Memory of Warmer Times Lane

Raise your hand if you love St. George. 

Say what you will about St. George not having a Chick-fil-A, but I don't want to hear any complaints about the weather. 

That little warm spell we enjoyed last week reminded me of a trip that DJ and I took a few years back.  We went to Hawaii when it was January on the mainland.  I think it's perpetually June in Hawaii.  I was in the throes of pregnancy, dealing with Seasonal Affective Disorder, and overall feeling crappy.  The trip was heavenly.  Care to join me for a stroll down Memory Lane, where we can all live vicariously through myself five years ago only without the morning sickness?

 

Words cannot describe how much I love this picture.  But I will try anyway.  This was taken at the Polynesian Cultural Center, where I began my career as a semi-professional hula dancer.  This was my first lesson.  The best part of the picture?  The old other people in the picture with me.  They are so happy.  And their outfits are so festive.  Most people scuba dive or sky dive or some other form of diving when they vacation.  Not me.  I kick it with the AARP.

Speaking of the AARP, feast your eyes on this fellow:

I love that guy. Besides the obvious satisfaction he derives from photobombing unsuspecting tourists, I just appreciate his overall attitude. You know, "Screw it, I'm retired. You don't like my back hair, that's your problem." 

One more comment on this picture. If you will, please take a moment to compare my hairdo in the hula dancing photo to my hairdon't in the photobombed picture.  Are you guys like me--do you make really bad decisions when you're pregnant?  And very ill-thought-out decisions when you're on vacation?  We all knew going into this trip that something bad was going to happen to my hair.  That hairdon't is both the worst and most expensive haircut I've ever received.

Thanks for joining me on my trip down Memory of Warmer Times Lane.  Only three months until summer!

P.S.  Like I threatened last week, here is a link to what I wrote for St. George News this week.  I didn't really care for it, but I didn't have anything else to write about and I didn't think they'd appreciate vacation pictures from five years ago.  Not like you guys.  En. Joy.

The Great and Powerful Oz

A few weeks ago I got an e-mail from a guy, who for privacy purposes we will call The Wizard of Oz (since I've never met him and I'm not entirely sure he really exists), asking if I'd be interested in writing a humor column for a local news website every week.  Since he didn't ask me for my credit card information and the website appeared legitimate I said, "What the hey."  Actually, I wrote something else.  I don't remember what I replied, except that it was almost physically painful for me not to use emoticons in the e-mail.

So...I started writing a "humor" column.  Please note my liberal use of the term "humor."  Being asked to write humorously is a lot of pressure.  It's one thing to write about current events--you just write about stuff that happens and hope that you get your facts straight.  Writing humorously is kind of the opposite.  The facts aren't so much an issue (or they are and I just don't give a crap), but being witty is something that is difficult to do on command.  I feel like I have a guy shooting a gun at my feet and yelling, "DANCE!"  I feel like I was a decent dancer before, but the gun's making me nervous.  Is this simile too complex?

Anyhoo.

You guys oughta see what I wrote this week.  I'll probably put a link on here when I write for the website, since every week my mom asks me how to find it.  (Just trying to make things easier for you, Mom!)

How I Almost Died This Weekend

Yeah, I know it's Tuesday. I was crazy busy yesterday wiping the dust off of my baseboards and eating DJ's birthday Twinkies. (Amusing sidenote: My husband doesn't necessarily care for Twinkies, but for some reason his sisters think that he loves them. Every year he receives a box for his birthday. I eat them. The end.)

On Saturday our friends invited us to go rock climbing with them. I've only rock climbed a few times in my life, most recently in 2001. Let's do the math...that was eleven years, four kids, and one husband ago. I've been in the mood to test my fear and anxiety threshold lately--I also tried Zumba last week--so we agreed to go.

DJ was a trooper. He came straight from work in his Levis and gave it a shot. For those who've never climbed before, usually you wear these tight little climbing shoes that make you look like a nerd. We don't know anyone who wears a size 13 climbing shoe, so DJ went in his nice work shoes.

Macey and Olivia tried it out, too:

I didn't get really great pictures of Olivia, because while she was climbing my other kids were taking pictures like this one:

At one point it was my turn. I borrowed my friend's tight little shoes, strapped into the Climbing Girdle of Joy and Flatteringness (TM), and deliberately made my way up the cliff face. I climbed for what felt like hours. Eventually my arms began to weaken.

"I don't think I can do this," I told my friend.

"Everyone says that. You've got it," my friend replied calmly from the rocky desert floor hundreds of feet below.

My legs began to quiver with fatigue. The bones in my arms liquified until my entire upper body had the consistency of Jell-o. "No really, I can't do this. I don't want to die today."

"See that crevice about seven feet above your head?" my friend asked. "See if you can reach that with your right arm."

I reached, but couldn't make it. I lost my footing. The world spun around me. My life flashed before my eyes just like a bad cliche. I plunged down to my waiting death...

...five feet below.

I climbed five feet before I fell. It felt a lot higher. Given the right shoes I could've jumped from five feet up and been okay.

You're probably wondering how I almost died this weekend. It wasn't the rock climbing. It was the Twinkies. Roll credits.

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"Little" Red Dress

This dress weighs one hundred and ten pounds.  It was premiered a week or two ago at Couture Week in Paris. (Yeah, I missed it, too.  I don't know how these things slip past my radar.  Or, raise your hand if you didn't know Couture Week existed until reading that sentence.  High five!)

Doesn't this seem like a step in the wrong direction, ladies?  Doesn't this dress seem like a hearty slap in the makeup-less face of feminism?  We've managed to get rid of the whalebone corsets.  We can wear pants now.  Nylons are on their way out.  I have some serious beef with these Parisian fashion designers, I'll tell you what.  Give me something I can work with, guys. 

Just something on my mind today.  As you were.

The Day My Phone Got Dropped in the Toidie, By Elise Haynes

We have had a day, let me tell you, and it's all that chubby little baby's fault.  It all started with me needing to write this thing for this website.  I wrote it and then I didn't like what I wrote, so I rewrote it.  And then I didn't like the rewrite so I went with the original anyway.  Argh.  I was preoccupied.  During this writing and rewriting process, Chancho was playing Angry Birds on my phone. 

I'm too pooped [rimshot!] to tell the whole story, but suffice it to say that my phone got dropped into an unflushed toilet.  And then wiped clean and placed back in my purse by an incredibly penitent four-year-old. 

Fortunately for me, I selected my husband based on his expertise in two areas--pyrotechnics and fixing phones that have been dropped into sewage water.  He put my phone into a Ziploc bag of rice, which will supposedly draw the moisture out of the phone.  (I would've thought this was a job for the jasmine rice--it's kind of Asian, Asians make electronics.  DJ went with the long grain white rice.  He's the expert, I guess.)

Pray for my phone, guys.  I need it to see all of the stuff on Pinterest that I could do if I didn't spend all of my time on Pinterest.

Wheatgrass Juice in the Privacy of My Kitchen

Someone. I need victory music, something in the vein of "We Are the Champions" by Queen. Crank up your ghetto blasters. Behold:

I know, I know...it looks like a plastic cup full of bile. What if I told you that that single fluid ounce of liquid is the result of eight days of the painstaking sprouting and watering and nurturing of THIS:

You would feel pity for me, wouldn't you? Or at least you would humor me in the same way I humor my children when they surprise me with their unique sense of fashion:



(Wheatgrass-growing resolution? Check! And it's only January 19th. I wonder what I'll do for the rest of the year.)

For the record, I have tasted wheatgrass juice before. I used to buy it at the crunchy smoothie store for like three bucks a shot. Drinking it in the privacy of my own kitchen is an entirely different ball of wax. You know what? Wheatgrass juice tastes super nasty when you're not surrounded by a bunch of Chacos-wearing hippies. Today, I was about two grassy burps away from upchucking. Just ask my mom. She watched the entire thing, laughing at me the whole time. Clearly she has moved on from the humoring-her-children phase.

