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.

Shots, Seminary, Collar Bones and HOT LEGS! I Love Ya Bunny!

We're freaking out over here. Four of the five kids start school this year, and three of them are approaching pretty big milestones: Brennan's first year of high school, Bella's first year of middle school, and Carter's first year of Kindergarten (HA!). Harrison will be in third grade. Four kids, three different schools, fifteen different schedules. Must... not... have... a meltdown.... Can't summer go on indefinitely?

On Sunday night, we went to Brennan's Seminary orientation. I was intrigued to hear that, rather than the stake center, our child will have to find his way every morning before school to another building three miles east of the stake center. Not that three miles is a big deal, but it seems quite far when we consider how far away we are from the stake center to begin with. We're wondering how to solve this situation, with the one-car, hometown-to-work town commute. Hmmmm.

Three Brinatty babies had shots today. Bri had an ingenious plan: Have Carter (the five-year-old) go first. Roz would have freaked out no matter what, but Carter had a chance at receiving his army guys* calmly, if only he could go first and not be frightened at the sight of his little sister screaming her head off. Which, of course, she did. So I took her out, Carter was very brave for his shots, I brought Roz back in and held her for her first shot. She saw the needle coming and fought to try to get away, and now has a bloody little arm for her trouble. Poor thing. Bri had to hold her for the other two. Bella (11) did just fine, of course. She cried more at the thought of cutting her hair and getting a new style ("You're not going to cut it short, are you?") than she did at getting her immunizations.

They're all pretty sluggish and have sore arms, but yay! They're ready for school. Finally.

*Army guys: To prepare our kids for their vaccinations, we tell them we don't want them to die of a bad disease, so we're going to take them to the doctor to get shots. The shots put little Army guys inside their bodies, who will fight the bad diseases if they try to get inside. In the girls' case, we tell them they're getting "Army girls" instead.

For Glittersmama: Why is this bride smiling?


Millie in pre-Millie days, ca. 1990
(Glitter, you didn't want to see me in my wedding dress? Oh.)

This girl doesn't know it yet, but she's not going to marry the Missionary (even though that's why she's buying the wedding dress). She'll meet The Bunny and fall madly in love with him instead. Then she'll feel bad that she didn't just go ahead and dump the Missionary before he left. "SHOULDA DUMPED YOU IN PITTSBURGH!!!" And she'll suffer from guilty guilty guilt for a long time, even after she's married. But at least she won't marry the wrong guy. Phew! Close one.

As glad as I am to be done with all that trauma, there is one thing about this girl that I envy: her collarbones. I want those collarbones. Let's all sing along: "All I want for Christmas is my collarbones back, my collarbones back, yes my collarbones back..."

And: "Chili's... collarbones back... Chili's collarbones back (barbecue sauce)..."

I know that somewhere in this body, collarbones exist. I don't know if I dare say anything like, "By Christmas, I will be sporting a newly-emerged pair of collarbones," for fear that it won't happen. Afraid of failure? Why yes! Why do you ask?

I don't envy her hair, though. I was really into short hair then. I had the skinny face for it. At one point I had it cut so short that my mother told me, "People will think you're Lebanese!" and my Army veteran grandfather said, "Well, I could have done that to you!" When Neenaw saw the wedding dress shopping pictures, she said, "Wouldn't that wedding dress look better with some nice curls?" Which of course made me all the more determined to keep my hair short. I was stubborn like that.

I also don't envy how stubborn this girl is. But I probably wouldn't have dated my husband, if my roommates hadn't told me what a bad boy he was and that I should stay away from him. That was the absolute wrong thing to say. They should have tried to spoon-feed him to me instead - it would have worked much better.
Look at that face. Would you look at that face? Is that a face you could die for?

UPDATE: On our way to Colorado, I sang the praises of Bri's hot legs, and now Tori demands pictures. Incidentally, I can't tell you how dirty I feel, having gone through my husband's MISSIONARY and HIGH SCHOOL pictures so I could let other bloggy chicks drool over his legs. But here they are.


