Greasy Locks

It's funny. When you become a mom, and not just a first time mom, you go in a series of ups and downs. Everyone has meltdowns, and then suddenly you've been able to organize a picnic at the park with the whole family in the sunshine. We're in the downturn right now. For instance, I've had greasy hair for three days. I haven't managed to take a shower until Jared gets home from work. And that's about 5:30pm. It never occurred to me, that since this is the internet, I should be using covert names for myself and my family. For this purpose, I'll be calling Jared a new name: Juarez. And the Rylee can be Cornucopia and Madison will be PurpleNurple. Jackson of course will be Sunshine and my new name will be DoomsDay. I like this name thing. So Juarez gets home from work and sees his greasy haired wife, DoomsDay, still in her bathrobe with a hopeful (and unclean) look that maybe she'll get to bathe. Who even cares about dinner. It's just a bath I want. So I finally get clean and now I understand that it all makes sense: No wonder I feel like my day begins when Juarez gets home. I don't bathe, eat, or breath until he walks in the door at 5:30. But then how on earth, during the summer months, do I manage to can millions of peaches, necturines, pears, and applesauce without the slightest inconvenience?
So the lady who owned our rental house (notice: owned is past tense) died recently. I wish her no disrespect, but "WHAAAA?" Yes, I got home from National Pancake Day at IHOP yesterday (each person got a free short stack of pancakes--which that's three pancakes each and I don't think it's that short) and found a message on my phone. *Twilight Zone Music* It was from Kathy Hummel, foreboding killer of a woman who's always gone to the greatest lengths to avoid my phone calls because she knows I actually care about taking care of a rental house. Anyway, so she'll tell her receptionist, she's not in yet, she just went to the bathroom, she's in a meeting, she went to lunch, she's gone for the day (2:oo anyone?). I'm really not kidding. She HATES to talk to me on the phone. But she had a great relationship with the last tenants who let their dog pee over the entire house, the bird poop all over one bathroom (his apparent "cage" for want of a better word), who painted the rooms atrocious colors, broke everything in sight, and never cleaned or disinfected a single doorknob (or bathtub). Renters like that love tenants they can just stick in a house and ignore. Anyway, I actually got a call from her (I'm having a terrible time with the italics--they kept italicizing the "call") on my phone! I almost had a heart attack and Jared asked why I wasn't calling her back. I replied, "Would you jump into the lion's cage if the lion gave you a wanton smile?" Oh here we go again. I didn't even press the italics button. And Juarez rolled his eyes. I called her, and she said, "The owner of the house died, she passed away in her sleep. We're going to be selling the house. We'll give you 30 days notice when we have a buyer." And I'm like, "oh, how kind of you." And so my mind is racing a thousand miles a minute trying to figure out if I have to be present when people come to see the house and if I actually care enough to have the house clean when people come and if I do have the house clean, if I'll have the guts to offer things for sale when they come by. Like, "Would you like to purchase the fridge with the house? You'll have to look in a junkyard for one this small because they don't make them anymore. And nothing bigger will fit because the builders didn't know fridges would get this big back then." Maybe I should tell them about how there was once mold in the wall. Would that just be scandalous? It's true. The owner once told me. They got it removed, but who knows if there's more. All the handles are messed up and every drawer opens with a chilling, "Creeechheeeeshshshsack." Apart from the apparent problems, I've enjoyed the space and lawn and deck. And it'll be sad to finally say Adios to this dwelling place. And where the heck are we going to live?? That'll be another blog...

Perpetual Laundering

We have a thing at our house. This thing grows and grows until it can grow no more. Have you seen The Blob? Excellent movie. I think I saw it on TV edited and I was so happy because it was so terrifying. So why not try to re-create it? But my Blob is out of laundry. It grows in every room and finally ends up in one mass in my room. And it wiggles and changes positions (see: when I'm trying to find socks early in the morning) and it infects the personages in the household (see: Rylee who wears ten outfits at once because she can't decide between all the beautiful outfits she finds). And it just keeps growing until finally there are literally no clothes left for anyone to wear. That's when I sit Jared down and I have "the talk." It starts like this..."Do you remember when we used to spend time together alone? It's like I never see you any more. You're always hiding behind a big wall. I need to see you more!!!" And he says, "Fine, let's fold the laundry and then we can both fit on the bed tonight." And we spend the entire night watching a chick flick (those are the only movies that require 1/8th of your brain to understand and care about) and folding laundry. And then finally, oh what sweet rapture, I'm able to cross off Fold Laundry on my list. And you know when I cross that one off, I'll finally be able to throw the list away, because it's been sitting there waiting for me to cross it off for weeks. And then I start my new list and that's the first thing on it. So it's my perpetual laundering experience for the person who never stops laundering.

