Mystery Foods

You know how I feel the lack of a little “culture” ‘round these here parts, right? Well, one area we’re doin’ pretty good in, is that of the Latin American type. I wanted to share a little of that with you all today. Hold on tight, and you might have to cover your nose while reading. (And remember, I, like most of you, am a spoiled American.)

I went to Mexico and Guatemala when I was 19 years old, was there several weeks and had a fantastic time. Life changing, in fact. I learned so very much, grew through amazing experiences, and attainted an appreciation for a very different way of life.

One major part of my trip, was – OF COURSE – the ‘experience’ of the food. It was like unfolding a mystery. “People really eat things like this?” I ate cows stomach, not the lining of the stomach, THE stomach. And it was furry.

I don’t need to say more than, “woof” for you here.

But it was part of the ‘experience’.

I saw stars I’d never seen before on a remote lake in Northern Guatemala. I basked in torrential down pours in rain forests. I climbed most of the ruins you’ve seen on the travel channel, and lots you haven’t. Bats hung above my bed while I slept in my mosquito net. I saw the lives of people that have been, for the most part, untouched for thousands of years. I swam in the clearest waters and smiled at schools of the most heavenly fish. Words can’t fully tell the imprints this experience left on me.

But the food. The food was amazing. And quite frightening, at the same time. I have loved the cultures of Central America since my first Spanish class. (Remember my tree trimming post, and my fantastic Spanish abilities? Yes, those classes.) But many of the smells and aromas you encounter in these Latin American countries are part of the ‘experience’. Ones that I think of when I think of visiting these far off lands again.

So, recently when I was in a local Mexican Tienda, I was blown away. And not in a good way. One of the things that astounded me in Mexico, was the smell of their carneceria’s (meat markets). They wreak. I mean, like sweaty, hot, stinky meat. Guess what? I think they can import the smell to the U.S. now. Really. I had to put my nose in my shirt and leave. Which in Central America, is pretty much just the smell in most markets. Here, we cover ‘that’ up – or try to keep it at bay.

I came home and told Peter about all of the fun things I had seen; and smelled. The store was, seriously, just like the stores there. Fresh tortillas being made and packaged right there, the shelves packed and messy, great looking produce, international phone cards being sold everywhere, and – last, but not least, meat stink.

I think we should leave that ‘mystery’ there. Let’s save that for the, ‘experience’. Okay?

Well, yesterday I got the local grocery ads with my mail. And, there of course, were ads for the latino mercados. So, in an effort to show you a little of the ‘mystery’ I think is better left south of the border, I took some pictures for you. And here they are:

Yep, right next to the "Fresh White Corn" you can hurry down and get yourself some "Beef Tounge." And only 1.49/lb. Sheesh, my tounge would cost a lot. Huh? Anybody need to see "the big tounge?" Just for fun? You let me know, and I'll get 'er done for ya.

And, mmmm. Beef feet. Has no one driven by the farm and seen what these beef feet have been standing in? Really? I'm sorry, but I just don't think these look, or sound, that great. But at .59/lb, who can argue?

And, a little of my favorite here. Patitas De Pollo. (Please note how they put the english second here, so as not to scare off any native english speakers) These were being served to me, one eveing in Southern Mexico, but I politely avoided them. Cluck, cluck.

Now, I'm sure that these things aren't the worst. But I think I can safely say, that for me, none of these are on my top list of "super yums." How 'bout you?

I think I'll leave the 'mystery' for my next exciting 'experience'. But thanks anyway.

Somersaults and Cartwheels

Last night I was watching my kids try to do the ever famous, ba-ba-buh-ba!!! (drumrollllll)Somersault!!! I know, doesn't seem real hard, right? And they made great efforts. I coached them enthusiastically (aka-bossily) from my overstuffed, comfy chair. Finally after watching them do head stand and flop, after head stand and flop, I say -

"Oh. Look out. I'll show you myself!"

I confindently get to floor, move them all out of the way, hunch on my knees, put my hands next to me and...."ooof." I sit up,

"There's no way I'm doin' one of those. I'll hurt my neck." I say.

Nice. I'm a good mom. I know.

But really, it was strange. I was watching them, and it seemed so natural that I could almost feel myself doing one. But then, onto the floor; and I chickened out. What? I think last time I did them so freely, I was about this size:

Check out Minks and her "beauty queen" pose.

Do we have to grow up? Really? It's such a bummer. I know that within the last five years I've done a cart wheel, and I find it totally pathetic that I know this.

Shouldn't I be doing cart wheels regularly? Of course I should!

So; New Years Res. number one:
More somersaults and cart wheels.

I think one of each this year would constitute more, right? And I am challening all of you to at least one of each as well. SO - get movin'!

Farewell, dear cell phone of mine.

SO, I dropped my cell phone in the toilet. I know, classy. It’s true.


Last Thursday I was running out the door, had to rush Simon along so I could go, before we were late for pick up. As I stood to flush – phone in the toilet. Again in my life though, – not my fault. I swear.


My mother keeps everything, and I do mean, EVERYTHING in her bra. I have been calling it her bra-ket (like a bra pocket) since I was about 15. She, in fact, loses things in there. One time my cousin had to break into our parked car in downtown Seattle, because my mom had “lost” her keys. Yeah, come to find out, lost them in her BRA!


Why do I refer to bra-ket stories, mid toilet-in-phone stories? Uh, well. Mmm. OKAY!!! I admit it! I’ve adopted a bra-ket of my own. There. It’s out. Fine. (ONLY for my cell phone though.)


It was while in my bra-ket that the phone slipped from the snug grip of my bosom, into the vast abyss of toilet waste. (numero uno – luckily) Maybe all this working out is paying off, and in fact my greatly endowed size is in fact melting away?!


Oh, who am I kidding. I wish.


