Thursday, December 31, 2009

14 Ridiculous Resolutions

Here they are, World Wide Web--some of my resolutions for 2010! The rest of them are too serious for this silly blog and I have them hidden away in my heart, safe from your mockery. These are some things that I've been meaning to do forever. This is my year, I can feel it!

1. Stop hating cats.
2. Stop loving things that aren't good for me (i.e. Oreos, crappy books, crappy movies, the word 'crappy', etc.).
2. Stop allowing people to fill me with rage, including people who barf their opinion all over me and people at Walmart.
3. Stop hiding in the pantry to eat cookies so that I don't have to share. I wish that was a joke.
4. Run faster; fast enough to outrun the rapists. How fast do rapists run? Do you think they can do a seven minute mile? That's my goal--lofty, I know. I really don't want rapists to get me.
4-a. Stop wearing my nasty rapist-repellent sweatpants when I go running.
5. Find something to love about everyone, including the people at Walmart but excluding the rapists.
6. Use my time wisely.
7. Potty train DJ.
8. Stop making Warm Winter Lemon cake because I eat the whole thing and then DJ asks me where it went and it's really embarrassing.
9. Cultivate rock solid abdominals.
10. Stop buying 80/20 ground beef.
11. Don't get pregnant.
12. Water my houseplants that survived the drought of 2009.
13. I was going to write "organize my closets" but instead I'll go with "stop caring that my closets are disorganized until my kids are raised".
14. Figure out what's causing that smell in my laundry room.

Sunday, December 27, 2009

A Weary World Rejoices

Today, I've decided to follow Daring Young Mom's lead by describing our Christmas in haiku form. For your Japanese literary delight, I present:
Christmas Haikus, 2009
Knock knock on the door
Wrapped, shiny presents for kids
How can I thank you?
When money is tight
I'll forever be grateful
For ding dong ditchers
If you couldn't tell from my masterfully crafted poetry, we had some unexpected holiday visitors bring much-appreciated gifts for our kids. One of the things that I hate the most about people doing nice things for me is when they do it sneakily and I don't have a chance to thank them. So, thank you, people who did nice things for me! From the bottom of my heart, THANK YOU!
And now, following the lead of a blogger that I can't remember, I offer you Christmas by numbers:
Number of times I burned the crap out of my mouth taste-testing the gravy: 2
Number of potatoes it takes to make mashed potatoes for my entire family: 19
Number of times I superglued the heads back onto our Nativity scene figurines: 6
Number of ding dong ditchers offering holiday cheer in the form of presents: 3
Number of miles I ran to make up for my gratuitous pie consumption: 4.5
Number the little hand on the clock was pointing to when we fell asleep on Christmas Eve: 12
Number the little hand on the clock was pointing to when Macey woke us up Christmas morning: 5
Number of times DJ ran away screaming from the growling, battery operated dinosaur toy that Lisa sent out from Ohio: 1
Number of stray cats that started living in our back yard and I told my kids that Santa sent it because he knew that I would never in a million years buy a cat (no offense, cat lovers): 1
Number of pictures I took with my broken camera: 0

Monday, December 14, 2009

I'd like a different card, please.

Macey failed her first test at school. FAILED. She bombed this test with such flair that the woman who administered the test sent a letter home in Macey's Tinkerbell backpack. It was in a sealed white envelope with the words "To the parents of Macey Haynes" in serious elementary school cursive on the front. When Macey handed me the envelope my stomach dropped down around my kneecap region. I had the same nauseated feeling that I used to get when I didn't have my homework done (read: most of high school). My hands trembled as I tore the letter open and read the following:
Dear Parents, (breathing into brown paper bag)

Your child's vision was recently evaluated...

I let out a huge sigh of relief. Thank heavens it's not her BRAIN. It's just her EYES. She failed a vision test.

According to the person who administered said eye exam, Macey's vision is 20/50 in her right eye and 20/70 in her left. [Sidenote: I have NO IDEA what these numbers mean.] Since my vision is *perfect* and the idea of Macey's vision being impaired has not once crossed my brain, you can imagine the frenzy of highly accurate, mom-administered vision tests that ensued. ("Hey Macey, which number is the big hand on the clock it pointing to?" Macey, squinting her eyes and inching closer to the clock, "Three? Nine? Can I have some candy?")

After I finished my battery of vision tests, I gave Macey some candy and began some serious thinking, the kind of thinking that can only be done whilst eating fudge made by your sister's boyfriend Frank. [Another sidenote: If your sister doesn't have a boyfriend named Frank who makes you fudge, how do you get any thinking done?]

