. Several months ago, I was having a security background check performed on me (that almost sounds kinky) for a job I had applied for, and was required to send in a snapshot so they could more accurately witness whom they were dealing with. I guess they were making sure I was actually of a white trash origin, like the checked box clearly stated, and not of some other infidelic creed. I had Clint take a few, but for some unknown reason (to bug Clint), I kept making stupid faces right before he snapped the picture. He actually squirms and looks away when I construe my face; ergo, I'm a consistent face construerer (welcome to Jaylee's blog, where your learn a new word every day!). It's my sad little way to get a reaction out of him. However, I understand his disgust at anything outside of the normal realm of my appearance. Back when we were dating, for Halloween he dressed up as a woman, complete with mumu, wig and lipstick, and I could not look at or speak to him while in he was in drag. It was weird and uncomfortable for me to see him like that because I could not find the cute boy I liked underneath his Revlon Creamy Coral lipstick. I spent most of the night away from him because I was so creeped out. So, cut the guy a break, right? Anyway, I'm taking suggestions as to what to use as a profile picture. I have a few to choose from, some good, some not so good.

1. This is my current profile picture. I think it does a pretty good job at getting the point across that I think my blog is a joke and don't take me too seriously.

2. This one looks like Clint just poignantly pontificated and I'm saying with my body language that I'm listening and I think I like what he's saying, but please, continue on with your pontification so that I can further assess my position on the topic.

3. This is my favorite face to make at Clint because, with really tight ucky looking lips, I beg and plead for him to kiss me. He doesn't.

4. See, now this one looks like I'm bragging about the amount of hair I have.

5. Ahh, my favorite face to make. What's not to like? I'm smiling and my eyes look bright and colorful. Also, it's a good security picture as it shows I'm not red eyed and doped up.

6. "Oh Clint, you're just so funny. I love it when you poignantly pontificate. Please, continue on. While I'm listening to you wax poetic about your miter saw, I'll just sit back and listen, all the while tilting my head to one side and demurely smiling at you."

7. Okay, now can you see why Clint has such a complex about my chameleon-like facial expressions? This one is priceless. Best one yet.

In summation, if you prefer a picture, please leave a comment with it's corresponding number. If you could care less what I put as a profile picture, but you still won't be ousting me from your feed reader, please also leave a comment letting me know that you're letting this post slide. I will admit I have a bit of a complex about the quality of my postings and sometimes feel like the only girl in existence who would post such unflattering pictures of myself. But, I'm crazy to think that, right? Right?

On a side note, I think it would be beneficial for me to put a cap on my use of parenthesis in one post. I'm not sure why I'm so prone to use them (Yes I do, it's to help me from going off into tangents because (true story) my brain functions like this (if my brain were a picture, it would be a speech bubble with a bunch of tiny speech bubble friends all attached) and it helps keep me in check so that I don't start going on about why my brain chemistry = high probable outcome of being abnormal) and I'm sure it's becoming annoying to see.

"A loaf of bread, a container of milk, and a sticka butta" - Sesame Street

2008-08-01T12:23:00.000-07:00

Do your husbands ever call you from the grocery store on the way home from somewhere and ask you if you need them to grab anything? Mine does. He's very helpful without being asked to be helpful. Do your husbands arrive home an hour later then was necessary to pick up milk and bread? Mine does. He's very helpful when he's at the store and picks up things that I didn't even request. Do your husbands purchase things that you have never and would never purchase for your family? Mine does. Like collard greens for instance. You can't have enough collard greens. Anyone have any good collard greens recipes?

I can't stop humming the Space Odyssey theme music

2008-07-31T00:07:00.000-07:00

Ladies and Gentleladies - The moment you've all been waiting for....dummmmmmmmm, dummmmmmmm, dummmmmmm..........DUM DUM!!!!!! (2001: Space Odyssey trumpets; look it up; watch the movie)

I am about to reveal to you, loyal constituents, my new and improved hallway bathroom. This unveiling event has been 7 long years in the making.

tangent - can I say it's been 7 years in the making since we've had the house for 7 years, or should I say it's been 4 months in the making because we started remodeling in April?

This has been 7 LONG years in the making. 7 years of tinkeling/tinkling/tinkleing in a toilet, surrounded by white walls that had only been primed, brown linoleum, a chipped toilet bowl, and a sink that, had a 6 year old put all of her weight on it just one more time, would have ripped out of it's anchor in wall. For all of you who never had the pleasure of tinkeling/tinkling/tinkleing in my hallway toilet, I have a lovely before picture to show you. Now, for some reason, I wasn't smart enough to take a recent before picture. I do, however, have a picture taken with our old camera from 7 years ago, which was mentioned in a previous post.

Please note the fact that for years, our shower curtain was a skin graph thin piece of plastic found at the 99 cent store and the color scheme was purple and blue. It would have been like putting lipstick on a pig, so I happily left the bathroom looking trashy. Sanitized, but trashy.

This was the bathroom our little family used for 6 years. Our master bath was torn apart in December of 2001, and was just completed in December of 2007. You may think that for those 6 years, Clint worked on the master bath diligently every night after he got home from work. You're wrong. It sat, closed off to the world, in it's gutted, motionless state, until Clint had a few weeks off during Christmas time of last year to devote to it. It's completed now, and I'll get pics of that up in the future.

Remodeling the hall bathroom was a long and arduous task that required many skills from both Clint and myself. I had the unenviable task of delegating, while Clint got off easy by just doing what I told him to do. I told Clint to install a new sink drain, frame, bath tub, shower walls, drywall, toilet ring, toilet bowl, plumbing fixtures, tile, baseboards, wainscoting, sink, medicine cabinet, crown molding, chair rail, door, door casing, oh, the list goes on and on. I'm exhausted just by the memory of the work I had to delegate. It was hard to keep him on track. I found him once sleeping on the job. Can you believe I had to press pause on my remote and walk all the way in there to wake him up and tell him he won't be receiving any dinner until the walls are installed?

After I withheld dinner and other unmentionable services, he seemed to kick it up a notch. The bathroom took about 2 months to complete. This last month, I've been doing my finishing touches. I'm not a fan of buying sets i.e. a shower curtain from Target that comes with coordinating towels, bath mat, soap dish, toothbrush holder, knitted kleenex box cover, etc. It's frustrating and exciting at the same time to shop for each component separately. I love how different everything looks and yet how it all fits together. So, now that the last picture has been hung and the dust swept away, I'd like to unveil our latest endeavor.

What? You're not impressed? Wait a second, you actually thought I was going to show you the entire finished product on my blog? You're crazy!! Get your rear over here and come see it for yourself!

The Universal Picture

2008-07-27T21:58:00.000-07:00

From the "How to Parent Asher to Adulthood So You Don't Kill Him" handbook given to me at his birth, found in paragraph 27, section 12, article 4, division 33, clause 2 , snippet 9 -

"For the purpose of capturing photographic memories, it shall hear by be mandated that one such photo must be comprised entirely of the subject's meal upon their head. In such a case that this is a possible event to depict, it is encouraged that the meal be one of a stain producing variety. The subject's meal should look to be in disarray, while the subject them self should look to be well satiated and contented with their current condition."

My Contradictory Weekend

2008-07-21T08:53:00.000-07:00

Saturday from 11a-5p - landed in Denver and was picked up by my SIL Monica. I spent time with her kids, ate milk and cookies, passed on the opportunity to go to a water park that night since I already had plans, watched ninja warrior and old BYU football highlights (mayhaps a man had the remote?), satisfied my nephew by listening to his endless "Hey Jaylee, guess what?"s, and sat and relaxed around the house in my black flip flops.

Saturday from 5p-11p - Was dropped off by Monica at a swanky bar in downtown Denver. I spent the time with 15 other women, ate sushi and edamame, passed on the pomegranate martinis being offered to me, watched the bride-to-be open gifts of lingerie, and sat around the celebration while witnessing a party guest use the man's portion of the matching gift set of sequined g-strings as a surgical mask around her head, all the while in my black high heels.

I had a really great time indulging both sides of my dual life. Being a convert to the church, I will always have experiences in my life that maybe the average born into the church member doesn't. It was a plus that my SIL and the bride-to-be both happen live in Colorado, and so I was able to spend time with each of them and their families.