But to tell the end of the sad story, well that is the end of the cell phone. I stood looking into the toilet, waffling – “Uh. Umm. Uh. Okay – just stick your hand in and grab itttt….NOW!” I grabbed, rinsed, and Lysol wiped all in one fail swoop.


But. It’s dead. I think the rinse under running water may have been the true demise, but one can never tell. And really, can I risk unmentionables drying on my phone? (ie; potty) And then talking on it? Well of course I can’t. So now, it’s sanitary AND dead.


Dear Santa,

Please bring me a water, toilet, sink, sanitary wipe proof phone.

Love,

The Germ-a-phobe

Bowling in Paradise

Who doesn't love to bowl? I mean really, so its a little creepy; rented shoes, fingers in dark holes that have been occupied by who knows what and who, stinky lanes, generally icky crowd, etc. You know what I'm talking about. But when you live where I do, it's a whole other story.

*Heavenly Choirs Here*

I am telling you, BYU Bowling is the only way to go! Okay, so it's still bowling, and I do still feel the constant need to wash my hands; but it's WAY better than any other bowling alley in the world. It's recently been re-done, which really helps. It's very clean, no smoke, lots of family, no foul language, and the most obscene thing you'll see is a freshman couple canoodling while they bowl. No "tramp stamps" from every ones behind, (well, at least we hope not) no drug deals in the back corner, and they even - drumroll - have all the lights on! It's great.

You may be able to tell that I grew up bowling at a less than classy joint. (I probably learned what the word "joint" meant, while bowling there.) You all know how I feel about the "bubble" and "happy valley." But this, I'll take.

It's good, clean, family fun - I tell you!

Please notice that I was ahead the whole game! Then, out of no where, Peter side swiped me and WON! Arghh! Oh well. And Roo had two spares and a strike. LOVE the gutter-rails.

So the next time you're in the land of sweet perfection, or at least that's what they like you to think, come on down to The Wilkie for a round of bowling! We'll tag along and have a fan-diddly-tastic time.

Life as a first time mother

Remember your first baby? Did you go as nut-so as me?

I had to buy Dreft, because, of course – I wanted by baby to smell the best! Giant “HA!” here. “Uh, duh Teresa, you really can’t do just the baby’s laundry separate ALL the time. Especially at the Y Mount Laundry Mat.” (But I did for a while.)



Or how about totally baby proofing your house, after all, it’s only you and the baby. (Okay, I guess Peter was there too) Twice this last weekend I had to, screamily, stick my finger into the depths of Chubbles to retrieve one of Roo’s “jingle bells.” No matter how “picked up” I think things are; they’re not.

Maybe you bathed your little bundle every, single, without fail, no questions about it – day. Oh, I know I did. Samuel was the cleanest baby on the planet. And now? Well, you can guess. We’re doing FAN-TASTIC at every other day. That’s what scented baby wipes are for, right?

At any rate, I came to a realization. As I was changing baby today, he takes lessons for The Tasmanian Devil at changing time, I simply grabbed the nearest “toy.” Yep, a pen. A pen? Samuel didn’t even touch a pen ‘til he was three. Now it’s, “Go ahead and chew on that. What ever it takes to make you hold still and be quiet.” What have I become!? (No calling CPS, alright?!)

I also let him ride in the cart at Costco yesterday, and didn’t even wipe off the cart first. I know, ‘livin’ on the edge’ here. I let him chew on keys, he regularly climbs in the fire place –unlit, OF COURSE. He climbs onto the couch, and I say. “Well, he got up. He’ll get down.” Bad, bad mom.

So the realization? Happy medium in all things, I say. If you are horrified at this post, you have, mayyyy-be, one child. (or more, and are a woman I don’t think I can be friends with anymore. LOL) If you are laughing, saying, “Oh yeah, that’s totally me.” Then you, are as overwhelmed as 'yours truly.' But in any case, I’m awfully glad I can laugh at myself, otherwise – I’d be crying.

P.S. I know you're all saying, "Could be worse!" And I know it. Just some days are worse than others. Take my good friend for example: Last month her daughter broke her clavical at the ward Halloween party, the next week her three year old super-glued his eye shut, (Long, and very interesting story. A trip to the emergency room, an eye patch for the week, a quick surgery, and a lot of shocked people when they find out what happened. Just remember to keep super glue away from your kids!) And a week later, her five year old broke, literally, his upper arm. Primary Children's Hospital, surgery and all!

Yes, I know, things could be worse. :-)

A little too small

Peter loooves to match his kids.

He has matching Aloha shirts (two sets), similar shoes (and wants more!), likes to dress the same at church, sleeping bags, backpacks, etc, etc. In fact, I bought all three of the boys matching ties last week. When I came home without one for him, he made me drive 20 minutes back, to find one for him. Darn! They didn’t have one! But, they are orange, he has a couple of those, and was appeased by the idea of “similar” being matching enough.

If you know him, you know this; He loves his kids. And, he loves dressing like them.

So when he walked in my office the other day, I was busily typing away. He said something that I wasn’t really paying attention to, wanting me to actually look at him, so he said it again.

“You know you’re dressing too much alike
when you put on “your” coat, and THIS happens.”

Luckily, camera at my trusty side, I captured it.

Seriously, this was NOT staged. (Obviously by the fantastic hair. Can you say, Vay-cay-shun?)

Could it be possible that I made two batches of rainbow jello, have eaten most of both, and STILL love it? I think I'm a weirdo. (duh?) You see, it’s kind of like the “graveyard” of jello. You know, “graveyards.” Those drinks when you get to serve yourself? You take your cup and “a little here, a little here, a little more there, annnnd, a little here.” (I used brown, because that is usually now the color of your drink) It’s all the flavors of jello; de-lish!



Maybe you haven’t heard about the store I want to open someday. (No stealin’ my idea! It's gonna make me rich; one day.) I’ll tell you about it: It’s a Jello store. That’s it. Just Jello.