(Guys. Can I just tell you how happy I am with the results of our recent family photo shoot? I am. So happy.)

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Interview with Elise

Hello Elise, you're looking fabulous in your Christmas sweatpants that DJ bought because he was tired of you always wearing his nasty Marine Corps sweats.
Thanks.  Do you have any questions for me?

Yes.  I saw you at Walmart buying a George Foreman grilling machine today.

That isn't a question, but it's true.  I bought a family-sized George Foreman grill today.  I considered waiting until I found one at a yard sale, but then I had this thought:  What if they used it to warm up their socks?  There's no way of knowing.  I can't live like that.

What else have you done this month?

We had family pictures taken.  Our photographer was really good.  She let us borrow her son's sock to sop the blood off of Tess's face after she hit a rock with it.  She assured me that the sock was freshly laundered--that's when you know you've chosen the right photographer.  She also takes nice pictures.

I see that you are sitting in the weeds.  Was that uncomfortable?

Yes!  But the fake smiling and posing was even more awkward.  Next year I will choose a location that ensures more genuine happiness, like the line for samples at Costco.

Or Baskin Robbins.

Exactly.

Have you made any resolutions for the new year?

Yes, but I will never divulge them because doing so guarantees failure, just like telling someone your birthday wish.  I've made one goal, however, that will require the assistance of my readers:  I want to learn how to sprout.  Like wheatgrass and stuff.  If anyone knows how to do that from home safely, let me know.  One time I accidentally sprouted corn in my carpet when I was nine years old, but that's a story for another day.

Gross.  How's the book coming along?

What book?

The one you told us you were going to write.

Oh, that book.  It was going swimmingly until the holidays struck.  I'm ready to jump back on the writing wagon, but I'm rusty.  Maybe I won't write a book.  Maybe I'll just focus on sprouting wheatgrass this year.

Well, it is healthy.  Last question:  What song has been stuck in your head all afternoon?

"Turning Page" by Sleeping at Last from the Breaking Dawn soundtrack.  That's right.  Breaking Dawn soundtrack.  Judge away, haters.  Judge away.

Witty Title

Update time. Let's go youngest to oldest.

Tess (a.k.a. Tessida, Baby Love, Stressly)

Age: 2.5

Loves: applying Chapstick, steak for breakfast, painting her nails, eating imaginary frogs, milk, her wubbie, grumpy old farts (i.e. Gru from Despicable Me, the Grinch, etc.), Elmo, cats, and salsa.

D.J. (a.k.a. Chancho)

Age: 4.5

Loves: Monster trucks, mass destruction in any form, orange, trains, orange trains, anything with wheels under it, pushing his sister's buttons, Cars-shaped chicken nuggets, road construction equipment, "Boom Boom Pow" by the Black-Eyed Peas.

Olivia (a.k.a. Livie Livie Lou Fuss Fuss, Lia Lia Quesadilla)

Age: 6.3

Loves: teddy bears, Junie B. Jones books, giving gifts, porcelain dolls, riding her bike, McDonald's Happy Meals, chocolate milk, coloring, playing the piano, learning about the universe, but NOT loud noises.

Macey (a.k.a. Fez, Bella, Macey Face)

Age: 7.5

Loves: earning money, horses, playing pranks like throwing ice water on her OWN MOTHER in the shower, riding her bike, praise, listening to my iPod, bossing people around, exercising her independence, learning the piano, hugging, sending text messages.

Darrell (a.k.a. D.J., Dad)

Age: 29.9

Loves: Alaska, shooting at animals, money-making schemes, guns, his wife, his iPad, cold weather, fishing, movies with good vindication (think The Count of Monte Cristo), 1980s Toyota pickup trucks, snoring, fixating on things, Sportsman's Warehouse, beef jerky, trying to negotiate the price of everything, crappy Mexican food, the theme music from Legends of the Fall.

Elise (a.k.a. Moooooom, I want some egg nog!)

