Anticipating Free Time.

There are times in my life when I write. And there are times in my life when I read. If I had my way I would spend most of my life doing one or the other. If I had it my way I'm sure I would be quite miserable. But I digress. My point is I never have enough time to do either as much as I would like, and never enough time to do both. There is the laundry and the dishes and the innumerable mundane errands that take up so much of my time. When I stop to think of how I spend my time I am frustrated by the over sized bite responsibility helps itself to. But there is no way around it. Believe me, I've walked from corner to corner. I have tried scaling it with makeshift ladders. I've tried hurdling it with unfortunate results. There is no way to have a good life and avoid responsibility. Its like Chris Farley and David Spade: Together they work, but separate them and bad things happen. If I make happiness a priority in my life (and I do) then by necessity I have to sacrifice some of the things I like to do.

For now anyway.

Maybe someday I will have time to read and write till my heart's content. Someday when I no longer have to pick up be-flowered panties off the stairs every morning. Someday when I don't have to supervise Cambria's every move. Someday when Brooklyn is willing to complete her homework without me sitting nearby, or when Avery is no longer opposed to entertaining herself. But the terrible irony is: Someday when I have time to myself to pursue whatever endeavors I currently covet, I will probably be so depressed by the lack of be-flowered panties dirtying the house, by the lack of fingerprints (and face-prints) on the windows, by the quiet of no longer being required that I'll end up writing desperately sad children's books about growing up. Like that horrid "I'll Love You Forever" book. Or I'll be a photographer that takes incredibly lonely looking black and white cityscapes. Or a painter who paints the same still-life over and over in different colors. I'm getting depressed just thinking about it.

In summary, YES I am often caught up in the busyness of being a mother. YES I have to put off things I would like to do sometimes. But OH I love my life right now. Face-prints in particular.

Ten Reasons Why It Sucks to Be a Unicorn.

I know what you're thinking: what could possibly suck about being a gloriously magical, shimmering lord of equines? On the surface it looks like buttloads of good times: pearly white haunches glittering in the mysteriously purple moonlight, Mount DiamondDust calling to you..."Come to me my one-horned friend". Your sensual snowy mane fiercely radiant against the forest of Wizardlune wherein you are known among the elvinkind as "Silveraneous Starmist". Yep, it appears you have it all Mr. Unicorn. Superficially. But underneath that proud pose I sense a darker side. So without further ado I give you Ten Reasons Why it Sucks to Be a Unicorn:



1 Beauty is pain. When your entire livelihood is based on how pretty you are, you better believe you will go to extreme lengths to look good. Let's not even discuss the amount of conditioner a unicorn uses every day of the week. And a self-respecting unicorn isn't buying Kroger brand neither. We're talking pricey stuff with bits of cheetah in it so you know its good. Then there's the intense diet and exercise regimen with a personal sugar plum fairy trainer. After all haunches don't glimmer on their own.
2 Magical crap. Few people realize this, but unicorns poo diamonds the size of your fist. And that is even less pleasant than it sounds.

3 Retarded virgins. I don't know what it is about virgins and unicorns but frankly, being mauled by Miley Cyrus fans every time you go for a quiet stroll through the meadow is more annoying than enchanting. Dude, stop combing my mane.

4 Purple is gay. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but there it is. I said it.

5 Crazy effing wizards. Being constantly hunted by aspiring evil magicians gets old, and is especially embarrassing in the middle of your birthday party.

6 Heart-shaped Hoofs. Try signing a mortgage document or breakup letter with a heart. Nobody takes you seriously.
7 Emotionally abusive care bears. All I can say is, if you've heard one "horny" joke you've heard them all. And its hurtful. I'm looking your way Sunnyheart Bear.

8 No wings. Pegasus can fly to Jupiter and back. Unicorn cannot. So when it comes time for King Elvenflame to choose his magical stead who do you think is posing front and center at the Candycane Parade? That's right, BLOODY PEGASUS.

9 The horn is overrated. Sure, if you need to stab somebody with your forehead, the horn comes in handy. But more often than not its just a nuisance. Like every time you look up or turn your head. Forget about hat shopping.

10 Ligers. And that's all I have to say about that.

I Hate Parades.