Think of it. It iiiis our state food, you know. (embarrassingly enough) It’s a novelty store, obviously. But all they have is jello. Just jello. Rainbow jello, (OF course!) jello with pineapple, bananas and marshmallows (Minky’s best!) lime jello salad with pineapple, cucumber, and horseradish, jello with carrots, jello with cottage cheese, jello with just about anything – you name it, it’s in there!

Fun, huh?

I imagine we’d serve these delectable goodies in mini bundt pans. See-through, maybe, so you can see all your yummy fixin’s. Just imagine, (said with my hand high above my head, like I’m reading my name is lights) it’s like Jello Heaven. I can hear the jigglie angel choir singing now. “When upon lifes jello you are tempest tossed…”

See; fun.

You know you’d come. At least once. Just to see it, and maybe taste some weird Utah concoction of Jello.

See ya there!

Jello Pics, courtesy of www.elise.com

Famous last words

On a recent bridal consult, I had a funny thing happen. (Luckily, nothing to do with the bride.) I met her and a friend at the location of the wedding center. The actual wedding was to be a few blocks away. This meant we had to drive there. In a haste, we decided to just cram everyone into her car, many adults and children, included. You know that saying, “famous last words?” Well the brides were, “There won’t be any cops. These are all back roads that no one is ever on, anyway.”

First thing we see? A police car. We chuckle, “Oh, that’s funny. Haha.” No speeding, we duck where necessary, etc.

As we arrive at the destination, all of our mouths drop. The en-tire parking lot is FULL of police cars, and cops are everywhere! (What the heck!?) We park a bit away, hoping that as we all pile out, no one is counting that there could not possibly be enough seats in that car, for that many people.

Upon approaching the building, we see the source of so many men and women in uniform. The entire City of Lehi police force are having their annual photo taken. There they are, every police man, woman, chief, secretary, jail keeper and dog. Everyone. (what was that about "no cops?")

The only thing I could think to say was, “Quick, let’s get out of here and rob a bank. Every cop in town is right here!” (lol)

What's that smell?

Recently my car stunk. I mean really stunk. The - when we got in the car for church on Sunday, the kids were hanging their heads out the windows in terror – kind of stunk. Peter was convinced of a lost stinky diaper. “Nooo. I would never do that.” (Hehe, at least I think I would never do that. Uh, oh. Eeek. Panic.)

So I search high and low. Several times! There are, mind you, pieces of lost garbage here and there. But no stinky diaper. Whew! I knew I wasn’t that bad of a mom. (lol)

After nearly a week of sheer DYING in the car, I got mad. Real mad. What is that stink!!

(You know my life is rediculous when I KEEP driving like this. "Get in, hurry, we're going to be late!" In and out, all day. Each time I say, "It reeks in here! Crime-in-ee! I gotta fix that!" Drop off, screech home, drag kids in, feed, change, nap..."Get in, hurry, we're going to be late!" Repeat. I think I truly may be a taxi driver. I'm pretty sure I've smelled rotting food in cabs all over NY in my days of yore.)

Let me rewind…A week earlier we had gone go to Salt Lake for some errands. Luckily, the store was right down the street from my favorite, hole-in-the-wall, Chinese restaurant. After stuffing our family selves to the tippiest top, Samuel asked an innocent enough question. “Can I pleeeaaase take the last egg roll home? I’m too full to eat it now, but I can put it in my pocket for later.” (Your pocket!!??)In a shuffle of cleaning up, making sure Simon didn’t have an allergy attack, Ruby being the Tasmanian Devil, and the baby flailing - I said, “sure.” Oh, silly me. I must have momentarily gone insane.

In the car…his one bite later, I have totally forgotten about the egg roll. The cabbage, bean sprout, vegetable filled egg roll. Forgotten. Pulled out of his eight year old pocket, bitten, and lost in the depths of our trusty “great white.”

Needless to say, after prying every last piece of paper and garbage out of the car, deep down in the dark cavern of the back seat, I found the culprit. Can you guess what the smell was yet? Yep, the rotting egg roll. P.U...Ew.

Wedding Tip: Bridesmaid

Let me remind you that my “wedding tips” are, in fact, my wedding tips. There are countless books available about wedding planning and etiquette. After being involved in a LOT of weddings, I have, of course, made my own opinions. (who me?! Shocker.) I also deal in a majority of Mormon weddings, which are quite unique in and of themselves. Since the ceremony takes place inside our temples, and is very simple and sacred, planning a “Mormon wedding” is very different than other weddings. But we do find ourselves wanting to catch the “traditional” wedding wave. We want bridesmaids, groomsmen, ring bearers, big parties and what not. So, we improvise at our receptions. Remember, we Mormons are very ingenious. (LOL)



Bridesmaids have played a role in weddings for a long time now. They assist the bride, and are escorted down the isle with the groomsmen. It seems, almost a competition, who can have the most of each. The dresses are lavish and expensive and little girls dream of the day they get to be one. I, myself, have been one nine times. And this is why today, I write about, The Bridesmaid.



I was first a bridesmaid at my oldest sisters wedding. I was 11 years old, and fuming with puberty. My bad attitude and hormonal “hurumphs” were exuding from every pore. I was awful! (not bragging here, just trying to make a point) I wouldn’t smile in the photos, I was snotty to everyone - sheer brat! I have often asked myself why my parents didn’t just make me leave. “Get it together or get out!” Point here: Way too young! My sister had three younger sisters, the oldest, barely 16. She, herself, was only 18. While I think the family thought it would be nice to have her sisters as bridesmaids, we were all too young. My view is that no one under 16, at the very least, should be a bridesmaid. I would suggest that if you do have younger people you want to include, have them buy an outfit that goes with the theme of the wedding, give them flowers in their hair or a wrist corsage, (letting people know they are, in fact, part of the wedding party) and ask them to man the gift table, food table, or specifically mingle with guests.



