Get Snacky

Brennan's New Year's Eve culinary creations. I see a future chef thing happening for him, don't you?

Christmas at Pa & Grandma's

Pa & Grandma

Opening presents...

Opening more presents...

Rosalind and her ouchy forehead

Roz & Aunt Kristy

Carter, Harrison & Uncle Steve

Harrison & Uncle Steve

Aunt Kristy...

...wearing Roz's new tiara

Kristy, Steve and Rosalind

Carter's Birthday & Christmas 2007

Dad and Brennan received new cell phones for Christmas... we waited till Christmas Day to give Brennan his, but Dad couldn't resist trying his phone out at work a few days before.

Cheeeeeeese

We opened a few presents before we left for Tri-Cities. Here are Harrison and Carter in their new Christmas shirts and ties from Grannie and Grandpa Bob...

Cutie boys

... and Rosalind in her new pretty dress, also from Grannie and Grandpa Bob

Cutie girl

At Grandma & Pa's house in her new Cinderella outfit. The last few days of school before Christmas break, she and Carter had some bad luck - he cut his eyebrow open at a friend's birthday party, necessitating a visit to the clinic (fortunately no stitches); and she ran face-first into a cement thing sticking up from the sidewalk at school. Then we went to the grandparents' houses and everyone probably thought we beat our kids.

Cinderella, Cinderella

Brennan on New Year's Eve, hoping for a kiss...

Pucker up, buttercup

We Interrupt Our Christmasy Niceness For This... Thing

Today I tried to find out whether or not I had a dark/sick/twisted sense of humor. I really did. I found a really stupid online quiz that told me absolutely nothing... Oh, just read the post.

Chief Ten Bears

1) Chief Ten Bears of Dances With Wolves fame died.
What we may not have known about Ten Bears, aka Floyd Red Crow Westerman (unless we are rampant fans of "Walker, Texas Ranger" or "Dharma & Greg"), is that he was quite a prolific actor and showed up in freaking everything.

While I have the utmost respect for the man and sympathy for his family, if I see one more Comcast News headline that says, "Dances With Wolves actor dies" or "Walker, Texas Ranger actor dies" or "Dharma & Greg actor dies," I'm gonna get out my fork gun and do some serious damage. Every time I see one of these headlines, I'm all aghast. "Holy crap, who are all these actors dying?" So I click on it and wouldn't you know... it's always Floyd. It's like the boy who cried "Ten Bears Died!"

2) This is what I get for griping:
Now Dan Fogelberg died. It's all because of me, and Elasticwaistband Lady, because she made fun of his tank top and hairy armpits. Way to go.

3) Hope I'm not spoiling anything...
...but Todd the Jolly Rancher won the $1,000,000 on "Survivor: China." I called that one (but I really hoped James the Grave Digger would win).

Chief Ten Bears

4) Ten Bears died.
(Just making sure you're aware.)

5) Jen Lindley is still dead.
Let's all sing along with this charming Irish ditty: "Everywhere we looked, there was death, death, death..."

6) Death is everywhere. There are flies on the windscreen.
Come here. Kiss me. Now.

7) This really doesn't have anything to do with anything...
... but William H. Macy is still gonna kick your butt. You just watch yourself. He has the death sentence on twelve systems. "I'll be careful." You'll be DEAD!

8. This Chinese music on the "Survivor" finale is leaving me cold.
Flute? Weird wailing? Drums that make absolutely no sense? I'm SO not Chinese. You'd think that after all my years of genealogical research, this would have been obvious before now.

Chief Ten Bears

9) And just in case you were thinking of forgetting...
Ten Bears is still dead.

"Shu-mani-tu-tonka Ob' Wa-chi! Do you see that Ten Bears is dead! Will you bring the funeral potatoes to the stake center for the dinner! Shu-mani-tu-tonka Ob' Wa-chi! Do you see that we still need ham and a salad and the homemade rolls! Do you see that no one has set up the tables in the multi-purpose room! Shu-mani-tu-tonka Ob' Wa-chi!!!!!....."

