Dress Drama

Found prom dress,  It covers a lot of real estate except for those slippery slopes called shoulders.  Found seamstress (my neighbor, Terryl, who will probably be putting a for sale sign in front of her house if I ask her to do one more thing. . .), but can't find matching fabric.  So, I am home alone worrying about sleeves while Cool Beans is out worrying about boys.  I would put on the dress, take a picture and include it with this post, but you would probably spew because old woman in prom dress is so Uncle Ricoish.

Besides, I tried that once and it didn't work out so well.  Daughter #1 was a few weeks away from getting married.  I had just buried my mother, literally.  Okay, I didn't actually shovel the dirt, but you know what I mean.  I was home alone and a friend stopped by.  We got talking about the wedding and she asked to see the dress.  Seeing it on a hanger wasn't good enough; she wanted to see it on my daughter who was not home.  So in my grief-stricken, numb-minded state, she talked me into putting it on.  At least that's the story I'm going with.

I dropped my clothes on the family room floor and climbed, yes climbed--it was very poofy--into the dress.  We could even zip it up but only because daughter #1 inherited her chest from my sister-in-law Sharee, which is another story. 

But I digress. 

I was standing in a ginormous, puffy marshmallow swirl, when the doorbell rang.

My friend answered the door prepared to tell whichever one of my children's friends it was that whoever they wanted wasn't home.  Because the door is never for me unless it's a salesman or my friend who wants me to try on wedding dresses.

Instead she poked her head around the corner and said, "Jill, it's for you.  It's the stake president (equivalent to a Catholic Bishop).  He and his wife are here to make sure you are e-mo-tion-al-ly sound."  

So, they sat on the couch and I sat across from them looking like a toilette papering job gone bad while I assured them that I was physically, spiritually, and e-mo-tion-al-ly sound. 

So in a nutshell, that is why I won't be trying on the prom dress.

Besides, I'm not really confident about the whole zipper thing because this dress is more of the form-fitting type and not-so-much of the poofy type which was more daughter #1 and #2s' style.  So, in a buttshell, the dress will remain in the closet and my fragile ego will remain in my sweat pants.

Prom Dress Shopping

The only thing better than prom dress shopping is natural childbirth.  (Yes, been there, done that, got the t-shirt 3 times.  You can read about one of those times here.) 

My 4th daughter, Cool Beans, just got asked to prom and even though I birthed 3 girls before her, not a single one of them has ever owned a dress that she remotely desires to wear.  Go figure.  Actually her figure could be part of the problem because she actually has one while her 3 predecessors were mostly sticks. 

I don't know if you're aware of this little fact, but sleeves are expensive, so are backs and so is any kind of fabric that covers cleavage. 

So while this costs $349.00,

Ahhh!

this costs $136.00.

She-bam!

That's $213.00 for less than a yard of fabric to cover some very prime real estate.  I think I can get a root canal for cheaper.  Just saying.

I would offer her one of my old prom dresses if I'd ever gone to prom that is.  And if I had, it would have looked like this:

Hmmmm

Because who didn't wear a Gunne Sax dress to the prom in the 80's?  That is, if you went to prom.

Anyway, it doesn't leave much to the imagination except: What were we thinking???!!! Well, I mean what were those other girls thinking, the ones who actually went to prom in their Gunne Saxes?

Blindsided

When I was 20, I moved to Marietta, OH with my husband and 4 month old daughter. I had lived within a 20 mile radius in UT my entire life. This was long before Skype, the internet and cell phones. I was basically thousands of miles away from everyone and everything familiar. My husband was at work all day and I was home with a baby and a phone with nobody to call because I didn’t know anybody and long distance was so not in our budget.

One day I was standing on my front porch on 9^thstreet, ( a cute street I might add with cobblestones) when I saw my neighbor sitting on his porch across the street. I smiled and waved. The man stared directly at me and did not respond. Thinking, not too confidently, that perhaps he didn’t see my gesture, I waved again. Still, he did not return the wave. Flustered, embarrassed and angry, I retreated into the house.

