Loo-uh-VULL

We made it to Louisville. It bears mentioning that the locals insist that Louisville is pronounced "Loo-uh-VULL." They are wrong. It is Louie-ville. It's kind of like the Hurricane/Her-uh-kin thing that's going on in Utah, only on a larger scale and with a heavier drawl, unbelievably.

 

Here are a few shots from our drive across this great country of ours:

Every time I drive I-70 across the United States I am struck with two thoughts:

 

1. Driving across Kansas should be considered a form of torture. Like, they should take prisoners from Guantanamo, shove them in a minivan with four kids somewhere near the Colorado/Kansas border, lock the doors and send them east with the cruise control set at 65 mph. They'll hit the Missouri border the following Tuesday. See if that makes them talk. 

 

2. I love the United States. Even Kansas. I mean, we need corn. Iowa, Nebraska, Oklahoma, Texas, Missouri, and Arkansas cannot be expected to meet all of the corn needs of the American people.

 

So far I am quite taken with Kentucky. It is green and lush and humid as the day is long. And Kentucky has met all of my demands: a Trader Joe's within a five minute drive, excellent running trails, sunshine, and a swimming pool. I'm easy.

 

Louisville also provides easy access to one of my favorite sisters and her daughter. We have planned a summer full of swimming and sleepovers. It is going to be a party.

 

In other news, Tess turned four this week. We ate a lot of chocolate cake and did a lot of swimming to celebrate. It was much better than last year's "cupcake on an airplane from Florida to Seattle" party.

 

Here is some illustrations:

 

 

(I just caught my "Here is some illustrations" grammatical tragedy. I am leaving it because it is so unbelievably goofy. Kentucky has gone done an rubbed off on me, I reckon.)

The Kentucky countdown

I feel like a cockroach under the enormous shoe of the universe this week.

 

Do you ever have one of those weeks where everything falls apart? That was this week. Unfortunately, with the exception of the jerkwad bee that stung me on Wednesday, all of my problems are of my own making. We're not going to dwell on the negative, though. It's too much of a bummer.

 

Moving on.

 

Here are some funny pictures of Tess:

That night she fell asleep on the couch at 6:00 so I left her there. Do not judge. I am in survival mode here. Anyway, she wandered into the kitchen around 10:00 with this hair and her blankie, searching for water. I think she is one of the four cutest children to ever live.

 

This was my Mother's Day breakfast in bed:

I awoke to the sounds - and smells - of Macey attempting pancakes, bless her huge heart. Her efforts did not have the outcome that she desired, so strawberry Frosted Mini Spooners it was.

Suddenly I feel the need to apologize to the poor three people who follow me on Instagram for all of these Insta-regurgitated photos. It's just that they upload so quickly!

This may very well be my last blog post from sunny southern Utah. I am so tired of being in a different state from my husband, I can't even put the tiredness into words. In seven days my children and I are making the cross-country trek to join my husband in Louisville. It is a 25 hour drive. Four children. One adult. I am severely outnumbered. Please pray for us.

Oh yeah, and here's what I wrote this week at St. George News. It's about a new law that allows bikes and motorcycles to turn left at red lights. Sorry I've only been linking to these sporadically. I'm lazy, but admit it - you love that about me. That, and my hot pink toenail polish.

Speaking of hot pink toenail polish - if you were my mom you would know why that applies - here is what I wrote last week for Mother's Day. You should read it. But don't, like, ignore your kids to read it. That would be too ironic.

ballet, pierced ears, and the day I was 6'3"

Dearest friends, family, and Creepy Internet Stalkers,

It has been another week for the record books at the Haynes house. Macey and Olivia had their ballet recital. Here they are before the show looking not nearly as nervous as I was:

This was Macey's number. It was called Music Box Dancer or something like that. She is just to the left of the dude with the buzzed head:

And here is Olivia. She did a Chinese ballet dance. We live in a glorious time in the history of the world, do we not? All of these cultures and styles of dance combining into something so overwhelmingly amusing:

Olivia is the second dancer from the right. Her back is facing the camera. I know, I know. This is the best shot I got. No judgment from you, Internet Stalker.

 

Macey turned nine this week. Here she is with the Brave cake which she requested:

 And here she is with her newly pierced ears:

She has been begging me for a year and a half or so to get her ears pierced. I surprised her by checking her out of school and driving her to the mall to have a stranger shoot stainless steel posts into her earlobes with a little gun. For fashion. Like I said, it is a glorious time in the history of the world.

 

My "little" six-foot-four brother, Johnny, and his wife Elizabeth came for a visit this weekend. Here is Johnny teaching my mom how to shoot her gun. My mom has her concealed carry permit and a little .38 special. Don't mess with grandma. She doesn't even need a gun. She's also handy with a wooden spoon. Take my word for it.

Don't worry - these guns aren't loaded. They are practicing their "presentation," which is gun-speak for pulling your gun out and pointing it at things as quickly and efficiently as possible. And when I say "things" I am referring to my Arnold Friberg painting of George Washington at Valley Forge.

 

Last and probably least. I'm not big on these silly mirror self portraits that seem to be all the rage on the Internet of late, but here's a silly one that I texted to my far-off husband:

The caption read: Today I'm 6'3" and there's no one here to complain about it. :(

 

I do not wear my 5" heels often, because of both the impracticality and the fact that when I wear them my husband develops an inferiority complex. I love those heels. But I would much rather have my husband here.