A Song For You

Some Thanksgiving Pics - 2007

Chef BC

The "organic" turkey

No one told Kiley what her new pet turkey would become...
The cooks
The table

The Aspic

Mmmmmm...

Ernie, Tawnee & BC

Tawnee, Jeremy & Ernie

The kids' table

Tawnee

Tawnee & Dad

Zane, Jeremy & Ernie

Dad & Kids

Ernie

Ernie & Harrison

Grandpa Bob & Bella

My man and me

... again

November 2007

On our way to Neenaw's, riding the train - it was November, so our trip was in the dark all the way there.

Doing some kind of "kitty" pose here. I can't believe how much her hair has grown since then. (More pictures from the Neenaw trip later)

meow

Remember the movie Better Off Dead? That's what the attempt was here.

Bella's fall choir concert - quite an eventful evening. The bleachers fell down, the choir director had to direct the choir while playing the piano, and then she asked the audience for help with the next concert. That's how I happened to play for the Christmas concert.

Bella is on the top row, third from left.

Resting while the orchestra play something - the choir was mostly well-behaved

Whatevs

Blast from the Past

I've been busy scanning pictures over here at Neenaw's.  She's starting to think my butt is glued to the computer chair.

My tragic past

Here we are, on the patio, almost twenty years ago - me, Melanie, and The Missionary.  One thing I probably never told you about The Missionary is that he had a giant cotton ball for a head.  He was really helpful when I needed to take my nail polish off, but whenever I kissed him, I always got cottony fluff in my mustache.  That's the real reason why we broke up.  I finally thought, "I can't live my life like this" and told him to take his giant cotton ball noggin and hit the road.  He said, "It's because my head is a cotton ball, isn't it?" and I said, "Yes.  I'm sorry but it's just not going to work."  I figured, why lie?  Eventually he'll have to deal with this cotton ball head thing and maybe he'll do something about it.  What he could do about it, I don't know.  I do know I wasn't prepared to deal with a lifetime of being married to someone I would have to make excuses for.  "He can't sing in the choir, he has a cotton ball head."  "No, I have to be the breadwinner because he has a cotton ball head."  "I'd let him change the baby, but he can't really see what he's doing because of the cotton ball head."

Instead, I married Bunny, and it all worked out for the best.

The Good, The Bad and The Handsy

I had a marvelous weekend. I realize it's Sunday and my weekend is still in effect, but all I'm doing today is church and dinner with the missionaries, so I'm hoping it will be as uneventful as possible. But you just never know.

THE GOOD:
~ Friday evening, I went to the optical center and had my new glasses adjusted. How sweet to be able to see again. While waiting for Bunny to pick me up, I read a most interesting article in National Geographic about the early American settlement of Jamestown and how Europeans changed the very geography of America. According to the author, earthworms and honeybees were not to be found in North America until after the crossing of Columbus. (I'm not sure I believe this - the Indians didn't have flowers or fruit? Don't flowers and fruit trees need bees in order to be pollinated and repropagated? Does that seem weird to anyone else?) So if you like your apple trees and tulips, and squished sidewalk worms after rainstorms... you now know whom to thank.

~ At Olive Garden, Bunny had his favorite, ravioli di portobello, and the smoked mozzarella fonduta appetizer was heavenly yet again. I had pumpkin cheesecake for dessert.

~ After dinner, we went to the mall. We chose our new Christmas ornament for the year at the Hallmark store - the Grinch under the Christmas tree, stuffing his sack with the Whos' gifts.

~ All night, there was a sweet sense of nice married-ness and I-can-tell-my-husband-anything-ness (more on that later).

~ No Cool Story picked me up Saturday morning and we drove to Seattle to visit our dearly beloved Carrot, who turned a year older that day. Now she's as old as we are again, till January. We had a fun, fun trip. NCS was very impressed with the above Columbus story.

~ I wore my David Bowie "Let's Dance" socks that Elastic gave me, since she could only be there in spirit.