And now I will go stand in the corner for being a bad, bad girl.

How To Enjoy It or At Least Not Offend People (i.e. Me) While Riding the Bus

"The bus! The bus! We need to hear about the bus!"

Well, I'm ready to tell my stories. But instead of rattling off a boring, "first we did this, then we did that, then we found that corpse in the 7-11 restroom" play-by-play, I've decided to present another handy guide, this time for riding the bus without offending nice people (okay, major snobs) like me. I promise that each and every anecdote is true. You've been warned.

~ The window seats are always taken first. If you're interested in sitting by the window instead of on the aisle - and if you're going to be on the bus for 20+ hours, that window starts to look mighty fine - try to find out where people are headed on their trips. As you board the bus, perusing the other passengers and finding the least objectionable person to sit next to, go ahead and be friendly. Strike up a conversation. Say, "How far are you going?" If you're heading east from Portland, steer clear of anyone going to North Carolina. If you're heading west from Salt Lake, the cute 18-year-old going to Ogden is your best bet. When she leaves, you get her seat. No fuss, no muss.

~ You'll probably eat on the bus at some point. Please, for the love of Mike, pick up your garbage and take it with you when you leave the bus. Come on now - you're riding Greyhound, but you're too good to pick up your own Doritos wrapper? How dirty can it be? You just ate food out of it, didn't you? Nothing screams "white trash" like, well, trash. Toward the end of my rides, I was amazed at the sight of the bus floor - it gave a convincing argument that humans are indeed descended from the apes.

~ This point cannot be stressed enough: HYGIENE. Those of us with working smell-buds would really, really, really appreciate it if you would bathe yourself and your children, and don clean clothes (including underwear), before you subject us all to your scent. When I say "some people had B.O.," you would probably assume from that statement that the O. came primarily from the armpits. If only. Other parts of the B.s also contained large amounts of O.; one family possessed so much O. that each time one of them stood up, I was compelled to (discreetly) plug my nose. Pyew.

~ Leave your bosom friend, "Mr. F Word," at home. He's really not as welcome as you might think.

~ Bring a CD player or MP3 player for the inevitable times you'll find yourself riding near other passengers whose constant companion is Mr. F Word (like the "well-known in New York" graffiti artist directly behind me).

~ Better yet, do what another girl did: bring sleeping pills - Lunesta with its green floating butterfly of death is a popular choice - and offer one to these ardent F Word fans. They'll probably think, "Cool, free drugs" and settle down to sleep, giving you at least five hours of uninterrupted, un-F-worded bliss.

~ Try to match your music choices to your reading materials. For instance, if you take along a classic novel like Jane Eyre to read on your journey, perhaps choose something classical like Brahms or Mozart to listen to - "Celtic Woman" also would be good - as opposed to a less obvious choice, like "Frankie Valli & the Four Seasons' Greatest Hits." Somehow, reading of poor Jane and Mr. Rochester's unfortunate situation loses some of its heartbreaking charm when Frankie is screeching "WALK LIKE A MAN!" in your ear.

~ It's rarely necessary to use the restroom on the bus. I didn't use it once. The bus stops often enough that even mouse-bladders like my mom can "hold it" between stops.

~ Forget sleep - it's not gonna happen unless it's a total accident on your part. Remember, the bus is like the hospital: around the clock, about every ten minutes, some annoying idiot (in this case, the bus driver) flips on the lights and announces something, loudly, while your light-deprived eyes screw up in agony and your body crumples miserably, trying to find a comfortable position. Except in the hospital, you're not spooned up next to a 300-pound Neanderthal. If sleep wants you, it knows where to find you.

~ Take copious notes about everything that happens. You think you'll never forget, but you will.

~ If you ever have the opportunity to ride the bus with Carrot Jello, don't let her give you crap about taking copious notes. Tell her Millie said to put a sock in it.

~ Keep your complaints to yourself. No one really cares how upset you are about the lack of restaurant choices in Stanfield, Oregon. They're all having the same miserable time you are, so stifle it.