My next two weddings were within six months of each other, at 15 and 16. Again, in my opinion, too young. I think there is an obligation to have sisters or sisters in law be the bridesmaids. Why? They know you love them. Choose your close friends. And if you don’t have someone that you feel that close to, then don’t have any. I’ll admit that in a conventional wedding, not having any might seem different, but not horrible. But since we, as Mormons, don’t walk down the isle. Who cares? NO ONE wants to walk through a recieving line shaking hands with people they don’t know, especially someone’s little sister. Please take note of this horrifying photo I’ve provided.

Notes on the Photo:

Kill me now! Take a gander at my face. "Hellooo, there. I am the Queen of Sheba. I'm modest, unlike my hussy sister next to me. Who dares to show her shoulders! (Of course, not really a hussy! Just being funny with the comentary!) Who cares if the dress was made for this. I am a prrrude! Not to mention, my mother would kill me." And can you get over my hand gesture. Puh-lese! The mouth, the eyes, and the tilt of the head. Who am I!? The pearls are WAY too much, and the flowers in the hair; overboard! Check out the brides face. This is her 100% plastered fake smile. What she's really thinking is, "Help Me! I hate this whole thing! Too bad I love the groom, (I think!) other than that - get me outta' here!"

My sister Krista wanted to have red plaid and black as her colors. My mother would not hear of it. She wanted her two best friends to be her bridesmaids; Again, no way. She doesn’t now, and didn’t then, like mauve. And hated white lattice. And in fact, is the last person to be caught dead condoning 15 year olds (or anyone) wearing hideous lace gloves, of all things! And what kind of flowers am I holding?! I think they are all greens and like, one carnation! Eeek! But, someone else took over the wedding, and this is what she had. As I have mentioned before, here, let the bride get what she wants. Please.



Side note: She also wanted to marry a doctor, and didn’t. (although we all LOVE Jeff) But that is something she is taking into her own hands, 17 years later, and getting ready to start med school next fall and 39 years old. That’s right folks. You can have your cake and eat it too, it just might not be the same cake it was 20 years earlier. But it’s still cake!



My poor sister-in-law had to have me as one, as well. Sorry. I’m not sure why. It may have been the kindness of her heart, or trying to match the number of groomsmen. But in any case, I was still way too young. See here, for the photo. (She did get the black. And, yes, Krista is still mad.) The weddings that followed, I was older, and they were my very good friends or relatives. I, of course, loved being in all of the weddings. Don’t get me wrong about my younger years. I loved it. It gave be bragging rights. “Sorry, I can’t go to your party Saturday. I have to be a bridesmaid that night.” Believe me, at 11, that sounds pret-ty cool. (Okay, so like I was even invited to parties then. But if I had been, it would have been awesome to say that! Especially when 16 Candles what the hit of the year, and you – yes, you – got to be your big sisters bridesmaid. Just like in the movie!)

*Please accept full apologies, again, of all rottenness in my adolescence. I was horrible, and snotty. Please take note and forgive.

Thank you. The Management

A side note on dresses. Don’t even pretend to tell yourselves that “they’ll be able to wear them again.” And please! Just because they are “your style” and look good on you, does not mean they will on other girls. Pick your colors, choose a variety that look great together. Have the girls find something that looks good on them, they are comfortable in, and matches the feel of your wedding. Then maybe, just maybe, they might wear it again. And for heavens sake! Do not make them stand in the receiving line! Good gracious, spare everyone the grief. Have them mingle, visit and help keep the mood of the reception. You don’t have to have the same number of groomsmen, either. It won’t be “off balance” in your photos. Things have changed a lot in the last few years. (Like, who stands in lines for their wedding photos anymore?!)

Bottom Line: Choose people you love and think appropriate for this part of your special day. You don’t have to have any bridesmaids, if you don’t want. Your numbers don’t have to match. And your dresses don’t have to be puffy, ugly, expensive, or even match. Whew! I guess I could have told you all of this in the one paragraph above. But then you would have missed out on all my jibbering. And who would want that?

The following are some of the photos I mentioned from a couple of weeks ago. Found my camera, hooray!

The Scale

I talk to my scale. I pull it out from beneath the bathroom sink, and say “Okay, now be nice.” This is usually followed by, “Why do you hate me?! I’ve never been anything but nice to you.” And a quick throw back under the sink. Or, once in a very blue moon, “Oh, you do love me.” Xoxo. And I get back on, just to see that number again and double check. Mind you, these are numbers that 15 years ago, I would have jumped out of a moving bus if I had seen on the scale. But for now, a little progress is, technically, progress. Right?

Today, my faithful (four times now!) workout friends and I tried a new class. These girls, by the way, we’re both female “jocks” in high school. (meant in the nicest way) One played, and still does play, soccer. And the other is a beautiful 6’1” volleyball player. As you may or may not know, after my ever famous “synchro years,” I turned to dance. Ballet, jazz, modern and anything else I could get my hands on. Now, again, I’ve never been even near to a super model. But I LOVED it, and still do. I danced from 7th grade, through my freshman year at college. While being chubby, I still found that this is where my natural abilities lie. It comes easy and I like it. (this really is going somewhere, I swear) It has been a good 15 years since I have danced at all though, and then, mainly for fun.

So as we walked in to the gym today, my girls say “the only class offered right now is Hip-Hop.” So I quickly say, “let’s just walk the track then.” “Oh, no. Let’s try it.” They say. So here again, let me remind you that they are sporty. I tried Jenny’s spinning class, so now she will try dance. (We did spin again yesterday, and it was better. But I still had to complain, A LOT. I asked the teacher, as she was telling me to spin faster, “Please Kill Me!!”)

First of all, as I stood, so familiarly (4x a week as a kid) in front of the mirror. I said, “Who is that hefer staring back at me?” I seriously could hardly recognize myself. Eeek. So, instead of looking at me, I reminded myself, look at the teacher, not me. And we were off…

I actually had a really fun time. Fortunately, I am someone that can totally laugh at myself. With all the jumping, gyrating, hip thrusting and strutting, believe me – there was a lot to laugh at. As for my girls? By about half way through, they were sitting it out.(they gave it a good effort, though!) It is tricky, I’ll admit. But fun. And I’m not saying I was any good, believe you me! I think I was just more familiar with choreography and what the instructor was talking about. Overall; Fun time. I don’t know if the girls will go again, but I want to. Even if my ginormaty made everyone feel uncomfortable. Sorry, folks. If you don’t move "it", it’s not going to go away. That’s why we’re here, right?

So as for the scale today? We’re friends. I love him. Three weeks ago yesterday I made my final resolution to wean Chubbles and get serious about my health. Today, I was down a total of 14.2 pounds. Can’t complain about that, now can you?

Nearing closer to death than I would like.

An attempt was taken on my life yesterday. No, really. I mean it. The angels of death were upon me. Knocking at my door and dragging me home. You should have been there, really. It was horrible. Let me go back a bit…

Due to the extra chubby state I am in. No, not Utah, sillies. My hefer-ific body. And remember I weaned my baby, so diet and exercise is a must. Right? Well, I bought myself a gym pass. Only to the local little rec center. But it will do. (Note to self: don’t swim here. I think that many a person passes this off as their “weekly bath.” Ew.)

At any rate, my friend Jenny has been coming with me. She sweetly said, “Hey, lets try the spinning class.” “Okay,” I say. Ignorantly passing this off as, “that might be fun.” Fun? FUN? Really? Yeah, right.

Let me remind you that I am not a biker. I bought a bike in college and promptly fell off of it around the second ride. I can ride, but I’m not real good at it. After the great fall of ’95, into a ditch, I think I parked my bike for a very long time. Peter was the next to ride it, and has since gone the way of the world. Not only do I fall off of bikes, they hurt my bum. I mean really, I don’t know why. I have A LOT of padding, but it really hurts.

So, Friday morning. Off, we go. Sure, this will be fun. First, onto the “saddle,” so they say. “Eeek. Ouch.” (And why do they call it a saddle anyway? Saddles are big. And comfy. And made to be ridden in for long periods of time. Not like these sorry excuses for a metal bar to sit on. It’s a bike seat, not a saddle.) But then the fun really took off.

“Moderate hill.” (huff, huff, huff)

“Now Climb. Tighten it three gears. Now stay there. Give me 80 RPM.” (that’s your foot going around on the pedal 80 times in one minute. HA! Yeah right. How ‘bout 40?)

"Okay, now out of the saddle and give me all you’ve got!" (all I’ve got was left laying on the side of the road about two miles back – lady!)

"Now bring it back to a flat road. Good. Now let’s go back to a moderate hill… "

And so the hour went. Mile after mile.

Good heavens, all mighty. Someone help me. Please. Save me from the doors of death.

As I am huffing, and grunting and squealing in pain, I look back to Jenn. I give the, “what in the heck were you thinking” look. She throws me a big grin. I do see sweat, but I’m pretty sure I have lost a few gallons of water, and her only a couple drops.

All I can think is, “When do we get to coast? When is the downhill part?” Apparently, this is not part of the “spinning” class. Next time I invent a new class, we’re goin’ downhill baby. All the way!

p.s. The teacher said we rode about 15 miles. I think more like 10 for me. I had to take a break now and then. And of course, if this were real life, the whole class would have left me in the dust. But quite honestly, I think ten miles is more than I have ever ridden, at one time, in my whole life.

Remember Felix Unger, from the Odd Couple? Remember how he would get a kink in his back and be paralyzed in that position for long periods of time? Well, lets just pretend that I am Felix and Peter is Oscar. I occasionally have back issues where, when I bend to pick something up (for the 347,977th time) I have to kind of contort myself to get in the standing position again. Once in a while it’s much, much worse. And now I get to the point of this story. Today, it got much worse.

My back was feeling out of whack yesterday, and by this morning I was almost in tears. LOVE when this happens. So, just before seven, I weaseled my way to my REALLY not vacuumed carpet and placed my feet on my very “child loved” couch. (Why is it that being at kid level, you can really see all the horrifying reality of your housekeeping abilities? And in the most opportune times. I mean, really. Could I get the vacuum out right then and there? Argghh.) Anyway, as Peter and each child arose for the day, they were greeted by me, from the very unvacuumed floor. Most of which was, “are you okay, mom?” I got a cute little heart shaped card from the boys, wishing me well. (Do I have them trained or WHAT?) And Ruby told me that when “I was sick, I took medicine and went to sleep. And when I got up, I was better. You need medicine, mom?”

You only truly realize what you do all day, when you – in fact – can no longer do it. Peter volunteered to go into work a bit late to help get the morning up and running. So as I lay in the front room, did I mention on my very unvacuumed carpet, I "sweetly" shouted out the orders of the day. “Sam needs his planner, homework folder, leave his library book at home, and he needs a lunch for his field trip. The lunch needs a sandwich, chips, cookies, fruit cup and a water. They are located.,..” Get the picture? Then Ruby had to go potty. She was already dressed in her new Tinker Bell outfit, loving purchased by the greatest grammy ever. So when I said, “run!” She tried to make it, but accidentally got it all over her new Tink outfit. Which, I will now be calling “stink,” until I can get the laundry done. This was followed by lots of tears...Getting dressed, again, by dad. “Her red pants are over there and there should be a clean shirt in the laundry basket down stairs.” I asked if Simon could stay home from school, “to be my legs.” And you can guess the giant, “Yes,” I got from him. But on one contingency, “Could this be P-day mom? Like, you know, pajama day?” Sure, it can.