~ We met Carrot's little family and we got to hold her baby. Awwwww. He's so fat and squishy and adorable. When we were in Colorado, Carrot and I betrothed our oldest children to each other (Bridge and Brynn - see? It's perfect), so when I walked in her door, Carrot said to Brynn, "Your mother-in-law's here!" Her house is very cute.

~ Lunch was good. The Chinese restaurant really, really liked Elton John. Ever hear "Honky Cat" as Musak? Most impressive. We laughed hard and took goofy pictures of ourselves and made people stare at us.

~ The computer-y lady on the electronic map was nice, and even when NCS lost her way, never said, "Why don't you pull over and let Millie drive?".

~ We got home safely last night with sweet, sweet, Carrot-y memories. And more food.

THE BAD:
~ Next time you're at Olive Garden, DO NOT order the Tuscan Garlic Chicken. Ewwww. There's a reason Bunny always orders the same thing - it's always good.

~ Carrot would not consent to our kidnapping her. So we had to leave her at her house.

~ We went shopping after lunch, only to find that almost none of the sequined formals we looked at were modest enough for the Sweetheart Ball next February, which I think we may have talked Carrot into showing up for. With Mr. Carrot, of course.

~ NCS had twinges of nausea during the day. Things were looking pretty scary there for a bit. Fortunately, the open car window did the trick.

THE HANDSY:
~ We hugged Carrot a lot. She even hugged me again when I brought her gift from the car (her boy Nicholas distracted her and she left it there by mistake). It made my heart go pitter-pat. We even commented on how huggy we've all become.

~ I wore clear nail polish. Ooooohhhh... pretty.

~ The Chinese restaurant gave us actual utensils instead of chopsticks.

~ I felt I was in capable hands all day with NCS' sweet driving skills.

~ I had my hands full while at the optical center, juggling my hot chocolate cup and the National Geographic.

~ Um...

~ (deep sigh of apprehension)

~ Give me strength, everyone.

~ This is kind of big.

~ I'm posting this at my own peril.

~ Really... try not to faint.

~ While at Sam Goody's at the mall Friday night, Bunny and I were CD-shopping. He likes that one song by Colbie what's-her-face, the one that sounds like a Dr. Seuss book. I left him to peruse the U2 DVDs, walked over to find her CD, brought it back, found him, showed him the CD with one hand, and put my other hand on his tushie.

~ Except... it wasn't Bunny.

~ He was wearing the exact same outfit, haircut, everything.

~ I cupped his bum, and he turned to look at me, like, "Yes? Did you need something?"

~ I looked at his face and said, "Oh... you are SOOOO not my husband. I'm so sorry."

~ He was very polite and said, "I thought it must be someone I knew."

~ Blushing hard, I nonchalantly walked over to Bunny, who had heard this exchange but had no idea his wife just had a close encounter of the strange man's buttock kind.

~ I giggled to myself all the way to Hallmark. The look on the guy's face. I could just imagine what he would tell his friends later. "Some chick grabbed my butt at Sam Goody's."

~ While I giggled, I screwed up my courage to tell Bunny. He had no idea of anything. I said, "Can I tell you something? You have to promise not to get mad."

~ He kind of promised.

~ I said, "You know that guy at Sam Goody's, the one in the aisle across from you? Well, I thought he was you and I went up to him to show him the CD and I..."

~ "Grabbed his butt?" He was, sadly, just kidding.

~ "Yes."

~ "WHAT!! You even have your new glasses on!"

~ "I know. I'm so sorry. He looked exactly like you. I didn't mean to."

~ "I know you didn't... aww, you're such a DORK." He laughed and hugged me. I have a bad habit of waving to people I think I know, then finding out... oops. I don't. The bright side is, I've set a precedent, so this unfortunate incident didn't come from out of the blue.

~ My two dear friends told me I should blog about it. I seriously debated it with myself. My mom and the ward Relief Society presidency members read my blog.

~ I have since instituted the "Don't grab a man's rear until you're sure it's Bunny's" rule. You'd think it would have been obvious well before now.

~ What you do with this sage advice... is in your hands.