I racked my brain trying to think of reasons he wouldn’t want me in his neighborhood. Maybe his best friend had lived there before and he was angry that we had moved in. He was older, maybe he thought because we were young that we would be loud and annoying. He had seen me holding my baby; maybe he didn’t like children. He was black; maybe he didn’t like white people.

Day after day he sat on the porch and never recognized my existance as I left my house to gather mail and such.

One day, a different gentleman sat on the porch. Maybe he would be friendlier.  Mustering up my courage, I offered a friendly wave. Nothing. No recognition of my presence, only the same stare the other gentleman had extended.

Near tears, I fled to the house contemplating how we could get out of our contract and move somewhere else. Somewhere better. Someplace where people were nicer.

I don’t remember how I ever found out, (it was nearly 25 years ago and I have such fond memories of those men, George and Vernie Flowers, that those first negative memories are a blur) but I eventually did find out that those two, sweet, old men were blind. Blind as bats.

They lived in the house with their sister Dot, her husband Max and Dot and Maxs' two daughters.  Dot became a second mother to me and a grandmother to my daughter and the next 2 children I would have.  I spent a good part of the 3 ½ years we lived there sitting on that porch, laughing, talking and swinging.

Dot, George and Vernie have long since passed away, but I still talk to Dot’s daughter, Jennifer, regularly. I count her as family even though she’s now married and has 2 kids of her own and lives on the other side of the country.

So, that is why I love the message Looking Through Windows so much because you just never know.

I almost let my insecurity, suspicions, and ill-drawn conclusions keep me from knowing and loving some of the best people I’ll ever meet. Don’t let it happen to you.

Yes, I Still Love the Man and all Those Kids

Last week when I was doing that lucrative, exciting job I have called subbing, I had an interesting conversation with a mother that came to help in the classroom. 

Of course this converesation took place between snippets of other conversations with kindergartners that went like this:

Kevin, get those scissors out of your mouth.

and

Kevin, put your shirt back on.

and

Teacher, Delia says I have a girl cousin and I don't.

and

Teacher, Delia says she knows karate, and she doesn't.

And it took place between activities like

tracing letters,

pin art,

the alphabet song

and coloring cherry trees because it was the Thursday before President's Day and they were learning that George Washington cut one down and didn't lie about it which is all a big lie. . .

Remind me again why anyone needs a degree to teach kindergarten?  Oh yeah, because the government won't let you teach unless you have one.

Anywhoo this story is not about kindergarten and pencils up noses and and imaginery girl cousins, and public education, it is about love and motherhood.  

While I was making sure nobody imbibed glue while attaching cherries to their trees, the mother helper asked me how many children I had.  Her jaw dropped when I said 7.  Her next question was, are they all yours?  More jaw dropping.  I answered her next question before she asked it.  "Yes, I'm crazy," I said, "and I'd do it all again."

Her next question surprised me.  "And," she said, "do you still love your husband?"

"Yes," I replied with no hesitation.

She touched my arm, looked into my eyes and said, "Really? You really love your husband after all those years and kids."

Yes, yes, yes, yes, I love my husband after all those years.  I love my husband because of all those years.  I love my husband in spite of all those kids.  I love my husband because of all those kids.

I love the movie Yours, Mine and Ours.  It's about a widow and widower who get married and have 18 children between them.  The following scene takes place as the husband Frank is leaving the house to take his wife Helen to the hospital to have "their" baby which will be child number 19.  Helen's oldest daughter Colleen has just had her boyfriend chased out of the house by one of her step-brothers for making inapprorpriate advances towards her.  Colleen is thinking maybe she's being childish not to give into her boyfriend's demands.