The plane ride home was not without incident. My plane landed in Las Vegas at 7p. I had a 2 1/2 hour layover (the things we'll endure to save a few dollars), so I figured I would just find my gate and stick my nose in a book. When I was leaving Denver, I was given both boarding passes for my first and second flight, so there was no need to check in when I landed in Vegas. The Vegas airport is ginormous, so I spent a good half hour going back through security and finding my gate. My cell phone battery was dead, and I wasn't wearing a watch, so I decided to sit at my gate for the remainder of the time until it boarded so I wouldn't continuously be looking up at the time. I may have tripped a few times on the way to my gate, and a few dollars may have flown out of my wallet and landed in the bill slot of a very twinkly machine, but don't worry, I caught myself from falling by grabbing onto this arm-like thing that was protruding from it's side (even the airport isn't free of slot machines). Alas, I finally found my gate, which was empty, and the flight information displayed was from the last flight that had boarded at that gate. I bought a pretzel and proceeded to sit down and read for the next two hours. As the time passed on, more people began to show up. I noticed that most of the flight was going to be comprised of a rowing team all wearing the same blue uniformed polo. They were a rowdy bunch, so I moved a few times to escape their loud conversations. What a rowing team from Phoenix was doing in Las Vegas seemed to be a double contradiction, but whatever. The time ticked on and I saw the boarding agents begin to assemble. They announced that the first class passengers could board, and I moved and sat down right next to the door so that I could be one of the first passengers on the plane. I knew my row was one of the last on the plane, and I didn't want to wait for all the passengers who brought their over sized carry-ons try to shove their bags into the overhead compartments. I was lucky and boarded 2nd. As I boarded, I noticed that the plane was very nice, with large leather seats, each with a pillow and blanket laid on it. I found my seat, sat down, and put my nose back in my book. The plane began to fill up, and a few minutes later, a lady came up to me and asked in a very annoyed voice, "What's your seat number?"
I looked at her and said, "It's 26A."
"Well, my friends and I have 26A, 26B, and 26C, so that can't be right."
I fished around in my purse, found my boarding stub, and handed it to her. She located and told an attendant that US Airways had given out the same seat number to two different people. I had my nose back in my book because I knew they would figure it out themselves, and if I had to move, who cares. At this point, everyone is pretty much in their seats, and there's some commotion towards the front of the plane that I can't hear or see. The plane quiets down and everyone watches an attendant come up to me and ask, "Honey, where are you flying to tonight?"
"Phoenix?" I answer in a small voice as if I'm questioning where I'm going.
"Well, honey, this plane is flying to Seattle."

I felt a hundred pairs of eyes turn to look at me.

"You let me get on a plane to Seattle?!" I shouted. I grabbed my bags and rushed off the plane as the hundred pairs of eyes bore a hole into my back. When I got out to the boarding agent, I showed her my boarding ticket which said gate A23, which was where I was. She told me the there was a gate change and that I better hurry because my correct plane was done boarding and the gate was on the other side of the airport. So, I ran as fast as my non-fast running legs would take me and as I approached the correct gate, the boarding agent spotted me and spoke into her walkie talkie, "She's here." I'm guessing there was a phone call made saying there was a stupid girl who got on the wrong plane, and please-o-please, could you delay the plane from taking off so that she can get on it tonight since its was the last flight out of Vegas? I sheepishly walked to the last row on the plane as a hundred pairs of eyes looked at me, questioning the circumstances as to how this lady was able to delay their plane from taking off on time. I sat down between a women flying with her 2 week old baby, who for some reason did not want to take his bottle, even though he clearly was hungry, and the guy who delayed the plane even further because he was in the bathroom throwing up his airport lounge margarita and wasn't able to take his seat during the taxi to the runway.

Maybe I should have been tipped off by the fact that a rowing team was flying to Phoenix, or that luxurious seats were available for a 50 minute flight. Yes, I should have looked at the display board, or paid more attention to the announcement that they "will now begin boarding the plane bound to Seattle." I wonder, if the flight to Seattle hadn't been full, and there was no one assigned to seat 26A, would I be typing this post from Puget Sound, eating my smoked salmon, drinking my Starbucks (hot chocolate of course), while listening to Pearl Jam?