Buying, Eating, and Playing With Your Cheese

"Sure, Millie, I've thought about buying those little Mini Babybel Original Cheeses," you're saying. "But the thought of convincing my husband I need them, unwrapping that daunting packaging, and eating and enjoying my Baby Cheeses is such a foreign idea that frankly, it gives me gas. What can I do?"

Friend, snort nasal spray and tank up on cabbage no more - we've all been there. As an oppressed Mormon wife who is only allowed outside on Jewish holidays - and even then, only while wearing a burka and a flowered apron - I can tell you that procuring these sweet little succulent cheeses for your gastronomical enjoyment is just a hop, skip, and a "Yes, master" away.

1) Convincing the Skeptical Spouse: While $3.48 for a pack of six at WinCo might seem a little spendola, too bad. You need them. They're just so cute. Look at that package of adorable little cheeses in their happy red netting wrapper. Wouldn't you love to get little cheeses like that and have them in your fridge for snack time? Wouldn't it make you happy every time you walked by your fridge, just to know that they're there? And best of all, they're made by The Laughing Cow. There's nothing but happy snacking when you eat these cheeses. I say, whine and throw a fit and kick and scream in the aisle until your errant husband puts them in the shopping cart for you. Better yet, go shopping by yourself and eat them on the way home from the store. He'll never be the wiser.

2) Actually Opening the Thing: Now stay with me. There are a few steps to this tricky process but I promise they're worth your time.

Look above at the net bag covering the cheeses. It appears as though the netting is tied together in teensy little knots, right? But this is an illusion, as the netting is actually fused together by a mysterious net-fusing process. Rending a nice hole in the netting couldn't be easier - just pop in a finger and give a big yank. Not too big, you don't want to rip so gaping a hole that the rest of the cheeses fall out - just big enough to get one cheese out. (You big cheese hog.)

Each cheese is covered by a crinkly red plastic wrapper. Find a convenient corner and delicately tear the wrapper. If a convenient corner can't be found, find something sharp - scissors, perhaps - and cut a small hole in the wrapper. BE CAREFUL - you're wielding a sharp instrument near your very precious body. Don't be in such a snit to get the thing open that you slice yourself open. This should be a happy experience, not a "I wanted cheese but instead I ended up with an I.V. and 45 stitches" experience. Please don't hurt yourself, or the delicious little cheese inside.

3. Really Getting Your Money's Worth: Once the red plastic wrapper is gone, you will find that the cheese has been encased in a tight red wax covering. Don't panic! It's easy to get inside. Simply find the white plastic tab protruding from the red wax casing and gently pull. See how easy that is? And look what you have as a result:

You have a red wax Pac-Man! Sure! After you remove the cheese from its layers of wrapping and begin to enjoy its cheesy deliciousness, have some fun with Pac-Man. Be careful with Pac-Man - the wax is fragile. I know, it was hard enough to open that you'd think it would withstand some pressure, but alas. It's pretty weak stuff.

This can work to your advantage, however. When Pac-Man is squished after a few moments of play (as he inevitably will be), just look at the fun options you can try.

Break Pac-Man apart, and voila, you've got a fun red pair of wax lips to mold to your mouth. Go around with those on for a while and make your kids laugh. Or make them scared. Make your neighbors think you've had collagen injections gone horribly wrong. Make those lips your own, honey. After all the work you've done to get this far, by all means, have some stinkin' fun with them. They'll be gone soon enough.

Now again, remember, that wax doesn't stay together long, so after your lip fun has met its tragic end by falling off your face and onto your lap, take one of the lips and mold it to your nose. Look, you're Rudolph! And what's great about the nose idea is you can do it with a friend. What a sweet moment, bonding over leftover cheese wax. Ah, the memories you'll create with that special someone...

Next time you hear those little cheeses cry out to you from the deli case, don't be afraid. Don't be intimidated. Don't tell the check-out lady they're actually for the kids. You enjoy the heck right out of those little cheeses. Come on... you know you want to.

The 80s: Decade of Buns Worship

Not many people say the word “buns” anymore and I say, Thank Goodness.

The other night on Fox News, Greta Van Susteren was talking up Donald Trump’s new book with its dignified, typically Trump-esque title, Think Big and Kick A-- . Trump, on the phone with Greta, mentioned he’d been advised to “tone down” the title a tad – maybe to “Kick Butt” instead – but to his ear, Think Big and Kick Butt just didn’t have that literary-classic-sounding flow that “Kick A—“ did. Isn’t that shocking?

Bri and I discussed this and I said, “He should have called it Think Big and Kick Buns.” Then I thought, Ewwww, buns. I hate the word “buns.” It’s right up there with “panties.”

“Buns” is a word I hadn’t heard on television for years, until I caught an episode of VH-1’s “I Love the 80s,” when the sight of two middle-aged hausfraus singing the praises of some male celebrity’s “buns” brought back some powerful, and not pleasant, memories. All the embarrassing giggly simpering that once accompanied the word “buns” came slamming back like a car door on an ankle bone.

In the 80s, “buns” became a popular word. Right about the time a certain high school flame was wearing holey-butted Levis with red boxers underneath (“cuz I gotta have faith! Faith! Faith!”), they were on almost every woman’s mind: Buns and the Men Who Had Nice Ones. Everywhere you looked, there they were – hanging out of David Lee Roth’s and Prince’s buttless pants… quivering beneath Tom Cruise’s tighty whities in “Risky Business”… even The Missionary's mother commented that Billy Ray Cyrus, of “Achy Breaky Heart” fame, had nice buns (the statement “At this, I became overwhelmingly nauseated” is not an exaggeration).

What could account for this sudden buns interest? I can blame only one thing: the Women’s Liberation Movement. Yes, now follow along. Women weren’t content with voting, straddling horses, wearing pants or chewing tobacco like a man anymore. There was another, as-yet-uncrossed female frontier: the objectifying of men. Sure, men had been eyeballing us and making lewd comments for centuries, but women? No way. Nice women – LADIES – did not notice men’s behinds, nor comment about them. Not once did I ever hear my mother or aunts or (heaven forbid) grandmothers say, “That Frank Sinatra has a nice pair” or “Boy, wouldn’t I love to be Elvis’ black leather pants” or “Look at Tom Selleck’s eensy weensy little shorts! You can see every detail!”

But by the 1980s, the wheels of progress had turned. FINALLY! Women were free to notice – and when I say “notice,” I mean “gleefully discuss, lust over, and froth at the mouth about” – men’s hineys. The shorts were on the other cheek; frantic female fans declared their Man-Buns-Hankering independence. No longer could men say to their wives, “Myrtle! Stop staring at Willie Nelson’s keister! Get your big white can out to the kitchen and make me some gravy!” and get away with it.

By the end of the decade, no man’s buns were safe. Even my father was a buns-lover’s gawking victim. One morning, as Dad was standing beside his bread truck, taking bread products into a store, the town crazy lady, Betty Bonkers, caught up with him and hissed witlessly, “Nice buns!” To this day, no one in the family can decide if Betty had her eye on Dad or his bread.

After living through that decade, I’m happy to see that “buns” has largely been dropped as a term for “buttocks.” I can’t bring myself to say “buns” anymore – at least, not to anyone older than 5-year-old Carter and 3-year-old Rosalind, whose sweet little buns I still pinch semi-regularly. If I must refer to anyone’s posterior, I will most likely call it/them “cheeks” or “tushie” or “self” (as in, “No Cool Story, you have chalk dust on your little self”) or, depending on whom I’m with, “bunzolas.”

Think Big and Kick Bunzolas… Trump should call me for title ideas next time.

Why My Assistant, Ethel, Is Insane

"I DON'T WANNA WAIT!!! For our lives to be overrrrrrr! I want to know right now!! What will it BEEEEEEE!!!!!"