Colleen North: [Helen is about to have a baby] I know this is a terrible time to talk about it, but Larry says...
Frank Beardsley: I've got a message for Larry. You tell him this is what it's all about. This is the real happening. If you want to know what love really is, take a look around you.
Helen North: What are you two talking about?
Frank Beardsley: Take a good look at your mother.
Helen North: Not now!
Frank Beardsley: Yes, now.
[to Colleen]
Frank Beardsley: It's giving life that counts. Until you're ready for it, all the rest is just a big fraud. All the crazy haircuts in the world won't keep it turning. (Yes this is a 60's movie.) Life isn't a love in, it's the dishes and the orthodontist and the shoe repairman and... ground round instead of roast beef. And I'll tell you something else: it isn't going to a bed with a man that proves you're in love with him; it's getting up in the morning and facing the drab, miserable, wonderful everyday world with him that counts.
[Leaving the house, they say good-bye to the little kids]
Frank Beardsley: I suppose having 19 kids is carrying it a bit too far, but if we had it to do over who would we skip... you?
Helen North: [getting into the car] Thank you, Frank. I never quite knew how to explain it to her.
Frank Beardsley: If we don't get you to the hospital fast, the rest of it's going to be explained right here!
 

Love isn't something you fall into, and it's not something that grows on you with little or no effort like a fungus or a mold. It's something that you're committed to day after day, bill after bill, kid after kid.

So yes I'm crazy--CRAZY IN LOVE with my husband!

I so should have written this post on Valentine's Day. 

Lock Down

Today there was a lock down at our high school.  I heard about it when my daughter, Tess called me from the middle school to tell me not to come and pick her up and take her to the high school for her basketball practice.

I’ve had kids in school for 22 years and never had a lock down.  “Lock down” gives you that same queasy feeling in the pit of your stomach as cancer, or Josh Powell, or Columbine.

Of course I immediately texted my daughter, which is something I’m not supposed to do during school hours but is something I always do during school hours because what would be the use of giving a teenager a cell phone if you didn’t text them?  Just sayin.  Unfortunately, my carrier, whose initials are T Mobile, has terrible service inside the school, or no service at all, at least for calls that is, but I can usually get a text through.

My daughter called me back on somebody else’s phone, who doesn’t have T Mobile, and told me they were actually on “Shelter in Place.”  When I asked her what that meant, she had no idea.

“Where are you in the school?” I coaxed.

She answered that she was in her sign language class.

“Is the door locked?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Are the windows covered?”  I prompted.

“Yes.”

For a sign language class, there was a lot of talking going on.  I could tell that the mood was fairly light.

“Mom,” Morganne said, “I just wanted to say if I’ve ever done anything wrong, I’m sorry.”

Being the kind, sensitive mom that I am, I answered, “Morganne what did you do wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said.  “I just want you to know that I love you and that you’re the greatest mom ever and you’ve always done everything right.”

I’m quiet for a moment, a little concerned about the solemnity in her voice.

“Morganne, are you a little bit worried?” I ask.

“No,” she sighs.  “I’m just giving you crap.”

We both start laughing and I tell her to call when she can come out of her classroom and I’ll pick her up.

“Mom,” she says again.

“Yes,” I answer.

“I really do mean it.  You are the best.  I love you.”

“I love you too, Morganne.”

The “lock down” or “shelter in place” or whatever you want to call it is over.  My kids are home safe and should be in bed. . . And I am very much aware that this wonderful life I live could be dramatically changed at any time and I am grateful, and humble, and determined to be nicer, kinder, more loving, more forgiving. 

So, on the day after Valentine’s Day, when my Tess pointed out that all her friends got Valentines from their parents and she (along with her siblings—because I don’t discriminate) got a big fat nothing, I just want to send my LOVE to these people I call family.  And I want to remind them of what Morganne told me earlier today: “. . .you’ve always done everything right,” which is true with maybe the exception of forgetting to get you all Valentines and letting you eat ice cream and cold cereal for dinner.  But hey,  nobody’s perfect, right?  Thanks for loving me, cellulite and all.