~ Be grateful for blogging. Thinking, "This is gonna make an AWESOME post," changes your entire perspective.

~ Don't let your kids ask for napkins at the Burger King in Mountain Home, Idaho. The chick with the long dark ponytail is quite the yeller.

~ Where possible, try to discover the state of the bus' wheelchair lift. If it stopped working in Denver, odds are good that it won't work in Boise either. You'll spend 45 extra minutes stopped over in Nampa, where the Nampa Fire Department will have to come and take off the wall of the bus and extricate Scooter Lady from her spot. The upside is that the Nampa Fire Department guys have great attitudes and pass out stickers to the kiddies. Some people would even have called them "attractive," but all they made me think was, "I wish Bunny were here so I could gaze into his crystal-clear blue eyes and bite that big muscle on his knee."

~ When the bus driver turns off the lights for the night, no matter how romantic you find the bus to be or how amorous you might feel, do NOT take this as a cue to get freaky with your neighbor. Like the couple who boarded the bus in Ontario, Oregon, if you engage in "Bill and Monica"-esque behavior in the backseat with numerous children less than three feet away from you, you WILL incur the wrath of the all-powerful bus driver, who will flip the lights on and say, "To the couple in the back seat! CONGRATULATIONS! You have just voided your tickets!" and throw you and your partner off the bus in Baker, Oregon, subjecting you to the stares and giggles of every other passenger. Not only will you be embarrassed, but the passengers will begin to resent you when the bus driver keeps the bus lights on for another hour (just in case someone else decides to take their chances).

~ No matter how much the above situation might amaze, astound, and amuse you, don't call up your poor sleeping husband (who must wake up at 6:00 the next morning to meet your bus) at 11:30 PM and apprise him of what's been going on. Although, I must say I was impressed that Bunny was awake enough to observe, "What - they couldn't wait till they got to where they were going?"

~ Don't pass up the opportunity to commemorate this hopefully once-in-a-lifetime event. I was so inspired by "Bill" and "Monica," I bought a nifty mood-alicious ring at the truck stop in Baker, so I could remember them forever.

Rosalind's Birthday

This morning she had parts of a bagel and cream cheese for breakfast and then wanted to wear a dress. She's wearing her white & red with collar Gap dress (hand-me-down from her cousin). After being dressed, she spent the morning harrassing her older brothers, who were trying to play Lego Star Wars on the Playstation, and was taken to my bedroom for a birthday time-out at 8:43 AM.

9:00-ish: I wrote Grandpa Smith's check and got it ready to send, then remembered that Grannie said yesterday that one of Uncle John & Aunt Karen's kids was about to give birth. I called John & Karen, but no answer; I called Jennifer, who was busy painting her girls' bedroom. Stan and Whitney had a baby boy yesterday, Luke William. Mystery solved.

Harrison and Carter want to go outside, but I told them they have to clean their room first. They are now in their bedroom, arguing and crying.

10:00 - Jen just called back and we chatted for a while about the family. She, Rachael (John's wife) and Dena are all expecting babies in September and the race is on to see which one will get to have Aunt Karen with her during the delivery. Hopefully they won't all go into labor the same day. J & K's family are all coming to the Oregon coast in November and we made plans to meet up sometime during their stay.

10:30 - The kids are all outside - I had Bella take a book so she could read and watch Roz play. I started to pick up the living room, found one of the boys' church ties, went to put it away in the "Church closet" (our tiny hall closet), noticed that the closet doorknob was falling off, pulled the door open and found that the hanging bar had collapsed on one side and all the church clothes were half on their hangers, half collapsing on the boxes on the closet floor. This apartment certainly wasn't meant for a family of seven. Everything constantly breaks. I started moving all the church clothes to the boys' room closet, something I was planning to do anyway, and noticed that Harrison's hamster doesn't look well. He was kind of limping around in his cage and I also saw poop stuck to the side of the aquarium, then noticed the hamster's poopy bum. Uh oh, we're about to lose another hamster.