My hairless armpits and I watched an episode of "Dawson's Creek" this morning, a really good one I missed when it originally aired. (Paula Cole sings the theme song and she had hairy armpits last time I saw her. We used to go out to lunch all the time, but apparently I offended her with one too many Polish jokes. She may have shaved by now. Let me ask my assistant to google that. "Ethel, can you google whether Paula Cole is still sporting pit beards? Thanks.")

OK, it was really, really good. The stupidly ornate vocabulary was kept to a minimum. Joey and Pacey had been lip-lockin' it for a couple of episodes (yummy to watch) and were now at the point where they Must Inform Dawson. It was filmed three different times, each time from a different character's perspective. Dawson actually had tears in his eyes. It was heartbreaking. I'm almost - ALMOST - tempted to rent the whole season so I can see what happens next. ("Ethel, google what season that episode's in. Yeah, the one where Dawson freaks out and snorts coke. HA! Yeah! More drug humor! I know, I kill you. Thanks, Ethel.")

We're watching some movie with Pierce Brosnan and Julianne Moore - they're lawyers and they wake up married. Apparently she talks in her sleep. ("Ethel. The one where Pierce has long shaggy Bohemian hair and Julianne's mother is the chick that plays Rose's mother in Titanic. Yeah, I know they're the same age. Just check it for me. And move my spastic cat who insists on planting his furry little butt in front of the computer monitor. Oh, stop it, is it my fault he thinks your watch is a toy? Take that dumb thing off. Will you quit that sniveling? Go get a tetanus shot if you're so worried. Yeah, bite you too.")

I had a dream about a guy in our bishopric last night - we'll call him "Harry." In my dream, Harry was the leader of the band I was auditioning for. He actually played on the BYU football team and works for the FBI now, so any band he'd be leading would be a roving band of thugs, and not anything the least bit musical. However, I found myself in an impromptu audition last night, and I stunk up "Somebody To Love" pretty awfully. But he's so nice, he'd never say anything negative, no matter how bad it was. He heard me sing, he stifled back some serious laughter, and then he said to me, "Uh... tell me what to say."

I said, "Tell me it's not the worst singing you've ever heard."
"It's not the worst singing I've ever heard."
"Now tell me it wasn't the best it could have been."
"It wasn't the best it could have been."
"Now say, 'Actually it was pretty stinky.'"

But there, he could not pull the trigger.

("Ethel, now my cat is yowling at the window. When's that neuter appointment? Can't we buy, like, a kitty muzzle or a home neutering kit or something? Yeah, google that.")

At that point, I woke up and thought, "I ate too much last night. Good grief, that burger was huge."

("ETHEL!!! That stupid cat just jumped on my Crock-Pot! Will you get him the heck out of here!")

Then I turned the TV on and watched some "Murphy Brown," the one where Miles is interviewed for a magazine and misquoted as saying, "I'm just a guy looking for a plaything to fulfill my sick whims" or some such thing, and flipped back and forth between it and Silence of the Lambs, the part where that dope Jodie Foster rings the doorbell, whips out her badge, and bounces into - -

("WAIT A MINUTE! Is that Elton John murdering "Signed, Sealed, Delivered" on that Pierce Brosnan movie? Holy crap, my idiot cat yowling at the window sounds less annoying! Ethel! Find out who sings that song on that movie. And quit filing your nails all over my paperwork. It leaves dust, you know. Yeah, whine, whine, whine. Call your therapist, that's right. Your boss is a great big jerk. Cry about it.")

...um, Buffalo Bill's house, the guy who starves the fat chicks and then ... yeah, you've probably seen it. It's too gross to describe. Oh, you haven't seen it? Hang on.

("Ethel, while you're on the phone, tell your therapist I'm threatening to do what Buffalo Bill does after he starves the fat chicks in Silence of the Lambs. I know you haven't seen it. Go ahead, ask him.")

*hehehehheheheheehehehhe*

("Ethel, what's wrong? Don't look at me like that. I was just kidding! It was a joke! Ethel, where are you going? Why are you crying?? What did I say??!? Hey! Does this mean you're not taking my cat to the vet tomorrow?")

*slam*

Crap.