Xoxoxo

Mom

Lists

My husband is a list maker.  I am not.  Lists are pressure I tell you. They are proof that you are failing.  For example, what if I actually wrote on a list, write on my blog?  It would be staring at me every day making me feel really guilty when in reality I only feel a snidge guilty but I can usually smother a snidge of guilt with a bit of chocolate.  This is like that whole Pavlov's dog thing only the bell is guilt and the dogfood is chocolate and most of the drooling is ommitted; so how bad can a little guilt be?  Not that bad--at least until you have to buy new pants or undo the button on your pants and wear long shirts.  But I'll tell you what, sweats and pajama pants are oh so nice.  They actually make you feel comfy while your equator expands.

Butt, back to lists.  My husbands puts things on his lists and crosses them off at the end of the day.  Those few times that I made a list and didn't lose it, I usually ended up staring at it at the end of the day and feeling like a LOSER because I couldn't cross off anything because who knew that Pinterest could totally suck me in, or that I'd have to find a math assignment under the couch and run it to school, or that it takes a lot longer to get crayon off a wall than on a wall, or that a hot shower could feel so good and last so long????

At the end of the day when my husband is doing all his list crossing-off with that smug look of satisfaction on his face I sometimes make an end-of-the-day list.  IF I feel like it. 

It looks something like this:

Get up
Make sure the kids go to school
Kill an hour on the computer
Eat a brownie
Brush my teeth
Take a nap
Don't write
Talk on the phone
Pick up some pizza for dinner
Don't go to the gym
Make this list
Go to bed

I then cross everything off the list and go to bed.  My husband says this is cheating while I point out that I crossed EVERYTHING off my list and he still has a few items left.

I Survived Christmas 2011

My "friend" Brittany said a few weeks ago that Christmas was kicking her butt.  My butt has been thoroughly kicked by Christmas and life in general.  But it's been a good butt kicking and I am missing my blogging friends.  Yes, even though I've only ever met 3 or 4 of you, I feel you are my friends.  I share laughter, tears and smiles with you.  It's like having imaginary friends or a mid-life crisis.  You are great because one of you is always there when I need a good laugh and nobody gets all miffed when I ignore y'all while I'm drinking life from a firehouse.  You are cheaper than therapy and I don't need to send you a Christmas card.  So thanks for making me smile and cheering me up so many times.

If I felt like getting off this bed and getting my camera, I would post pictures of all the amazing crafty things I, yes I did this past month.  You would be impressed.  All of Martha Stewart's recent projects must have tanked because I have been totally chanelling her. Except for the prison part.  But prison doesn't sound half bad--3 square meals that I don't have to cook and time to read or write or do whatever I want. . .

But instead of posting crafty pictures, I will tell you the funny things my kids said this past week.

What I'm Trying to Say. . .

Morganne at a party:  Um, um, the ship is in your sea.
Friend:   Do you mean: The ball is in your court?
Morganne:  Yeah, that's what I was trying to say.

The Secret to Success

Luke:  Mom I have armpit hair.
Me:  No you don't.
Luke:  Yes I do; look in the light.
Me:  Gross!  You do have armpit hair.

Later that night
Me:  Luke, I'm sad that you have armpit hair.  It means you're growing up.  You don't want armpit hair do you?
Luke:  Mom, every boy wants armpit hair.  It's kind a sign that he's a real success.

At the Dinner Table

Luke to his brother Quin:  You must be butter because you are on a roll!
Quin:  Luke, that was actually funny.

Luke in Primary (Sunday School) during a sharing time about choices and consequences:

Sister Stout:  When Brother McDonald was a boy, he practiced the piano a whole lot.  What is the consequence of that action?

Luke quickly raises his hand.

Sister Stout:  Luke--

Luke:  He missed out on a lot of other things.

PMA, PMS and the Universe

My husband's all about PMA (positive mental attitude), while I'm all about PMS.  The first involves denying reality, not making contingencies for emergencies (don't you love the way those two words look together?) and thinking that if you don't talk about a problem, it doesn't exist.  The second involves bloating, eating, cravings, procrastinating, brain fog, cramping, irritability and mood swings and chocolate.  Did I mention chocolate?