Samuel brought me baby, a little bottle, a little boo-boo, and we were off. Peter took Samuel to school, and I moaned and groaned on the floor for a couple of hours. Simon was eyes and ears on baby. Thank goodness I checked out the entire first season of Fraggle Rock last week. (who didn't love the Fraggle's?) So we were set! Ruby ran laps from my room of PBS out to the TV room of the Fraggle’s. Baby cruised the floor, taste testing any and every thing. And after a few hours, and a lot of OTC pills, I am on my way to recovery. Thank you my dear, wonderful, little family!

Tink, makes Pink.

Two side notes:

First, if you don’t know, there is no other color in Ruby’s world other than pink. Everything is PINK. She knows all her colors very well, but naturally; prefers, pink. So when she was learning to use the potty, I would say “make water in your potty.” (don’t look at me so crazily, you all know that a person will say whatever they have to, to get a kid to go pee in the toilet. “Yes, Ruby. You can have a Porsche on your 16th birthday, now sit down and go.”) So after she went, she was so happy, stood up and looked. The toilet is blue, add a little yellow; and it’s a gross green color. "This will never do!!" The bubble over her head displays. So she looks at me and announces, “Mom, I made PINK!” And this is the beginning of Roo calling her bodily waste, “pink.” What else would you expect from a very bossy, almost three year old girl to make? (she now yells, "I have to make pink!" as she runs to the bathroom.)

Second: I walk with a very cute 25 year old. And in reference to the Odd Couple or the Fraggles, she will, no doubt, have no idea what I am talking about. She asked me the other day if I have heard of “Magnum, some-one-or-other.” “Duh; P.I.?” She has also told me that she once saw Mork and Mindy on Nick at Night. “Doesn’t he say something like, “Ni-noo, na-noo?” Again, from me, "what?" “It’s Na-nu, Na-nu. Sheesh!” Obviously she never saw the cool buttons that said "na-nu, na-nu." (You see, I do love jacket buttons. I had one that said, “gag me with a spoon.” Loved it. Maybe we could bring those back. Anyone?...Anyone?) I like to think that she’s just “not with it.” But, in fact, I might be getting old. Dang, it.

I have concluded that this bad back day, was just too many days of lugging Dr. Chubby around in and out of the car. He is giant, you know. And we are in and out of the car many, many times a day. Hopefully, there will be a full recovery, and I will be moving his car seat out of the middle buckle. Where I don’t have to heave 25 pounds of chub, ten times a day.

Goodbye, Hider of Hooters

Before Spacebags.

This is pretty much every piece of clothing that has, or will fit one of my children. Ever.

Another fine part of fall break is the cleaning, AKA “dunging out” that gets done. We totally cleared out our storage shed, re-evaluated our food storage and rearranged the whole shebang. This meant I spent ALL of Saturday sorting through clothes; past, present and future. Eeee-gads!! Because I cannot yet say that I am 100% done having kids, I still feel the need to save for babies. (note: someone will be getting a really nice loot of infant clothing, boy and girl, if we don’t have anymore) So I sorted, and folded and sorted some more. Then I packed them in the greatest invention ever: The Spacebag. LOVE these things. (I like to say them like "Piiigs Iiiin Spaaaace" from the Muppet Show. But I think they mean space, like more room. Not like, you can take them to the moon.) You can take, like two tubs of clothes and “poof” they are now one! I think they work better if you just shove things in there. But I’m worried that if I die before they are inflated, the relief society sisters who sort through all my junk will see that I shoved-not folded. Oh, how horrific. I think I heard my poor friend Jenny squeal and run for her life as she passed through the “sorting zone.” (Sorry Jenny.)

After Spacebags. Now off to the bins and into the shed. Adios!

If you have seen me in the last nine months, I have most likely had this beauty with me. I made it just before Chubby was born. I wasn't sure I would like it. Like it?! I LOVE it! I have no idea how I nursed three other kids without one. Good-bye, my trusty friend. Thanks for keep everyone safe from my milk jugs, I know they are a little too National Georaphically scary. You were great. Until we meet again...(maybe) Goodbye.



I packed one VERY important item away this weekend. “Farewell, oh hider of hooters. You have done so well by me. Farewell.” I am officially weaning Chubby. I hate to do it, but the time has come. He will be 9 months this week and due to some of my own health issues, I must. (These health issues are also known as: hefer-itis, chub-a-rella, boom-baba-ness, and holy cow! What happened to you?!) I HAVE to go on a diet. I really am, really, I swear…Oooh, is that an onion ring? Onion rings are veggies, right?




At any rate, I hate weaning my babies. I have some weird thing about nursing. In the beginning of each childs life, it practically kills me every time, but I insist on doing it. And then when it’s time to quit, I hate it. I am sad, depressed and feel like I am letting down my little chubbles. But I have got to get a grip on my body, ASAP. I mean, it’s a lot of work to get back into super-model shape. They won’t renew my contract if I don’t look sweet in my bikini before the sports illustrated shoots, I mean really. Juuuuust, kidding. But, I do have a lot of work to do. And so, I must wean my little one. I, very unfortunately, am not one of those horrid people who “just can’t seem to keep any weight on” while I am nursing. I am the “every, single, gawl-derned calorie must permanently move in and plaster itself all over my body” while I am nursing, kind of person. So I swear, I really am going to get serious. Really.



But not until I mourn just a little more. And every time I nurse Chubby I say, this is the last day. And then, okay – now, today is the last day. I know I’m a nut-bar, but I just love that quiet time together. (many of you know that I have been saying this for months now) There are always SO many things going on in a busy house like ours, that just to sit and hold him while he eats means so much to me. He pats my face, and puts his hand in my mouth. And I kiss his terribly fat cheeks. Oh, he’s so squishy and lovable. But alas, the time has come.