Here is the nutshell version of my thoughts: In life, we're all moving our pieces (I'm the silver tophat) around the board and sometimes we land on the square that says to draw a card. Sometimes the card is good ("You won a beauty contest. Collect $50."), sometimes the card is crappy ("Your daughter inherited your dad's terrible eyesight. You must schedule an eye exam and will probably have to buy glasses that will be cute but that you can't afford. Pay $400 to the nearst optometrist who is already wealthy and doesn't need it.") I'm going to sneak my card back under the pile and hope that I win the beauty contest.

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

Which brings us to the nostril hair...

Once, when I was laboring away as a missionary in South Royalton, Vermont, the temperature didn't top ten degrees for the entire month of January. It was so frigid that my nostril hairs (yes, I have them, let's try to be adults here) froze and when I pinched my nose they made a little crunching sound. Gross, but true. Moral of the story: Don't live in Vermont. Or have nostril hairs. Or pinch your nose. Or any combination of the preceding.

Why am I relating tales of frozen nostril hair, you ask? No reason. It just came to my mind. I've been thinking a lot about spiritual things** lately. Naturally, when I am waxing spiritual, I have thoughts of my mission. Which brings us to the nostril hair.

Thank you for joining me today.

**I've been thinking a lot about the pride cycle in the Book of Mormon, and how DJ and I are experiencing it first hand. From what I've gathered thus far, it is infinitely more enjoyable to be on the "flocks and herds and gold and silver and precious things" end of the cycle than it is to be on the "death, terror, famine, and pestilence" end. Just an observation. I am going to try to remember to be humble instead of prideful next time. Maybe I'll get to stay on the "flocks and herds" end a little longer (here's me wink-winking heavenward).

Thursday, December 3, 2009

Bull. HONKY.

I would like to take a moment to address the people who built the house that I live in. Actually, I only have one thing to say to you: I will see you in hell. Because surely that is where all builders go who put carpet in a bathroom. They convene there with other builders--the ones who decided to position the A/C filter at the top of a vaulted ceiling.

(You may be wondering what I will be doing in H-E-double hockey sticks. As I was scrubbing the entire tube of toothpaste that DJ squoze* onto my bathroom carpet out of my carpet, I unleashed a string of profanities that would make Ralphie's dad proud. I'm not excited about going to hell, but it will be worth it when I get a chance to slap that builder in the face.)

Also, a note to those of you who told me that boys are easier to raise than girls: bull. HONKY.

On the bright side, my house smells minty fresh!

*Squoze is a word. I dare you to challenge me on this today.

Tuesday, December 1, 2009

Not a fingah!

We cut down a Christmas tree this weekend. It's a pinion pine and I think it's either an alcoholic or has inner ear problems because it keeps falling over. Yesterday morning it fell down twice. The first time it fell down my back was turned and this is what I heard:


(Chancho was under the tree when it came down. Suspicious? As Macey would say--I think, YES. It was actually the second time the tree fell on little DJ.)

I yelled for big DJ to come help me wrestle the tree off of our two-year-old. I was truly relieved to find that the ornament that my mom gave me when I went into the MTC had not shattered. Whew. That little glass ball had made it through two cross-continent flights, three transfers, and SIX MOVES without breaking. Oh, and Chancho was okay. We brushed the glass and pine needles off of him and he seemed fine.

DJ and I mopped up the tree water, swept up the needles and ornament shards, and went back to our Frosted Mini Spooners, when what to our wondering ears did we hear?


That's right. It fell again, without DJ's help this time. And my MTC ornament finally shattered. Also, in a moment of perfect irony, my Christmas Story leg lamp ornament broke. (Did I forget to mention how classy my decorations are? I also have a sombrero-wearing snowman.) I've never felt a stronger inclination to yell, "Not a fingah!" than I did in this moment, with my Christmas tree lying on the tile, my MTC ornament shattered, and my leg lamp ornament broken in half.

And that, ladies, is the perfect excuse to dump your soggy Mini Spooners down the drain and eat pumpkin pie for breakfast.

(In case you were looking for one.)

(You don't need one. Pumpkin pie is healthy.)

P.S. For those of you who are concerned about my son's safety, DJ secured the tree to our house using a complex system involving fishing line and screws and that will require some post-holiday spackling. But what doesn't?

P.P.S. Here's a cute picture of Tess: