a Thanksgiving gift from me to you

I thought I'd give you guys a break from all of the sappy thankfulness blogs out there and post some funny videos, because of all of the things that I am grateful for, I am truly grateful for people who are funny, intentionally or no. (Runnnnnn onn sennnnntennnnce!)

I think they're funny, anyway. I'm guessing you'll think either A) "I saw this video back in, like, 2008," or something really judgmental like, B) "Elise needs to pray and read her scriptures more often. If she did, she would realize that this is offensive."

Both thoughts are probably true. Nevertheless, and without very much further ado, I present to you:

Two YouTube Videos For Which I Am Grateful
(Perhaps a new tradition in the making....)




Sorry, Mom.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Happy Birthday, Mom!

I am an addict.

I have been since I was a child, but I never realized it until now. And as we all know, the first step to overcoming addiction is realizing that you have a problem.

It seems like the more I use, the more I need.

There is never enough.

When I had my children I thought that I wouldn't need it as much, but it turns out that I need more. I need more now than I ever have.

Now my children are hooked, too. But I don't share mine with them like I should.

I wake up every morning with a fresh batch of it, only to discover at the end of the day that I've wasted most of it.

Sometimes it lasts forever, sometimes it goes too quickly. Usually it goes too quickly.


My drug of choice is in high demand, but there is a limited supply.


There isn't enough. I can't get enough. I will never have enough time.


Speaking of the passing of time, yesterday was my mom's 55th birthday. I threw her a Pink Princess Party with pink streamers, balloons, and excessive alliteration. (This seemed like suitable revenge for the black balloon bouquet that she gave me for my 30th birthday.) I accidentally put 57 candles on her cake(s). I was going to take the extra candles off but DJ told me, and I quote (you can tell by these: ""): "It looks better when you complete the row." So, don't tell my mom, but I think I just shortened her life by two years.

Look at all of those candles!

Each one of those candles represents an important year:
1955: The year of my mother's birth. Also the year that George McFly kissed Lorraine and Marty repaired the space-time continuum.

1955-1979: A lot of important things happened, like my parents getting married, NASA landing on the moon, Rowe v. Wade, etc.

1980: The year I was born.

1990: The year everyone learned to line dance.

1995: One word: Lowell.

1995-2010: We'll call this the Accumulation of Grandchildren period. Fifteen and counting.

Here's us celebrating 55 awesome years:We love you, Mom! Happy birthday!

Just decluttering my brain.

Want to hear something weird, and not in the least bit preachy like last time? Let's discuss pumpkin pie. I am compelled to hoard pumpkin pie at this time of year. I get all panicky because I know that $5.99 Costco pies are a limited-time-only item (right? I never even look at other times of the year). So, I buy pie. And then I eat it for breakfast even though I told Chancho that he couldn't. So in addition to being a glutton, I'm a hypocrite. But you already knew that.

Now, let's discuss The Lift.
I just watched the video of The Lift (you know-- "I had the tiiiime of my liiiiife!") from Dirty Dancing on YouTube. Sometimes I watch it when I'm feeling down. It perks me right up. Anyway, one of the commenters said this: "THIS IS HOW REAL LIFE SHOULD REALLY BE. I WISH FOR THIS MOMENT." In all caps. I have only one thing to say about that: Amen. Life should be like having a sweaty man lift us over his head so that we can fly. Like a bird. And why not bring perms back, while we're at it?

Let's discuss Flecks of Gold, by Alicia Buck. I bought this book (along with a pie) the other night at Costco when the author was signing them. I read it last night and this morning when I should have been scrubbing the toilets. Go find a copy and read it. It's a really fun story. I'm serious. Go.





You're still here? Then let's discuss Tiffany, because I'm in an 80's kind of mood.


This song reminds me of being nine. I loved this song when I was nine. Now I listen to it on my iPod when I run. Tiffany has inspired me to flirtatiously play with my hair more than I already do. (I told you you should've left after Flecks of Gold.)

Awkward Silence

So, I got my hair cut the other month. Does any one else dread the obligatory haircut conversation?
“So, where’d you go to hair school?”
“Evan’s.”
“Huh.”
(awkward silence)
“Are you from around here?”
“Yeah.”
“Where’d you go to high school?”
“Snow Canyon. I graduated in 2005.”
“Huh. I don’t know anyone your age.”
(more awkward silence)
As my hairdresser applied goop and foil to my tresses, we discovered that we have a mutual acquaintance who is an in-law of mine, who shall remain nameless.
Always thrilled to have something to talk about besides hair, I said, “Yeah…I’m married to her [handsome male relative]. Small world!”
After more awkward conversation about this tiny thread of a connection between us there was an awkward pause and the hairdresser said, “So, wasn’t your husband’s dad kind of a…creep?”
In defense of the hairdresser, I could tell she didn’t want to say it--that my father-in-law was a creep. But apparently they don’t teach vocabulary in hair school. It was the only word her hairdresser brain had access to.
I was taken off guard by this perfect stranger’s one-word assessment of my father-in-law. I’ve never met my father-in-law; he passed away when my husband was eleven years old. He had weaknesses and flaws like most mortals I’ve met. My husband loves his father despite his faults--which is a key component of the gospel of Jesus Christ, I think. (I’d like for everyone to love me, despite my glaring flaws. And I love my father-in-law, too, despite the fact that I’ve never met him. I like to think that he thinks I’m awesome.) Everyone has imperfections, some are just more obvious than others. One thing I’m sure of, though, is that the Atonement covers everyone. Even people who are tactless.
I gave the hairdresser a condensed version of the previous paragraph and told her that I was completely surprised that our mutual acquaintance felt that way about my father-in-law. She sort of apologized and changed the subject to something that was more in her depth--pomade? I don’t remember. The point is, I learned a valuable lesson that day. Here’s the epiphany I had when my head was covered in foil and I looked like a doofus:
Awkward silence is the fertile ground in which crappy gossip seeds thrive.
Put that on your wall in vinyl, ladies.
(I’m not saying that I’m not guilty of this; in fact, I’m probably the worst offender. It was just a realization I had. Something to chew on. Something I’m going to work on. I'll be back to my usual buffoonery tomorrow.)

Well, dat was easy!

So...Halloween. Tess carried on the Haynes family tradition of being Stitch and having everyone think she's both Eeyore and a boy. This has been going on since 2006, with Olivia and DJ preceding her. Sadly, I don't think anyone will fit in the Stitch costume next year. I suppose it's time to return it to Lisa, since I promised her I'd "give it right back" when I borrowed it back in '06. (Has everyone made a mental note to never loan me anything?) Tess got really tired.

We posed on the hood of our car.

Now we're down to the Smarties and Pixie Sticks and sucked-on Tootsie Pops stuck to the side of the bag, and I've had it with the whole institution.

In related news, DJ and I have started running together. For exercise. This feat is made possible thanks to our double jogging stroller and the fact that my older girls are in school in the morning. Normally, I love my jogging stroller. However, when the tires are nearly flat it's kind of like pushing a 100 pound sack of potatoes down the trail. And then when Tess starts crying halfway through it's like pushing a 100 pound sack of really loud potatoes.

When we pulled up to the porch on our first day DJ and I were both huffing and puffing and glistening with WWF wrestler-esque sweat. It was very attractive. Tess was screaming her guts out, presumably because the sun was in her eyes. (I'm sorry, Tess. I can give you milk. Bundle you up in layers. But there's nothing I can do about the sun. You're a bat.) Chancho slid out of the stroller and declared, "Well, dat was easy," and sauntered into the house ahead of us.

I cannot wait to pull that one out and reuse it on him. When he graduates from college--well, dat was easy! When he comes home from his mission--well, dat was easy! You get the idea.