Add this to the hundredth reason you no longer want to hang out, but I am not a fan of parades. I would rather do any number of tedious, unpleasant things than attend a parade including stabbing myself in the face with a fork. Andy and I had been married three years before this ever came up. And when our eyes met for the first time after admitting our mutual loathing for parades, I fell in love all over again.

Because horse crap aside, I have so many unanswered questions. Like who are these old men driving by in cars waving benignly? And what is the appeal of a float? Floats kind of lost their edge with the invention of special effects didn't they? And who are these sad nameless people sitting atop said floats, chucking taffy? And where is the magic in that? If I have a hankering I can buy and entire bag of unhandled taffy at the store any day of the week without having to bake on my folding chair in the sun for an hour surrounded by the sweating masses dying slowly of unimaginable boredom.

I know; You love parades. You, and practically every other human being on the planet. I couldn't even find an appropriately sad parade picture for this post. Even Google couldn't fathom what a "lame parade" might look like, which is what I typed into its search engine. "Do you mean Lemon Parade?" "Do you mean Happy Happy Fun Time Parade?" No Google, but thank you for confirming what I already knew: I am missing something. Maybe I'm a robot.

The Best Concert Ever.

Dear Diary,
April 5th was the MUSE CONCERT! Diane watched the girls while Andy and I had the greatest musical experience of our lives. The opening band was kind of lame. You will probably never hear of them Diary seeing how you are an inanimate object, but take it from me: The Silversun Pickups are generic noise. Although, from a glass-half-full perspective it was kind of like watching a pompous Steve Buchemi moon walk across stage ("Best guitar player in the world thank you pop!") and I can’t really complain about that. And the fact that they have a female bass player is pretty cool. But between SP and Muse let us make no comparison. As soon as Muse started playing I felt transported to a plain of pure awesomeness the likes of which I will never forget.
The stage, the effects, the lighting, the incredible talent of Matthew Bellamy on vocals, lead guitar, AND piano- HOLY CRAP. And though I remain firmly anti-smoking, I've got to admit Christopher Wolstenholm playing bass in a haze of cigarette smoke was extremely badass. Not to mention impressive multi-tasking. Dominic Howard was genius on drums. It was amazing. Every song was gorgeous. I've rarely been so star-struck, I've rarely seen Andy so pumped. We kept waiting for them to play "Knights of Cydonia". It was their last song. I couldn't not scream and jump up and down like a cheerleader at a shoe-sale. It was fantastic experience and the best concert ever. If we ever have another opportunity to see them live- you bet your sweet hiney we will be there.

Perchance I Flipped You Off in Traffic.

Believe it or not there are people out there who do not like me. I've tried explaining this to my mother but she just looks at me like I'm insane. Kinda like I just told her I've settled on becoming a chicken. Then she gets that knowing look; "Is this some kind of prank? Am I on that stupid show?" Then she just gets straight up pissed because why WHY! would I even say something so ridiculous unless it was designed to make her mad? When all along I was simply stating a fact.

Some people simply do not like me. It could have something to do with the fact that I'm a huge nerd that dresses in costume whenever the occasion allows. Or maybe that I tend to take the joke too far. Perhaps I'm too open with my very particular tastes and opinions. Maybe its my hair. Maybe its my glasses. Maybe its my sense of humor. Maybe its because I'm somewhat lame. Maybe its the way I talk or don't talk. Or smell? Or it could be that I'm really really friggin nice and awesome. Who the heck knows?

I don't know and I don't care. Yes I do. But as Andy says, its something I'm going to have to accept. In a perfect world no one would misunderstand your quirks. Or stereotype you. Or judge you before knowing you. And everyday would be either cool and sunny or warm and rainy. And hydrangeas would grow lush in Utah, and chocolate tortes w/ strawberries would be served breakfast lunch and dinner. And I would have very little to blog about.

A Post for Wayne.

Wayne said he needed a laugh so I promised him a funny post. This is not that post.

A Free Association Post:

1. I am not a fan of hot dogs. Not all hot dogs mind you. Just Kroger.

2. Freddie Kruger is Edward Scissorhands on crack.

3. Snap, Crackle, and Pop could kick The Keebler Elves butts.

4. My Grandma has a velvet painting of Elvis on her wall but she doesn't remember my name.

5. If I eat one more cinnamon roll I will probably turn into one.

6. What ever happened to The Violent Femmes?

7. My one regret is that I never learned to play the guitar.

8. You wouldn't know it to look at me but I ROCK at "American Idol" (on the Wii).

9. I once saw a wee man in a kilt. Best day EVER.

10. Ever After is the gayest movie ever made.

And there you have it; my disturbing inner monologue. And you're TAGGED.