And then there's the "securing your assets" people. Not necessarily against a fledgling economy or criminals, but against their children. My favorite was when I walked into a friend's house and looked around. Every drawer had screws in it. Even the VHS/DVD player had a board screwed into the entertainment center over it so that the kids couldn't access it. Her response, "They were breaking everything. And we hit our breaking point. My husband went around the entire house with his screw driver and nailed down anything that moves." She had this crazed look in her eye, so I avoided asking the question, "How are you going to watch a movie then?" But I got this eerie feeling like I was in a mental institution so I politely excused myself and got the heck out of there. Not to mention the kids were monkeys. Intelligent monkies, though. But it's like the brains weren't attached to their bodies. Their synapses must have been fried

Compliments of the Girl with the Red Arm

I forget occasionally that the point of this blog is not for the people who are reading, but for myself. A sort of therapy, if you will. I've always been one to write a three page freewrite when emotions reign high and delete it later on when I've become sane again. So I'll try to write to myself and no one else.
Compliments. Positive things. Jared wouldn't claim me to be a glass-half-full type of person. More of a dooms-day worry wart type. My sisters picked My Song as the one from Independence Day-It's the End of the World as we Know it, and I feel fine. Kind of like every day is the end of the world. And maybe it is, I certainly try to live like it is. Because who really knows, huh? So, appropriate song. But I'm trying to establish my character here. A bit negative, kind of anxious. That sound right? I agree. But at the same time, I decided a while ago in life that if I think something positive, it should be said. Because what good is a positive thought if it's just stuck in your head? Does it really help anyone else? I mean, what good is sugar in a cabinet if you never take it out and bake something for someone with it? What good is a bath if you pour the hot water, wait 3 hours and forget about it until the next morning? You've got to throw out the whole bath! If you know me, you'll understand that that is a crime against humanity. Baths rock.
So, when I think something positive, I spew it out. Even to people I don't know. Compliments just come. And they're honest and truthful and I tell myself that maybe someone will appreciate them and it will make a difference. How many times have you thought--wow, she looks really pretty today! Or, great mascara, etc. It doesn't all have to be physical comments either. It can consist of character traits I admire, certain things I appreciated, etc. And so the world hears my compliments. So I may be a bit worrisome, but at least I'm getting the good part out. At least it's doing something for someone. Maybe it will negate my negativity. Who knows? But who really cares? I'm not doing it for someone's opinion about me. But maybe, just maybe, I'm doing it because once I asked this girl at BYU (who looked 9 months pregnant) when her baby was due and then she said she wasn't pregnant and I went home a prayed that I wouldn't ruin her self esteem. And so I vowed to build people up in an honest way and find things that others wouldn't normally mention. And I'll NEVER ask anyone that question again. That was just horrible. I still feel terrible.

Men and the Super Bowl

What's with men and the Super Bowl? Jared hasn't watched any football AT ALL this season and I decided to surprise him for being such a good man. So I Tivoed the Super Bowl and got all the ingredients for a full-on Super Bowl experience. Wings, potato skin nachos, weird cookies, pork slaw sandwiches. But considering how great the menu sounds, Jared will probably only eat a few things and say he's full. He's known for his perpetual attention to satiety. In other words, he stops eating when he's full or has had too much salt, sugar, or fat. Now who does that??? For REAL. You've got to be from another planet to have control over your appetites! Now, I do believe it's something to be admired, but I can get pretty annoyed if I've made some awesome food and Jared won't even taste it on the premise that, "I've had too much sugar today." During those unbelievable times, I command, "You taste it and you better like it too!" Hormones might play a little role in the matter, but so does the whole "cook" thing where you're cooking for other people and you just want to see them eat it. I mean, I don't even taste it until it's done and Jared's already tried it. To be honest, part of that has to do with the fact that if it's bad (and that's a definite possibility) then I won't eat it, but it's still so nice of me to make something anyway. Isn't it? We try to be these prim homemakers and when we make french bread with dead yeast, our husbands have to taste the sponge bread and pretend that it was worth all the effort we put in. Jared's comment, "It's just like they make in Jerusalem." Like he's ever been there.
So kudos to Jared for earning a night out with good food and great friends. You earned it, babe.
It hasn't been too difficult with three children. Jared thinks I've reached my limit of sanity, but I figure I'm fairing pretty well compared to some other mothers. I mean, when I had one kid it was really hard for me to find time to bathe. And now with three, bathing is no problem. Does that make sense? Sure, I freak out a little bit when Jared is gone for two days camping or on a work trip. But who doesn't? Does he know any mother who doesn't get stressed out when her only break is taken away? I just know it's a breath of heaven when Jared's putting the kids to bed. The angels start singing and the TV turns on and it's in the "zone." You know the zone. When people talk to you and ask you to do something and you hear a little Bzzzzz and drool a little bit. That's just MY time. Sometimes I've wondered where my priorities are that the very little personal time I get I use to do nothing and think nothing or read something that's nothing, but it's all good. I've always been an avid supporter of Down Time and I think it's necessary for some sanity. So here's to all the mothers who spend their time in a stupor of thought. This one's for you.