Age: 31.1

Loves: summer, D.J., baking sugary treats, word games like Scrabble and Words With Friends, Benja Thai, running, buying music on iTunes, having my back scratched, barbecued meats, laughing at things, elasticized clothing, making lists, Facebook, green apple Chapstick, cheeseburgers, READING, rain, Chevy Tahoes, convenient packaging, Lake Powell, smart people, green smoothies.

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So there, Us magazine

At 2:30 Monday morning our Christmas tree fell over. I use the term "tree" loosely. Stupid "tree."

Later that morning, my cousin Bodie broke my toilet open with a big wrench to figure out why it wouldn't flush. There was a smallish wooden ball in the pipes. (For the record, I do not feed small wooden ball toys to my children.) After being smashed to smithereens by a wrench, however, the toy ball was the least of our toilet's problems.

I escaped the toilet situation by going to Walmart during Christmas. You know what I hate about Walmart? Almost everything. You know what I love about Walmart? That I always see my friends there. And the low prices.

That evening we hosted the Haynes Christmas party. Since DJ's parents and three of his grandparents have passed away it was just DJ's siblings and our children here for the party. Do you know what this means?! I'm the third oldest person in our branch of the Haynes tree. DJ's sister is a month older than me and here is the last remaining grandparent:

You decide. Is Macey a really tall seven-year-old or is grandma Marilyn a really short 76-year-old?

I'm not actually sure if grandma is 76. She might be 75 or 74. Anyone? I would know if Grandma was on Facebook. Come on, Grandma!

Chancho's wildest fantasies came true in the form of a Christmas train:

My husband never reads this blog and as punishment I post pictures of him in his patriotic jammie pants. To prove that I still have a soul, here is surveillance footage of me in my scary jammies:

Can I tell you how much I adore those ratty old sweats? They are--nay, WERE--DJ's Marine Corps sweatpants. They are soft and warm and huge and absolutely non-binding. You know what I DON'T adore? That our security system has documented my sweats and they are now floating around in a complex web of satellites and internets that I don't fully understand and it seems absolutely feasible that they (the sweats) might turn up on the cover of Us magazine. I am preemptively posting them here so that I can explain how comfy they are. So there, Us magazine.

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a gift for all of us

Everyone (and by everyone I mean my husband) keeps asking me what I want for Christmas and I've finally figured it out. Someone needs to figure out a way to duplicate me. Believe me, this will be a gift for all of us. I would like three clones of myself: one for cleaning my oven, one for figuring out how to make the wedding cake that I've been asked to make, and one for concocting the 20 table centerpieces that I've been asked to make for our ward Christmas party which falls on the same day as the wedding. Let's make this happen, people.

Ugh.

In related news, I've begun a new ritual wherein I wake up every morning at 4:00 and have a panic attack about the wedding cake and the table decorations and Christmas and the 2012 presidential elections and Darfur and melting polar ice caps and I don't fall asleep again until 3:45 in the afternoon when I'm on Bluff Street driving the carpool. It's exciting.

[Think of something witty to write here as a segue.]

Thanksgiving was awesome.

Since you guys are already busily discovering a way to duplicate me, can you figure out how to breed a five-legged turkey while you're at it? Between DJ and my four children there never seem to be enough turkey legs to go around. With the exception of Disneyland, I'm not a fan of the turkey legs. I'm not fond of being smacked in the face by snapping turkey leg ligaments. But the other people I live with? They're sickos.

After Thanksgiving we cut down our Christmas tree. It was kinda chilly in Pine Valley this year, so after searching for a while I decide to wait it out in the car with my kids, my Carpenter's Christmas CD, and my bag of mini old fashioned donuts. I gave DJ my full Christmas tree power of attorney.

I am an IDIOT.

He had to cut the bottom AND the top off to fit it in our house. Even then he had to snap it into place like one of those toilet paper dispenser things.

I guess that's all I've got to say today. Chancho keeps getting all up in my face and yelling "CAN I PLAY ANGRY BIRDS????" and blowing his bacon breath all over me. That's my cue.

Happy December, everyone!

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