Dad is taking Isabella, Harrison and Carter to Federal Way, Washington tomorrow for a weekend soccer tournament. They'll be camping with the rest of the team families. It'll be fun but it means I need to start laundry and get some packing done.

11:30 - Some of these kids are TIRED. I just told Bella to turn on the fan, she did, and Harrison threw a big crying fit that HE wanted to turn on the fan! Now he's whining that he doesn't want a sandwich for lunch, he wants Froot Loops. We're listening to "Somebody to Love" and Roz is dancing and twirling in the living room. The laundry is started and the boys' room is finally picked up (they picked up everything but the bottom bunk, which had all kinds of stuff on it). Carter went back outside. I need to wash towels so I'll have a washcloth to clean up the kitchen (our laundry has been neglected for a few days).

12:45 - Folded and put away the laundry that's been hanging around in the dryer for I don't know how many days - life's hard to get back into after you break your foot. I'm still hobbling around here wearing my boot, with one leg "taller" than the other. It doesn't hurt but I miss just plain walking around - I got around much faster. I put the boys' closet door back on its track (one more broken thing) and dragged the tent out for tomorrow's trip. My plan for not having to clean the kitchen was foiled when I found a stray washcloth hanging around in the underwear and socks, so that's next.

Goot is taking her time falling asleep on my bed for her nap. It needs to happen soon so we can put her tricycle together and so she'll be awake and happy when it's time to play in the fountain and have dinner later.

The boys are still outside playing and Bella picked up her room and is now complaining about how boring TV is. We're turning on our DVD of Thoroughly Modern Millie.

My Left Foot

I broke it.

I've been down for the count for a week, and today I proclaim my Independence From Lying Down With My Foot Elevated Above My Heart.  Whatever benefit was supposed to come from lying around like a dead giant squid on the beach (one rigor mortis-afflicted tentacle raised above the rest) has, I'm sure, occured by now.  I refuse - REFUSE! - to spend one more day watching TV on my couch.

Which sounds funny to me.  "I'm tired of wallowing in self-pity with my foot propped up on pillows, my husband and children waiting on me hand and foot, my house being destroyed around me, while I distract myself with the mindless crap currently being called 'TV'!"

It happened last Tuesday.  I was in a hurry to rush out the door and fetch Bri at the train station.  This is our Tuesday night ritual.  I pick him up, he changes into soccer-coach attire while I drive down the freeway, we head to Wendy's, I get the crispy chicken sandwich and a small Frosty ($2), he drops me off at the Family History Center, I experience pure genealogical bliss for the next four hours, he walks in and rudely interrupts my PAF Insight time and we go home.

My hallway was littered with toys and rather than have my errant children pick them up, I figured "we'll do it later" and stepped on a toy.  This toy turned out to be a slippery little sucker and my right foot wobbled a few times.  My left foot, in sheer and utter panic, came down more quickly than it's used to, and in an unaccustomed position (unless standing on your ankle bone with your foot turned 90° to one side is normal).  I heard something pop and fell on my butt screaming my head off.  My first broken bone?  Yes - why do you ask?

Later that night, the ever-so-witty X-ray technician said, "I can't tell you anything about your foot, but let me ask you this: do you know any bone doctors?"
"No..."
"Well, you will now."

I have since developed a new fashion sense, prominently featuring a severe case of bed head, no bra, a pair of old black elastic waist knit pants cut off at the knee, and my lovely black boot.  And lots of nail polish.  After all, I have nothing to do but lie around and grow my nails, and my feet have to look cute when I go back to the doctor's office (especially with one foot sporting a gnarly bruise).

Family and friends have been sympathetic and helpful.  Mom sent a beautiful bouquet of pink roses and white carnations. No Cool Story brought us a wonderful dinner of pizza, rotisserie chicken, salad and pop. Annie and Compulsive Writer</a> kindly blogged for me, and Annie even went the second mile and made my chicken go poop.  After all these months, I'm sure the chicken was quite relieved.  CW's "go back to bed and put your feet up like the good doctor said" remark probably makes a lot more sense now, doesn't it?

Wednesday morning at 10:45, I will submit my foot to further inspection and find out if the boot will continue to do it for my healing process, or if my foot will need a cast.  The break wasn't bad enough that it had to be set or needed surgery (all I could think Tuesday night was, "I'm so grateful"), and apparently the doctor wanted to let my foot swell and then un-swell before he put anything long-term on it.  Let's all think happy boot thoughts for my foot.  I like taking it off to sleep at night and being able to, you know, shower.

So if you think I've been acting like a major snob lately and not commenting on your blog much, blame my doctor for not letting me have my usual 3-hours-a-day stint at the computer and forcing me to, instead, become a couch potato and watch incessant showings of WarGames</em> (which is NOT rated R).

Now that you've read my tale of woe, please enjoy this extremely stupid (I cannot stress this enough) video.  Melanie called me from work to tell me about it.  Beware the milky pirate!

Lumpuckerroo

We have the lumpuckerroo (a word of my dad's meaning "unexplained and possibly fake illness" - someone would call in sick where my dad worked and his supervisor would say to the calling-in-sick employee, "Whatcha got, the lumpuckerroo?").

Except our illness isn't fake - unless you can fake vomiting six times in twelve hours - and I can explain it pretty well. A kid looks forlorn, he complains maybe once about his tummy hurting - and then, POW. We're on Child #2 now. Harrison was really great about getting himself into the bathroom after the 2nd or 3rd session, but now Roz has just come forth with the sickness. Yikes. At least she wears diapers.

On the bright side... I have a nice washer and dryer, and I just bought new laundry detergent and a gallon of vinegar today. So I'm all set for barf. Isn't that nice?

And now I have a big headache. Harrison and Rosalind haven't had headaches with their stuff, so I'm probably not about to be sick myself. I hope. I really, really hope.

UPDATE: No more pukers (knock on wood). I slept out in the living room with Roz so she could sleep on the sheet-and-blanket-covered loveseat and puke at will.

Multnomah Falls Babies

So sweet. 

Ages: B - 14; Bella - 11; H - 8; C - 5; R - 2

There's Nothing But Drama When...

If you're like me (I'm sorry) and you're an avid watcher of ER reruns on TNT, you've heard the fun little announcer guy between shows. His job is to keep us glued to the tube by announcing things like, "There's nothing but drama when...." followed by an exciting, but totally generic, tagline of the next show's plot - something like, "There's nothing but drama when Dr. Greene wakes up late for his shift. Next, on ER." Really, that could be said of almost any episode.

So I thought, wouldn't it be funny if he got really specific?

"There's nothing but drama when....

1) ...Dr. Kovac gets a disfiguring rat bite and must undergo difficult rhinoplasty. Next, on ER."

2) ...George Harrison comes back from the dead and haunts the ER, while his guitar gently weeps. Next, on ER."

3) ...Carter and Abby kill each other by having a lead-based paint ball fight, and Nurse Chuny becomes a man. Next, on ER."

4) ...the Munchkins from The Wizard Of Oz and the Nelwins (OK, Pecks) from Willow overrun the ER and pretend to be pituitary-gland-challenged children. Next, on ER."

5) ...Dr. Weaver is hit by the El and everyone throws a party. Next, on ER."

6) ...Benton discovers that not only was he admitted to medical school as a result of Affirmative Action, but that somewhere on his way to work, he stepped in a dog's 'accident' and is stinking up the operating room. Next, on ER."

7) ...Jerry and Frank, the fat desk clerks, decide they've had it up to here with uppity doctors and nurses, and traumatize patients when they streak naked through the halls yelling 'Yowza, yowza, yowza!' Next, on ER."

8) ...an absolutely asinine several-times-recycled plot is recycled yet again, including a love scene, gory heart surgery, smart remarks and a guy in the psych ward who threatens Elizabeth. Next, on ER."

9) ...rampant stupidity takes over, causing all the doctors' IQ to lower to 75 points, making them all eligible for that special school where they'll learn to re-tread tires. Next, on ER."

10) ...the entire ER moves to Africa, everyone is infected with the ebola virus, various cast members come out of the closet, their rat- and mosquito-infested shack blows up and Nurse Hathaway gives birth to twins. Next, on ER."

And... I'm spent. Feel free to join in.

The Girls - 14 & 20 January 2007

This was one of several cute little outfits Roz received for Christmas. It was tricky to find a shirt that didn't clash with the plaid skirt, so we went for basic off-white with matching tights (or "looses"). Thanks Aunt Kristy & Uncle Steve! Just so you know, I took these pictures after church - her hair looked better earlier in the day. Sorry you missed it.

Posing for pictures was quite the ordeal.

I really hope we vacuumed

Lil face

"Oh, let's put Roz's hair in curlers! Won't that be fun? Do you want curlers in your hair, Rozzie, so your hair will be all pretty and curly?"

It seemed like a good idea at the time

Yeah. That lasted about five minutes until she got so cheesed off, we had to take them out.

Mad baby syndrome

Bella was much more mature about it. She has my hair, so thick that if you put it up in curlers at night while it's wet, it won't dry completely overnight, and when you unroll the curlers the next morning, you're in for a disappointing hairdo.

Yeah, Roz.

I made a nice haul for my birthday. Most of this came from a monster sale Bed, Bath & Beyond had around that time. Thanks everyone!

SCORE

Rosalind

So cute.

She has her daddy's "tall" forehead, which is nice.

Carter & Rosalind

We received an Elefun game for Christmas, and if you're unfamiliar, it's an elephant with a fan inside and a long plastic trunk that shoots out little fabric butterflies. It comes with nets to catch the butterflies and whoever catches the most butterflies, wins. It was quite the popular toy this Christmas.

Look at the jowls on Carter - he doesn't have those now (June 2008). He's changed quite a bit in 18 months. We cut Roz's hair in summer 2007 so it'll be a while before she has pigtails that long again, but it was fun having such a tiny girl with such long hair.

2006 Family Pictures

Dad - he calls this his "Geez" (as in "geezer") picture

Neenaw and Jeremy at Ernie's house in Richland

Kiley & Zane

Dionysus

Christmas 2006

Merry Christmas! Here's our "skinny" tree we bought for our apartment. It fits right in the corner.

T Family Reunion - November 2006

We had a fun family dinner at Kristy's place of employment while we were in Utah for Thanksgiving. It was fun to see the relatives again.

Here's our family...



Uncle Ray, the back of Bella's head, Steve and Blair

At the table: Aunt Janeene, Amy, Brad's wife and son (sorry I don't have their names - someone please let me know who they are)

Jenny, Cami, David and two little girls (again - I need names)

Kristy (Pa in the background)

Cheese!

Brennan, Brad, little boy's head, Dad, Isabella

Rosalind

Uncle Ray and Mom

T Family Reunion - November 2006, Part II

Dad, Blair (behind Steve), Steve, Pa, Aunt Gloria

Uncle Ken

Harrison, Tyson, Carter

At the table: Dad, Steve, Pa, Blair, Bert

Jenny, Heather, Bert, Sherise, Aunt Gloria

Sherise, Mark's wife (sorry again), Aunt Gloria

The next generation: Bella, Reagan, Bailey, Tyson, Abby, Carter (hope I spelled everyone's name right)

KRISPY KREME AND WEIGHT WATCHERS DO NOT MIX

So I’m doing Weight Watchers, and so far (my first week), I’ve lost 1.4 pounds! And I love that little .4 because it allows me to say “pounds”!
 
Every day I’m allotted 22 points. Each food has a number of points – the lower the points, the more you can eat of it – and the point system is based on the food’s calories, fat grams and fiber grams. Monday I was horrified to discover that one Krispy Kreme glazed donut is 7 points – a third of what I’m allowed to eat all day. ARE YOU KIDDING ME!!!

On Memorial Day, Bri had a hankering for Krispy Kreme donuts (I can’t think of a more traditional way to commemorate our war dead), and I thought, fine, I’ll just eat one, and I’ll figure out the points when I get home. Feeling like a total weight-loss nerd, I asked the 17-year-old behind the counter for the chain’s nutritional information. Hoping for a leaflet to take home and peruse at my leisure, I was instead handed a booklet that I had to give back; but as it turned out, there was no reason to keep that sucker. Once I read the horrible truth – all donuts are completely evil – it put me off Krispy Kreme for quite some time. No wonder you’re not allowed to take it home!

Each little Krispy Kreme glazed donut – no extra frosting, filling, sprinkles, etc. – has 300 calories and 12 grams of fat. 12 grams of fat! Where in this tiny donut do they put 12 grams of fat? I know the donuts are fried in lard, but are they also injected with big syringes of melted hog jowl? Worst of all, it’s the most nutritious donut they make! (Hee hee, I said “most nutritious donut.”) Yes, I ate one, but the whole time I was thinking, “Crapola! Something this fattening should at least take longer to eat.” Seriously, if I’m going to eat something this terrible, shove me a plate of fettucine alfredo. At least I’ll get full.

If I had a dime for all the times I gleefully tossed back 2 or 3 of those things, I’d be rich AND chubby. Sure, the nagging “you’ll get fat” voice bothered me a little, but I was always able to suppress it with more donuts. “What, Carter? You say you don’t LIKE the 800-calorie donut you took from the box and would like Mama to finish it? Well, what kind of mother would I be if I didn’t?” ::SNARF::

So to sum up:

Krispy Kreme: Entrusting 17-year-olds with their evil donut secrets
Glazed Donuts: NOT a points bargain, and possibly full of melted hog jowl
1.4 pounds: What I lost in a week and probably gained back in 7.3 seconds
Fettucine Alfredo: More satisfying than a Krispy Kreme glazed donut
Memorial Day: Traditionally, the day set aside for sugaring up your family via donuts
Weight Watchers: Sure way to ruin all your donut-eating fun… but you’ll be healthier

Interview with the Roz-pire

Miss Princess Diva Rosalind recently traveled by train for the first time in her 21-month life. Here, our roving reporter interviews Miss Ross about her Amtrak adventures.