I'm about to waste 5 minutes of your time

2008-07-09T00:10:00.000-07:00

I fight the urge to start typing my post with, "So, today I yada yada yada". It seems so natural to use that introduction as if I hadn't concluded my conversation with you, whomever you are. Who are you by the way? I know, by your comments, who some of you are, but I wonder if there is a person out there who googled "catchy titles for salted chicken recipes" and was put out when they pulled up my blog, but found that they couldn't stop reading, just like you can't stop looking at a car wreck on the freeway. Maybe I've been able to help a few lost soles understand themselves a bit better; maybe I've even helped boost their self confidence after they realize there are others as weird as themselves. Do you, fellow blog friends of mine, wonder if there are people you don't know (friend of a cousin's ex-wife's mother counts) who read your blog? Or, what if people you associate with read your blog unbeknownst to you, and as you walk by one of them, they snicker as they look at your feet because the day before you published a post about how you got a pair of new, totally cute socks, but when you take them off, you find you've collected fabric between all your toes, and on the evening of the first day you wore your totally cute socks, you had to rush out the door, and your sneakers weren't by the door, but you did see your 10 year old birkenstocks, so you tore the totally cute socks off, put on your granola mobiles, and proceeded about your business, unaware that you had a golf ball sized fabric collection between each and every one of your toes? Maybe the guy who collects the carts at the Target on McClintock is a phantom reader of yours. You know, the one who looks like he's too old to be out in the sun collecting carts, has very dark skin, wears his socks up to his knees, and has calves that look like an apple is trapped underneath his skin? Shout out and leave a comment if you know who I'm talking about. That guy looks like he's never used a computer in his life, but secretly he may be some kind of computer genius and has decided to focus his blog stalking on 30 something year old women who walk into Target for a box of Q-tips, but end up leaving with a myriad of clearanced items that don't match anything in her house, but were too cute and too cheap to pass up.

I logged onto the computer to finish a post I had started several months ago. This post wasn't it. Better luck next time.

2008-07-02T22:46:00.001-07:00

Today Emma had her first dental appointment. Understand that it's been a nagging thought for the past 117 weeks that she needs to visit the dentist. I'm not sure what kept me from making the appointment, especially since we've been paying for her to have dental insurance. Had someone actually knocked on my door on the 1st and 15th of every month and demanded cash from my wallet, I would have felt more of an urge to take advantage of the service, but my dental insurance provider has a nifty way of taking their payment straight from my paycheck. Out of site, out of mind.

Her appointment was for 2:15, which was swell because Clint's off work at 1:30. And when I say he's off at 1:30, I mean he's never off at 1:30, and it drives me crazy. Since he works in the construction industry, he follows the hours of the sun and the heat, so at the hottest time of the summer, he's at work at 5am, with a quitting time of 1:30pm. It's a fantastic schedule because, in theory, after I roll out of bed at 8am, ship Emma off to school, and get home, he's already completed half his day, and I only have 5 more hours to go until I can pawn Asher off on Clint while I curl my eyelashes and practice my moonwalk. Unfortunately, the aforementioned scenario is not my reality. Since Clint is salaried and important, he stays later. His start time may change, but he doesn't seem to take advantage of leaving earlier, which means during the summer, he ends up working longer days than in the winter. So, my moonwalk is on the back burner, and my eyelashes remain droopy. But, if Clint's assigned a commitment by me, he'll take off on time, which he had to today because I was not about to bring Asher with me. Asher would have grabbed the drill to use as a weapon against me while he stuck the suction hose up his nostrils. No, Asher was to stay at home with me while Clint took her. I had reminded Clint about this appointment last night, so when 1:50 rolled around, I expected Clint to tell me he would be turning down our street any minute. Who wants to take a guess where he still was? If you guessed work, you are correct, which right now is located on Higley and the I60. Clint had forgotten. In fairness, I had also forgotten about the appointment, but was lucky enough to have looked at the calendar while I was making plans for the weekend. Panic set in because my dentist office (and I'm sure all are like this) is sooooooo stringent with start times and they charge you $30 if you are a no show to your appointment. I called them and the lady gave me a hard time about being late. I jokingly said that the appointment shouldn't last as long as a typical adult appointment because her teeth were so little. The admin lady wasn't impressed with my reasoning, and continued to give me a hard time about being late, not having enough time for paperwork, etc. So, I told her to go ahead and e-mail me the paperwork and I would fill it out at home, and would hand it to Clint to bring with him. She chuckled and told me e-mail was a no go (when will doctors enter the digital age?) but she could fax it to me. I HATE using our fax machine. It's temperamental and grouchy, and it's an outdated method of communication. I begrudgingly told her to fax it, while I ran from this room to that room to rewire our entire phone system, dig a trench for a new phone line, climb up our telephone pole and solder some pieces together, load the fax on the dolly, and transport it to a functioning outlet (we're under construction in our house, so it's a bit unorganized). The phone rings, I press the button, and nothing comes. My panic rises a decibel, and I call again and ask for her to please, oh, please fax it again. The phone rings, I press the button, and nothing comes out again. AHHHH!!! I'm getting down to the wire, Clint's almost home, and I can't get the stupid paperwork to print. I call AGAIN and ask her to re-fax it, and while it's ringing for the 3rd time, I notice that the phone wire isn't plugged into the fax machine. With one ring to spare, I quickly snap it into place and I hear the beautiful sound of beeps and printing noises. I grab the first sheet and start filling it out as quick as possible, but I notice the printing doesn't seem to be stopping. I turn around and I see that 10 pages are in que to print. Why does her dentist need 10 pages of information? I rush lickety split to fill out the paperwork, all the while yelling at Emma in the bathroom to keep brushing her teeth (why do we brush our teeth right before we see the dentist? Like it's really going to make a difference. They still stick their torture devices into your gums and yell at you for not flossing enough). Clint comes home, Emma's on her way, and I relax while Asher's sleeping. Not more than 40 minutes goes by and Clint's pulling back up to our house. Emma comes into the house and I ask how it went. She plopped herself down onto the couch and very nonchalantly told me that she didn't want to do it today and that maybe tomorrow she'll want to do it. WHAT!! Clint tells me that she refused to put the x-ray thingamabobs in her mouth and the hygienist threw her arms up in the air after the first sign of refusal. Obviously this lady doesn't have kids. Clint had no chance at convincing Emma to give it a try after hearing that it was okay to stop. I'm considering putting Emma on dessert probation until her next successful appointment. I'm definitely changing dentists. Any recommendations?