Moonlight Ride

The fun thing about the first snow in Utah is that is will be melted and warm(er) in a couple of days. This of course has been the case this week.

For months Peter has been wanting to ride the Moonlight Ride at Sundance Mountain Resort. The chairlifts run all summer during the day. You can hike at the top, mountain bike down, or just enjoy the ride. This is especially beautiful in the fall. But on the full moons, throughout the season, the chairlifts run late into the night. The very last run of the moonlight ride, was last night. And we went.

Many, many thanks to Grammy for holding down the fort, while the Littles were sleeping. We left our home at ten after nine, and were in line for tickets at 9:30. 34 degrees and going down fast!



The line was very surprisingly LONG. It went in the main door of the ski shop, through the shop, our the back door, around the mtn bike rentals, back in the back door, and back to the middle of the shop where we finally bought tickets from the long haired “dude.” (very obviously earning his annual snowboarding pass) While in line I looked around and said to Peter – “Oh, I will defiantly be BEE-LAWGing (blogging) about this.” We were the only people in there over 25. Most, I would say were around 20. There were lots of roommates, but mainly dates. Couple after couple. Lot’s of groups of dates, followed by the chubby roommates who couldn’t get a date. (you are only allowed to write about this if you were that roommate!) Girl after girl refusing to wear a hat, because “ewww!, it might mess up my hair!” Lots of “pretty boys.” Peter and I had a lesson in fashion. (Please see attached photo to see their lesson in fashion.)

So after a thirty minute wait, and A LOT of good laughs, we headed to the lift. (Were we really that young once, really? Did we snuggle and ooze? Did we get dressed up and smell good, just to ride a chairlift in the middle of the night? Did I talk SUPER loud to my roommates, in front of boys, just to attract attention? Did I flip my hair, A LOT?...I think I might have. Uh, sorry.)

Luckily, we brought our trusty hot cocoa and were padded through and through. (I am talking about our coats, not my built in padding!!) And onto the lifts, to be swept up the mountain into the night air and being led by the most beautiful full moon. It was SO bright, it almost felt like day without all of the bright colors. For a few minutes I did think I was 20. I met Peter when I was 20. And being there with him, snuggling to stay warm, laughing and talking – brought back many loving memories. We had a wonderful ride.

In between talking and laughing, I took some mental notes of the funny bits of conversations I heard. On the lift and in the lines, you only hear a blip as people go by. But put it all together and it really summed up the night. And a time in life that is not to be missed or forgotten by anyone. So here they are:

Roommate 1: “That song is stuck in my head!” Roommate 2: “Sorry, it was good for doing sit-ups!” (said in front of their dates)

Guy: “I don’t want to get married. I don’t want to have sex.” (lots of laughs from friends here)

“Donny and Marie come into my store all the time…”

“So I was in the testing center the other day…”

“Robert Redford lives somewhere around here…”

Roommates “singing” loudly the Indiana Jones theme song.

Lots, and LOTS of “snuggling,” like I could hardly tell if there were two people on a seat.

“In Sunday school last week…”

“I wish I hadn’t left my snow pants at home, in Texas…”

“Our ward…”

Two chairlifts had people smoking! (gawf!!?? How dare they!)

“On my mission…”

Boy to two girls: “Yeah, these gloves are really good for Frisbee”…(neeerdeeee)

And much, much more. All in all a picture of a world was painted. A world just a few miles from my house. A world of firsts, and lasts. Fun and sadness. Wanting to fit in, and wanting to hide. Wanting a date, and having lots of them. Trying to get skinnier, if that’s humanly possible for most. Lots if makeup and cologne, lots of money spent on clothes. Testimonies being gained, and some being lost. But most of all, people experiencing this priceless time of life. A time that everyone should experience in one way or another. These were some of the favorite times my my life. Mine were different from these people, in many ways. And similar in others. But boy, am I glad I experienced mine somewhere far, far from here. Seeing all of this reminded me how BYU is great for lots of people, just not me. :)

Moving day..for someone, anyway.

Is this is most awesome thing you've seen?! We really truly saw this on our way home from Seattle. We are just about to go into the Blue's, coming out of Pendelton, Oregon. I say, "Is that a couch?" Peter says, "That IS a couch...and bikes! Get the camera." It really is a full size couch going the length of the car. His car was PACKED to the top inside as well.

Volkswagen's, they really are the peoples car.

Now, that guy has seperation problems. Ever heard of a YARD SALE?

Date Disclaimer

I've noticed that my last post was viewed by a lot of people in my home town. I hope you all laughed at the story, I know I did. Let me say that, if I write about something, enough time has gone by and things are all written in fun and love. I would never write to be mean spirited. In refernce to "a little nerdy," you must know that it's not like I'm saying I was super cool or anything. Okay, kind of cool. :) And I must add, that both of these boys grew up to be very nice men. They are married and have wonderful families. "Hi, boys. Thanks for all the good times! If I wouldn't have been bothering you, I probably would have met Peter in high school, and heaven knows - we would have never gotten married after that." (LOL) Ah, Bothell First Ward. There was certainly a theme with me and boys from that ward...but we wont go there.

For real? My first date.

I had a crush on a boy in high school for WAY too long. Nice enough guy, just a little nerdy. The main attraction you ask? He was basically the only boy taller than me and he was Mormon. Two very important qualifications. He had a brother that was my older sisters age, this came in handy for a double date.

My nephew Micah had his first date this last weekend, ahh – homecoming. Which stirred up some very, not so fond memories of my first date. Let me take you back…

The year was 1990. I turned sixteen that summer, and was finally allowed to date. I’m not sure why there is all this talk of dating at 16. It’s kind of rude to get the hopes up of all sixteen year old girls around the Mormon world. I mean, really, what are the chances that the flood gates are going to open up here? Really? Pretty much none.

Who wouldn't want to date these beauties?