Stranded at the Stop Sign

Yesterday was insanely busy. I woke up early. I fed my children. I bathed my children. I dressed my children. I finished making Brook's Easter Dress. I made lunch. I dropped Brook off at school. I made banners for a church activity this Tuesday. I picked Brook up from school. On the way home I waited behind a jeep at the stop sign. I waited for it to go. And I waited. I don't know what the woman behind the wheel was doing. Probably texting. Seriously people who text while they drive should be punched in the face. Pay attention to the road Blondie! She motioned for me to go around her. Whatever. I swear some people.

Yesterday was insanely busy. I woke up early. I fed my children. I bathed my children. I dressed my children. I finished making Brook's Easter Dress. I made lunch. I dropped Brook off at school. I made banners for a church activity this Tuesday. I picked Brook up from school. On the way home I waited behind a jeep and a truck chatting at the stop sign. Dude, there are other people on this planet trying to get home. I looked at the clock. I had exactly fifteen minutes before I had to start teaching piano AND get Avery ready for her doctor's appointment. Its unbelievable how rude the general population is. I honked my horn and the truck pulled over, but not the jeep. SO rude. I couldn't help myself- I totally glared at her as I passed.

Yesterday was insanely busy. I woke up early. I fed my children. I bathed my children. I dressed my children. I finished making Brook's Easter Dress. I made lunch. I dropped Brook off at school. I made banners for a church activity this Tuesday. I picked Brook up from school. On the way home my jeep ran out of gas at the stop sign. It was entirely my own fault, I've just been so busy lately I haven't taken the time to fill up. I didn't know what to do at first. I thought about calling Andy. It was embarrassing when the cars started lining up behind me. I motioned them to pass me while I thought about what to do. A truck with two men pulled up beside me to ask if I needed help. When I started to explain the minivan behind us started honking. The men pulled over to the side of the road and the woman driving the minivan gave me a dirty look like I had intentionally offended her and her dog. After all the cars had passed the men pushed my jeep over to the side of the road and offered to go get me gas, but since I was only a few blocks from home I told them not to bother; Brook and I could walk. After making sure we were really okay the men drove away.

Seeing us walking through the snow my friend Jamie offered us a ride and some gas, but we were having such a good time I turned her down. Fortunately my first piano student cancelled and Avery's doctor was within walking distance. Andy brought home gas and everything worked out. But the experience of being stranded at the stop sign was a real eye-opener.

So often we misinterpret a situation. So often we don't even recognize that someone is in need. Sometimes we see someone in need and judge them. Sometimes we see someone in need but are so consumed in our own crazy lives that we're unwilling to take the time to help. But being the one in need gave me an entirely different perspective. I'm so grateful for those smoking men who noticed my need and were willing to go out of their way to help. I'm grateful for friends like Jamie. Though my particular situation wasn't dire, it taught me an important and interesting lesson. Because in all likelihood those minivan-driving women attend church on Sunday. In all likelihood they're reasonably "nice" people. But stranded at the stop sign the only real Christians in sight were two men in a rusting pick-up truck, smoking cigarettes, listening to Metallica.

Third Baby Heaven.

There is just something about a third child.

You practically drown your first child in love, attention and twenty-something-years-worth of unrealistic expectations. You expect nothing of your second child and consequently take no pictures which leads to the kind of guilt that leads to extra ice-cream servings and the occasional get-out-of-time-out-free card, which inevitably backfires. By the time you reach your third child you've given up all pretenses of trying to be a good parent and, frankly, just want one of your offspring to like you. And that is where our story begins.

