Hair

I got a haircut today. It's cute, but I'm sure you've heard the phrase "lipstick on a pig"? I mean really, can you cut my hair to minimize my butt? The hair on my head of course.

I'm serious. The hair cut is really cute. But it does little to nothing to disguise the fact that I am fat. Which is okay, but let's not pretend otherwise.

You know the whole bruhaha about the body scanners? Why in the world are we so concerned about people seeing us naked? Really, does my clothing somehow miraculously disguise the fact that I'm fat? Is someone on the other side of the scanner going to go "Wow! Check this out! This lady is FAT!!" Thank you captain obvious. Perhaps it's the opposite concern--the concern that one is just soooo attractive naked that all the agents on the other side of the monitor are going to be sitting back goin' bow-chicka-chick-bow-bow! Really folks, we have some serious body issues in this country . . . don't get me started on "anti-aging", surgical enhancement, or basic body-hair-a-phobia. Why exactly do we all hate ourselves so much?

I can't wait for my 20 year high school reunion this summer. 'Course, just go to Facebook to see who's had some serious work done. Sooooo not natural.

Does this haircut make me look fat?

Overheard

I was driving yesterday, in my own world, when I caught the end of the following conversation in the back seat:

. . .machine guns are used primarily for military activities, not hunting.

Unless you get a stampede of a hundred deers.

Yes, but you would probably run out of bullets.

But don't machine guns have lots of bullets?

Yeah, but they come on a string that is in a box on your belt and there probably aren't a hundred on a string and so you'd have to stop and reload if there were a hundred deers.

Is this a result of the extreme hunting culture in this state? Or simple boy biology? I'm voting for the latter. I later took the boys to spend their Christmas cash from Grandma . . . toy guns. I've never seen them so excited about a toy. I've thrown in the towel. The boy DNA is stronger than I am.

Of Rings and Men

I've never claimed to be a normal female. Just ask my husband. Case in point--jewelry. I just don't get it. Sure, it's pretty and fun, but seriously, how much value does one put in to pretty and fun over practical and useful? When we were discussing engagement rings, I tried to convince my husband to buy me a $12 silver band, or say $20 even. His response? I am NOT going to just spend $12 on an engagement ring! So I compromised with a few stipulations. First and most importantly, we were under no circumstances going to start off a marriage in debt because of a piece of jewelry. He makes fun of all my other stipulations because it made engagement ring shopping a nightmare--here are a few highlights of the short list: He must pick it out, but it was not to be a solitaire, preferably no stones at all, if there was a stone it must be very small and inset--nothing is to stick up off the ring, no "wedding sets", no yellow gold . . . Really, was I being unreasonable? Don't answer that.

So, he did a nice job. He picked out a classy, simple ring in white gold with (grimace) a small diamond inset. I'm sure he paid under $300, and did not go into debt. It was a compromise we could all live with. We got matching wedding bands and since the wedding I've worn my engagement ring on my right hand, until about two years ago when I broke it.

We talked about repair, or replacement, but, and here' s the thing--I am no longer the hopeless romantic I once was (quit sniggering). I still hold to all my previous conditions in a ring, but if I were to get another one, I'd kind of like to pick the style (I know, where has the romance gone?). That said, it was likely never to happen because every time we'd peruse rings, I'd think of all the other practical things that money would buy, and we'd walk away.

Then, this Christmas, my husband wanted to surprise me, yet aware of the absence of the once hopeless romantic, he figured I ought to be in on picking it out this time. Good idea--in theory. I sat down to do some perusing and began complaining about the cost. I'd list all the things we could buy instead. I talked him down to cubic zirconia, but he drew the line when I started talking about sterling silver (what's wrong with sterling? I found practically the same ring available in cz and silver for $25). Finally, he cropped a few picks and made me look at them without being able to see the prices and pick my favorite. We got in numerous arguments about how I don't value myself (my response being that I value myself plenty--like I value myself a few hundred dollars worth of a good quality, useful mixer, but I just couldn't see the value of spending a lot on shiny things that don't do anything but shine and that I'm bound to damage or lose anyway). Then it got personal; Why can't you just accept the gift graciously! It's a token of my love! followed by I'll wear it, I'll even like it, but I can't help wondering what else we could have used that money for! and threats to spend the birthday cash my parents sent me to pay for the ring, followed by dirty looks.

So, in the end, he bought me the ring. Pretty huh?

It came today and I got an early Christmas present. He compromised (story of our marriage) and got the cz set in white gold. It is lovely and I can't stop looking at it (look, something shiny!) and I'm trying not to think about the other things we could have bought. Instead I'm thinking about my sweet husband who thinks about me. Happy 10 years to us! (and all our neurosis!)

No Joke

It's my birthday. Yay! I love birthdays. We've celebrated all weekend long. My husband made the most chocolatey super double dark chocolate cake ever. Yum. We had friends over for games and food yesterday. The kids (6 boys, 1 girl) ate and played and told jokes. The joke of the day in our household?

What is black, white, black, white, black, white, green?

3 Skunks fighting over a pickle!

HAAAA!

If you're Ethan, you then need to overanalyze the joke and try and figure out where the skunks got a pickle.

For my birthday I received some delightful phone calls and much unexpected facebook love. It all made me smile. I was chastised however for not posting often enough on this here blog. My excuse? Surgery. Not mine, but my husband's hand surgery. It's been a bit rough and who really wants to read me blogging about surgery and playing physical therapy chauffeur (excuse me, occupational therapy)? Or about feeling sorry for myself because I get to play nursemaid and keep up with my job and my mothering/household duties and the like. Like self-pity is funny.