Asher's Debut

2008-06-19T22:15:00.000-07:00

Now that I've figured out how this video thing works, I may go a little crazy with it.

This was filmed during an afternoon nap at which time Asher should have been sleeping. Instead he decided to do this the entire time. It seriously was like the John Jacob Jingle Hymer Schmidt song where it just repeats itself over and over without some type of chorus or refrain to break up the song to get to a stopping point. He somehow figured out a way to continue singing the song until I felt sorry for the kid and ended his nap time.

Untitled from Jaylee Draney on Vimeo.

Emma's Dance Recital

2008-06-17T08:49:00.000-07:00

This is Emma's 3rd recital she's danced in during her short little lifetime. I have the other two 0n tape somewhere that I'll try to share some other time. If you can believe it, the tickets were $18 each, and if you wanted to stay to watch the entirety of the recital after your child dances, you had to also purchase them a ticket. It's amazing what we'll pay to experience these things. Needless to say, Clint and I left after Emma danced.

This is a contraband video. The only personal filming a parent could do was during the dress rehearsal, and stupid me didn't get the camera set up before she came on, so instead of enjoying watching Emma practice her dance, I was fuming the whole time that I would have to pay $30 for the DVD, which I would pay in a heartbeat to capture the short two minutes of Emma's stardom on record. I eventually decided to tape it myself during the actual recital, which is forbidden because, obviously, they want you to purchase their professional DVD. Had Emma been in more dances, I may have done that, but as it was I had already spent $550 on dance lessons, $50 on her costume, and $36 on recital tickets, which works out in the end to $318 a minute, or $5.30 a second during her 2 minute long performance. I did my best to stick it to the man.

I am thrilled with how well she did, and so proud she is able to dance in front of hundreds of people without peeing her leotard. Every year without fail, I'm a bundle of nerves leading up to her performance, and every year after her performance, I tell myself that was the last season of dance lessons. Three years later she's still going strong.

Untitled from Jaylee Draney on Vimeo.

2008-06-11T13:15:00.001-07:00

Don't you hate it when you have to call the dentist for your daughter to make an appointment, which you should have done weeks ago but kept forgetting, and you kick yourself every night before you go to bed that you accomplished quite a bit during the day, except you can't take care of this one simple task, and you vow that "tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow I will call the dentist" and then you forget again because life gets in the way and you have to drive to Target AGAIN to return yet another impluse item, and finally on the way home from running errands you repeat in your mind "call the dentist, call the dentist", and when you get home at 12:45, before you do anything else, you run into the house, look up the number, grab the phone and dial? And don't you hate it that between the hours of 12:30 and 1:30 Monday through Thursday they're out to lunch? And you know that it will be another 2 weeks before you get around to calling again and by that time every last one of Emma's teeth will have fallen out.