At any rate, I really had a crush on the tall boy. He and his brother were very gainfully employed at a fine establishment called…Skippers!! Yes, that’s right. Greasy, stinky, pretty low quality fish and chips. Knowing these boys had an income, Mindy and I drove right down there shortly after my birthday. Let me say, now that I am older, I realize there were plenty of boys who would have gone out with me – if even just for fun. Why I liked the tall boy, I’ll never know. So we go into Skippers on this hot, 70 degree evening in Seattle. They are both working and somehow Mindy convinces them to take us both out on a date that weekend. Oh, the excitement. I should have known when the tall boys, shorty brother pulled out the calculator right then and there, we where in trouble. He proceeded to calculate the cost of gas, food and a movie. Then divided it in half, so we could see what this would cost. Why we didn’t high tail it out of there, I have no idea.

Saturday night arrived, and I don’t remember a thing about the date, but these fine memories. A yellow 1970’s hatchback Toyota corolla, me and Mindy climbing in and out of the back, while both boys where in the front. I don’t know what we ate, but we did see the absolute, without a doubt, number one, worst movie of all time – Problem Child. The guys choice, of course. Movie over, them racing home to our house, wheels screeching to a stop. Bucket seat slightly moved forward so we could weasel our way out, door slamming, engine racing off as fast as they could. All we could utter was, “Thanks for th-…” Cough, cough – as we ate their dust. Wow. That was is it? That was my first date? Could it really have been that horrible? Yep.

Eventually, my dating scene improved, but not for many years to come. I had some weird ones though. Like having to sit right next to a bit of a psychopath in his pickup truck, not across the bench seat, but snuggled up at his insistence. Or the guy who asked me if I liked hairy chests, and did I think his eyes were pretty. How about the guy who, several inches shorter than me, showed me his Jurassic Park I.D. badge? This gave him the rights to “feed the animals.” (yes, he was 21 years old) There were fond ones as well though. Dancing on the side on the road, lit only by the stars. Rollerblading around Green Lake, holding hands. And, of course, in the end – all that dating paid off. Just glad I don’t have to go through that again. (knock on wood)

Fifty minutes in the torture chamber.

For thirteen years Peter has been asking me to take a yoga class with him. I always say sure, but we never get around to it. This year for his birthday, along with a new bike, Peter got his yoga wish. (oh yeah, and an official Boy Scout harmonica)

So at 10 a.m. Saturday morning, kids left behind with a sitter, we rushed out the door for our first class. I thought, beginning yoga, how hard could that be? A little stretch here, a little heavy breathing there. What’s the big deal?

About fifteen minutes into the class I heard myself groan, out loud, “oh, no.” I knew we were in trouble.

After some thrown glances at each other, and quite a few laughs in very awkward positions, our first yoga class came to an end. Let me share some of our favorite poses with all of you. Please read in a calm, soothing, no beef eating, non leg shaving voice:


“We’ll start with the downward dog and move into the that’s gonna hurt position.”

“Remember to breathe.”

“Now move your left leg into the 911 and change to the about to die.”

“And finally, we will end with the OH, mama, resting into, make it stop.”

“Good, now hold it.”


I left the class wondering if there’s such a thing as pre-beginning yoga…

Garden of Friends

So, fall is nearly here in the Rocky Mountains. I love this time of year. It’s cooling off, the days get a little shorter. The kids actually get to go to bed when the sun is at least setting. Definitely, fall is in the air.

This is our tent, called “Mammoth.” Guess why? You should see her with her orange rain fly on.

With this in mind, we took our final camping trip last week. Did you know that boys like to burn things? Now I knew this, had heard all about it – but hadn’t yet seen my offspring enjoy this measure quite yet. Yeah, pretty much the entire time the boys had sticks in the fire. Just sitting… Watching… Poking, lighting, blowing, sword fighting, torch making, writing in the air with flames. Really though, just sitting. Maybe I should put a fire pit in the living room. They would stay long enough to do what I say, AND get their homework done. Or in the car, for when we’re driving. “Just put your stick in the fire and be quiet!”

Another fun thing around here is all the produce. There are stands everywhere. We just bought peaches and apples. Delish! Also, the “dreaded” veggies are in abundance. This would be any type of squash, if you're one of my children. And boy, do I love to make them eat it. Let me tell you what we’ve had in the past week: Zucchini bread (like there’s any room to complain here, it had chocolate chips), mashed turnips (I was the only one who ate these, with butter and garlic they were pretty good. Thanks for the idea Minks), chicken and dumplings with tiny bits of squash in the soup, squash and zucchini soup (this actually was really good, although the boys made the vomit face the entire time they ate, but they ATE it), and last night we had pasta sauce with chunks of sautéed squash and zucchini. For some reason no one seems to mind the fruit part, Smoothies!!




Turnips from my dads garden. He lives in a town home and still has more of a garden than I do.

These of course are not MY veggies. (my apples aren’t quite ripe yet, and I’ll have to be picking out worms from mine when they are – only store bought pesticides for me and my family!) My garden had a terrible death this summer. The agony, suffering, and pure demise of the once abundant jungle, now DEAD. My very sweet older neighbor lady, Ellen, gives us our fall harvest. Each spring I ask for tons of advice; plant when she plants, put the same kind of poop in that she does, only local seeds like her, tie back when she does. I want to be Ellen when I grow up. Harvest time; not for my garden. (boohoo) Every fall, I am relying on her for veggies. Bags show up day after day on my front porch, and day after day my kids say, “Mom, something’s on our front porch!!!...oh, it’s just ‘stuff’ from Sister Frazier.” Hooray, I say. Groan, they say.

Before and after.

People say that if you have a friend, you should never have to buy zucchini this time of year. So thanks to Ellen, I feel like I have a friend. I hope my boundless ramblings let you know that I am sharing my zucchini with all of you, and you know that you have a friend.

Maybe next year I’ll be able to give you zucchini, too.