But then, sometimes, surgery and self-pity can be funny, no? So in honor of my birthday, the household joke and the one-armed man-of-the-house, I propose a toast of one-armed man jokes. Here goes:

#1: How do you get a one-armed man out of a tree?
Wave to him.

#2: A guy has one arm and decides he doesn't want to go on with life, not being able to do the things other guys can do with two arms. So, he goes up to the 20th story of a building and is trying to build up the nerve to jump. As he's standing there a guy comes walking on the sidewalk below.

The one-armed man notice's that this other guy has NO arms at all. He watches as the guy stops on the sidewalk and starts dancing and spinning in circles. The one-armed man thinks to himself how selfish he is... in that he has one arm and is ready to end it all! So, he decides to go down and talk to the No-armed man.

He goes down and walks up to the guy and says, "Hey man... I've been up on the 20th floor considering to end it all because I have only One arm... Here you are with No arms and are dancing around. What's your deal?

The guy with No arms says, "Arrrrr... dude I'm NOT happy! My nose itches!!!

#3: Why did the one-armed man cross the road?
To get to the second-hand shop!

#4: A one-armed man entered a restaurant at noon and seated himself next to a dapper little other-people's-business man. The latter at once noticed his neighbor's left sleeve hanging loose and kept eying it in a how-did-it-happen sort of a way. The one-armed man paid no attention to him but kept on eating with his one hand. Finally the inquisitive one could stand it no longer. He changed his position a little, cleared his throat, and said: "I beg pardon, sir, but I see you have lost an arm."

The one-armed man picked up his sleeve with his right hand and peered anxiously into it. "Bless my soul!" he exclaimed, looking up with great surprise. "I do believe you're right."

#5: Never buy a pit-bull from a one-armed man.

#6: What has four legs and one arm?
A doberman on a playground.

Thank you! I'll be here all week!

Elliotism

At family home evening this week:

"We believe that the first principles and ordinances of the gospel are first the Lord Jesus, second repentance, third, baptism by emergency . . . "

(For the real articles of faith of Mormonism, click here).

Keeping Up Appearances

Last night as I dashed into the "party store" just to use the ATM (I swear), I recalled the oft-used-in-mormondome phrase "Avoid the appearance of evil." The meaning is obvious--don't even look like you're doing something evil, but evil is relative. For Mormons, "evil" may include but is not limited to alcohol, tobacco, coffee, tea, tanktops, cursewords, pseudo-cursewords, democrats, left-leaning moderates and so forth.

Let me back up. (beep-beep-beep). Okay, in most places I've lived, the term "Party Store" typically refers to a place where you buy balloons, wrapping paper, coordinating paper plates and matching plasticwear and streamers. In Michigan, the term "Party Store" means "Liquor Store". Go figure.

So, as I left the Young Women's activity night at the Church yester-evening (you know, the place where I try and fail to be a positive influence and role model for conservative young mormon girls) I realized that I needed to get some cash on my way to a party (candles, not liquor) for which I was already very late. The only ATM on the way there was a short distance from the church inside the "party store". What's a girl to do? I ran in, hoping none of the young ladies or their mothers on their way home from the church would notice my mini-van double-parked in front of the "LIQOUR" sign. I guess we'll find out on Sunday. Though really, who doesn't need a good stiff drink after mutual night?

This reminds me of an earlier time in my life . . . . (beep, beep, beep). I was working for a theater in Seattle as the assistant stage manager. (This was one of the phases of my life where all the people I knew at work and in the theatre thought I was some sort of freaky ultra-conservative nut-job and all my LDS friends and family thought I was a great heathen liberal, when the truth was, and is, that I am really rather straight-down-the-middle conservative in my socio-political beliefs). I digress. One of my duties as the assistant stage manager was to manage props once the show was under way and the prop master was out of the picture. This show involved a lot of fake boozing and smoking (you know, the appearance of evil--what the actors did on stage prior to going out for the evening of real boozing and smoking), since actual boozing and smoking on stage is frowned upon--except by method actors. So, I had to create alcoholic looking non-alcoholic beverages and the like. I was laughed out of the light booth at one point when I asked "what color is MER-LOT?" (Like the time I helped host a fundraiser and had to ask if I should put the red wine in the fridge--silly Mormon!) So, every few days, on my way home from the show, I would stop in a local grocery store and pick up apple juice, tea, cigarettes and cigars. I was always afraid I'd run into my Bishop with an armful of tea and smokes. Tired, and unaccustomed to purchasing anything requiring identification, one evening I tried to dash in, grab the goods and go, when I was stopped by the 17-year-old checker who asked for my id. I stared at him blankly momentarily, then remembered the cigarettes. "Well, I'm not going to smoke them; they're a prop." I said. Apparently this is not a good enough excuse to get a by on the whole id thing. So, I had to leave my loot at the counter and go dig through my car for my drivers license.

S0, once again, I found myself, the role-model gone awry, in a potentially akward position. Though probably not as akward as this was. Nor my mother's stint as a paralegal-of-the-night (which is an entirely different post altogether, which I'll write if I get her permission).

So for all those of you out there who try and fail at being a role model, just remember, I probably failed before you did.

Happy October

In honor of Breast Cancer Awareness Month, I shall regurgitate a post: Here it is. Lets be honest, the repeat performance is mostly because I have been a lazy blogger of late and somewhat because I stumbled into this hilarious post that reminded me not only of how much more entertaining I wish my blog was, but also of my unfortunate experience a few years ago. Seriously, airplanes and elementary schools? What has the world come to? You'd think that with a serious disease such as breast cancer, we could all refrain from degrading childish euphemisms and tasteless jokes whilst supporting the cause. Or at least we could even the playing field by making similar jokes about testicular cancer. Think of the web-address possibilities. I'm just sayin'.