I Should Own Stock in Behr

2008-06-10T00:24:00.000-07:00

My outlet for expression has deviated recently into creating perfect paint lines.

I hate painting. I hate it because it's so obvious when it's not perfect. When you're sitting in someone else's bathroom relieving yourself, you usually end up looking at the wall in front of you, and when it's a particularly long visit, you may find yourself trailing your line of vision along the top of the baseboards, up the door frame, around the ceiling, etc., silently taking inventory of all the paint blobs that seeped over their designated space. I hate it because I have no other handy talent I can contribute towards the continuing black hole of home improvement our house requires. I don't trust myself to do anything else, so with clenched teeth and paintbrush in hand, I tape and paint and re-tape and repaint, and my day's mood begins to depend on whether a perfect line emerges after I so gently peel off the tape at a perfect 90 degree angle.

If you find me laying on the bathroom floor with my eyes gouged out by a paintbrush, make sure you get a good look at my smokin paint edges before you call for the coroner.

The 2nd Best Sister In Law There Ever Was

2008-05-12T01:29:00.001-07:00

A few weekends ago, I attended Chelsie's graduation from NAU. She is entering the honorable field of teaching. I've known Chelsie since she was 12 years old. She was a cute, naive little girl who always wanted to tag along with her older brothers, much to their dismay. I've watched her grow into a very beautiful young lady. But it's still hard for me to remember that she's not the cute, naive little girl anymore. She's a grown woman who actually holds a college degree, has lived on her own, and has dated more boys than I have appendages. I still tease her mercilessly, which I'll need to put a kibosh on, since she'll soon be making more of a positive difference in the world than I currently do, and that deserves respect. Teasing, regrettably, is my way of saying I like you.

Last Thanksgiving, Chelsie phoned all of her siblings and their spouses and asked them each to write a letter to whomever they had picked for Christmas (we each pick names instead of buying presents for all 9 adults). The letter was to be about why we are thankful for that individual. We all laughed with each other about how Chelsie was trying to shake things up. Chelsie had the best of intentions, but we still took this as an opportunity to tease her. Being the youngest, non-married Draney, she really has to fight to be heard and taken seriously. So, her plan backfired; we all ended up writing a letter to Chelsie. Chelsie got 8 letters read to her on Thanksgiving about why we are thankful to her. Here's the poem I wrote to her:

I’m thankful for Chelsie for so many reasons
To write them all would take 7 ½ seasons
From her radiant smile to her fantastic hair
From her helpfulness to the clothes that she wears
I value her opinion; she always tells the truth
I hope she has a daughter, but doesn’t name her Ruth
I’m thankful for Chelsie and all that she does
She is the 2nd best sister in law there ever was (can you guess whose the 1st?)
She has a flair about her; a great disposition
Engaged like 17 times and almost served a mission
Youngest of five, first one to finish school
Too bad in Flagstaff you can’t use your pool
We love you, We love you, We love dear Chels
Please next time let’s do something else

Sorry Chels, maybe next year we'll try it again.

FYI - I'm currently accepting dating applications for her. If you or anyone you know loves to laugh, have fun, and has a strong testimony, please submit your photo and cover letter, along with a list your most redeeming qualities, 3 references, and the name of your last girlfriend. You must be taller than her, moderately attractive, and have nice teeth. Remember, she's the baby of the family, so you'll be dealing with 4 older siblings, 3 of whom are very protective brothers. Shy applicants need not apply.

Mother

2008-05-11T19:10:00.000-07:00

Growing up, I thought I had the hippest, prettiest mother.

I didn't know her then.

She did eventually blossom into this beautiful person -

We were anything but a conventional family, and I both hated and relished this fact, depending on what the situation was. Somehow she managed to raise me, put herself through school, work, and eventually gain a masters degree in Art History. She is anything but boring.

I could list millions of anecdotes about her. Just last night she added to my ever growing list. My grandmother wanted to take a picture of us at the dinner table. My mother would not get into the frame until her lipstick was freshened. Then, for a good 10 minutes, my mother talked about how she wants to get a cow and churn her own butter. I told her the idea of unpasteurized milk made me gag, so she said she would buy all the pasteurization equipment. As if it were that simple. After the cow conversation, my mother struck up a discussion with the hot waiter about desert tortoises.

Thank you mother for being one of the most interesting women that I know. I love you!