Cambria is a good baby. And when I say "good baby" I'm telling you by two months she was sleeping through the night. She's friendly and happy with practically everyone. You give her a wink and she'll give you a smile. She's just a content, independent person in a family of anxious malcontents (Andy and me included). A note about anxious malcontents if I may: they may break down weeping whenever its time to abandon one activity for another. They may glare suspiciously at anyone with the audacity to compliment their fairy wings. They may develop a facial tic and elapse into hysterics because "my hand touched the blanket that touched the shoe that stepped on some panties". But they do not get into things. They don't have the time. After Breakfast Tantrum aka "I wanted the pink bowl" and Bath Time Anxiety there's hardly enough time to squeeze in The Get Dressed Fiasco aka "This skirt is not dirty" before Systematically Tormenting My Sister Time begins. Its a simple problem of scheduling.

Cambria, on the other hand; Content, sweet, happy Cambria has all the time in the world. And she uses it to get into everything. Sometimes its as innocent as climbing inside a cabinet to munch on a badly tarnished aluminum loaf pan. Other times not so innocent. And while I am forced to keep a closer eye on her, and take baby-proofing seriously for the first time, I can't help but find pleasure and humor in her misadventures because she likes me damnit, and I intend to keep it that way.

"Total Eclipse of the Heart" Literal Video.

How to Age Ungracefully.

I officially have my first wrinkle. One loan wrinkle directly between my eyebrows and its no wonder. What with being half-blind, genetically worry-prone, and incredibly angry a healthy portion of my life, it was bound to happen sooner or later or sooner. But it has gotten me to thinking, I mean seriously thinking about how I'm no spring chicken anymore. How the clothes I wear and the way I don't do my hair say "Heck yes I'm eighteen", while this friggin' wrinkle begs to differ. What was once a Cute Rebellion Against Accepted Fashion is quickly disintegrating into the less charming Crazy Homeless Lady look.

I picked Brooklyn up from school the other day wearing a hoodie over a pair of overalls, with a scarf I don't know who left at our house how many years ago, and my prized Sherpa-lined Costco boots. Which probably would have been okay if I was a refugee or her fourteen year old sister, but catching my reflection and my solitary wrinkle in those big glass doors it occurred to me: I'm on the fast track to becoming one of those embarrassing friend-moms desperately clinging to her youth, borrowing her kid's clothes, using outdated teenage slang...

Hella lame.

But what can I do? I LIKE hoodies and overalls and castaway scarves. I LIKE looking a little different than everyone else. But, I would also LIKE looking like a responsible (if not slightly kick-ass), fashionable (if not a little quirky), sane woman in her late twenties. I'm just not sure how to pull it off.

Help me I'm addicted to second-hand stores!

Because I don't want Brooklyn pretending she doesn't know me at the tender age of six, I require your recommendations. Where can I find cute, reasonably priced jeans? Where can I find sweet, multifunctional shirts and sweaters? Where can I pick up a new scarf? This wrinkle says its time to woman-up people. If not for me, for the kids.

Get Naked and Start the Resolution!

I know what you're thinking, "But Diana, how could you possibly improve? You who are so wise in the ways of...um...huh." Yeah, exactly. The possibilities in which I might improve are so vast I have had a bit of a challenge narrowing them down. But once I took into consideration the fact that I am me and I will not cease being me simply because the year changed, things became a lot easier.

Resolutions 2010: The Depressing Reality Version

One- Rather than staying up past midnight and sleeping in as late as I can, I resolve to stay up until midnight and be up by eight.

Two- Rather than eat pretty much whatever the heck I want, I resolve to eat a little less of pretty much whatever the heck I want.

Three- Rather than using my arch-nemesis The Treadmill one solid month out of the year, I resolve to use my arch-nemesis The Treadmill two solid months out of the year.

Four- Rather than swearing only while in traffic or when quoting a movie or when trying to be funny, I resolve to swear only when quoting a movie... Or when trying to be funny.

Five- Rather than waiting until I have a perfect body to buy those fabulous jeans, I resolve to buy those fabulous jeans as soon as I can save enough of my piano-teacher earnings.

Six- Rather than writing that totally amazing novel someday, I resolve to write that somewhat less amazing novella right now.

Seven- Rather than reading my scriptures regularly half the year and neglecting them the rest, I resolve to read them regularly all year.

Eight- Rather than keeping my house spotless half the year and neglecting it the rest, I resolve to keep my house sanitary but messy all year.

Nine- Rather than focus my efforts on having well-behaved children, I resolve to refocus my efforts on having well-adjusted children.

Ten- Try Sushi.

Happy New Year 2010!