According to my husband PMA can cure a cold, mend broken bones, lower cholesterol, and make your whites whiter.  Bless his heart.  I wish I had more PMA, not that I'm necessarily NMA (negative mental attitude), I think I'm just mostly MMIA (mentally missing in action--you know the light is on but I'm gone eating chocolate somewhere.)

My husband is also a firm believer in "putting things out in the universe."  This means that if you want something to happen, you think about it, you say it out loud, you write it down and the universe delivers. 

For instance, a couple months ago he thought he would like to go on a foreign trip so he sent his request into the universe and lo and behold within a couple months the universe delivered.  He went on two foreign trips (both work related).  The universe respects my husband probably because he is a serious man--one who dots his i's, and crosses his t's and never j-walks. 

The universe does not take me seriously.  Maybe it's because I wear mismatched socks, sing Captain and Tenille songs and tell your mom jokes to my kids.  If there's something I really want, I am smart enough to keep it on the DL because if I think it, say it or breath it, I will jinx myself and the universe will laugh in my face.

Just this past week, I let this thought escape into the universe: Gee it's been a long time (20 years) since we've  had goldfish.

About 30 minutes later there was a knock on the door.  When I opened it there was a plastic bag containing 3 goldfish with this note: Broil 2 minutes on each side.  Season with a pinch of salt.  Enjoy. 

Dear Universe:

If you get a message from me, just ignore it unless it involves money, a clean house, or buns of steel. 

Respectfully,

Me

P.S. The fish didn't even taste that good.

My Very Own Stick in the Mud

The man who makes my heart beat fast and loves me even though I'm directionally challenged, verbally unfiltered, and physically and mentally challenged is off seeing the world again.  Right now he is in Budapest, Hungary.  He was supposed to go there 2 years ago on Thanksgiving.  (What better place to be on Thanksgiving than Hungary, unless it's Turkey?) But his trip didn't pan out because his mother who always made me feel like I was the best thing that ever happened to her family--now I realize she was just very kind, very patient, and very smart--and I love her for it, decided to take a permanent trip to heaven.

So, while Ric is lecturing in Hungary, which is a better place for him to lecture than the kitchen table, I made an exciting trip to Lindon which is almost like London except it is missing an o, a bridge,  a tower and an abbey plus some blood pudding and bubbles and squeak.  But what Lindon is lacking in towers and abbeys they make up for in exciting things like Kindermusic with Rebecca Hainsworth, because seriously, kinder music has got to beat rap;  First Fantasies Costume Cuzzin  because who couldn't use a little fantasy especially if it involves your cousin???  And my favorite, JUMP ON IT.  At least my sweaty son and his recess-smelling friends said they had some wicked birthday fun there.

But how funny is this?

The picture my husband sent to family members from his trip to the Dead Sea to prove he is not a stick in the mud.

He is the tall stick in case you are wondering. 

No, he is not a stick in the mud.  He is a Ric in the mud.

Halloween Quiz answers before Thanksgiving

Answers to the Halloween Costume Quiz:

Flashlight.  The only kind of flashing I do.

Panty-waist, although my friend guessed chastity belt when I wore it to a par-tay. 

Party-pooper, what my husband has dressed up as every year, only he won't wear the hat unless I photoshop it on. . . along with the brown. . .

Hand-me-down.  Very exciting for someone with three older sisters.

Cactus.  Who knows?  Cactusing could be the new planking.

Ceiling fan.  This is what I wanted Luke to be for Halloween.  But alas, he chose to be a stick man instead.  At least he has the body for it.

Dead end.  Thank you Bree for letting me use your end because well, it's hard to take a picture of your own butt and well, mine has kind of gone south.

Split-end -- although technically Lila doesn't have to worry about split-ends until she gets hair.

Ice cream--do you get it?  There's her eyes (ice) and on her eyelid is the word scream.  It's okay.  My family didn't laugh either.

9.

Your mom.  Okay this one did make my family laugh because we are ALWAYS telling your mom jokes: Like tonight when Luke said, "This dinner's hot," and I said, "Your mom's hot!"