CS: So I understand you recently took your first train ride. How was it?
R: Lovely, thank you.
CS: What did you do on the train?
R: Well, on the way home, I napped for about an hour, which wasn't nearly long enough, but at least it gave Mommy a break. And, I invented this really fun game for Mommy and me to play called "Walk the Entire Length of the Train Multiple Times."
CS: Interesting. Describe this game.
R: Well, I started the game by throwing the hugest hissy fit known to man. I was extremely cranky and tired, but rather than go back to sleep, I thought it would be in the best interest of the entire carful of sleeping passengers to shriek, throw myself on the dirty train floor, and resist all Mommy's best efforts to pacify me. It didn't matter what she held out, I wasn't going to have it, and I made sure the whole car knew it.
CS: You poor little thing. How on earth did you ever get so tired?
R: Part of it was the 5:30 AM train departure time. Mommy had to get up at 4:00 AM, eat, finish the last bit of packing, and help Grandpa load the car. I helped her by sleeping until it was time to get on the train. Then I was WIDE AWAKE.
CS: Did anything else contribute to your off mood?
R: Mommy the Dingbat couldn't find her train ticket! I mean, the woman is 36 years old - shouldn't she be able to keep track of it? She spent a good hour on the phone at 11:00 the night before we left, talking to the Amtrak guy. He said that the lost ticket policy required her to buy a new ticket, fill out a form, and wait five months for a refund to arrive in the mail.
CS: Mommy sounds like a real twit.
R: Well, I wouldn't go that far, but she is really something.
CS: I bet. How did she react to this outcome?
R: Not well. Did I say I threw the hugest hissy fit known to man? That was nothing compared to Mommy's tantrum.
CS: It sounds horrible.
R: It was. I'm scarred for life.
CS: Oh, by the way, I'm curious... what did you do while she was on the phone?
R: Well, it was waaaaaaay past my bedtime, but I would rather be boiled in oil than actually go to sleep in the spare bedroom by myself. I mean, really - after two nights of sharing a bed with Mommy in the motel room in Spokane, did she actually EXPECT me to go to sleep alone? It was more than I could take.
CS: I can imagine! What torture!
R: I know. Again - scarred for life.
CS: So how did you get back at her?
R: I used the ultimate weapon... screaming hysterically. Mommy kept doing this really annoying thing: going into another bedroom and SHUTTING THE DOOR ON ME so she could actually hear the Amtrak guy talking to her! The nerve of this woman!
CS: She left you ALONE and SCREAMING?
R: Oh no, Neenaw was there. She kept trying to feed me, but again - I was having none of that. The one thing I wanted was to be in the same room as Mommy and scream my head off so the Amtrak guy could hear my tale of woe, but I couldn't even have that!
CS: Wow. Life is so unfair.
R: You're telling me!
CS: So what happened with the ticket finally? Did Mommy the Loser have to buy another one?
R: No. Good thing Grandpa was there. He was moving my car seat from Neenaw's car to his, and the ticket was underneath the car seat.
CS: Well, good. So it all worked out.
R: Yes, thank goodness. That's all I needed was for Mommy to pout about it all the way home.
CS: So back to the train game.
R: Yes. Well, after this huge fit, Mommy realized that I had the upper hand, and thought she better go along with my way of thinking. So we went for a walk. Up the train, down the train, up the train, down the train... it was ever so much fun.
CS: What did the other passengers think?
R: Oh, there were mixed reactions. Some were asleep, but every so often I'd nudge one and they'd wake up. I waved at others. Some older ladies really thought I was cute, so of course I dug that. Other people made comments to Mommy. One was, "She's just a mover, isn't she?" and one guy said, "Boy, she's got you trained." I could tell she felt like back-handing him across the head but she kept her temper.
CS: Who won the game?
R: Well, there I'm a little fuzzy. Eventually I wore out, and was happy eating whatever snack Mommy could dig out of her backpack. But then the train stopped and Daddy scooped me up and I was so glad to see him. So was Mommy, for some unknowable reason. Maybe we all won the game.
CS: Well, thank you for your time, Miss Ross.
R: I love you! Don't touch me! I love you!

You'll Love David's Wide Bride

Happy Mother's Day to all you moms, especially to my dear mother, who just hosted a fun weekend trip for us girls. I rode Amtrak to Tri-Cities, where my dad, brothers and grandmother live, and after spending the night at Neenaw's, rode to Spokane with Mom to meet Melanie. I toted along Miss Roz, who enjoyed her first train ride and made it quite interesting for me. Fortunately there wasn't much screaming involved.

Michelle Duggar Monday

Hope everyone had a great Easter! It tends to be an emotional day for me - suffice it to say that I am grateful for the Savior and His sacrifice. We had ham and funeral potatoes for dinner, Easter baskets (straw hats this year) with lots of chocolate and small toys, and enjoyed church (most of it, but I'm trying to decide how much of that negative experience I want to share - tease, tease).

Since I conked out immediately after dinner and slept till almost 9 PM, I was, of course, wide awake in the early morning hours. Watching TV while trying to fall asleep, I happened to catch The Learning Channel's series about the Duggar Family of Arkansas. Michelle and Jim-Bob are the parents of 16 children, including two sets of twins, and they are AMAZING. Watching them was a humbling experience. What kind of slacker am I with my paltry five children?

The first of the two hour-long programs focused on the birth of their 16th child, a little girl named Johanna Faith. Every member of that family looked forward to her birth. Living in the ultra-liberal Pacific Northwest, I've had my share of comments from zero-populationers who can't imagine why I would want more than one or two offspring, so Michelle's attitude was so refreshing: "Saying you have too many children is like saying you have too many flowers."

Yeah. Take that.