Sortor Rules!

The Language of Love.

2012-02-13T20:55:00.000-08:00

Love Language #1: Quality Time

Poor Norman. He just wanted some one-on-one. That's what made him feel special. A private conversation with plenty of eye- contact. A little mutual bonding. Time spent together in pleasant activities- like taking a walk, sharing a bundt cake, playing a board game, taxidermy... Why not take some time for your favorite psycho this Valentine's Day. A little quality time goes a long way.

Love Language # 2: Words of Affirmation

For Grima, a simple, "I love you." would have really made his day. He needed a little verbal reassurance. Maybe a "thank you for folding the laundry, Grima," or a "your hair looks especially wet today, Grima," or a "You certainly have a knack for emotional-manipulation, Grima." Don't let another day pass you by. Take the opportunity to say what's in your heart.

Love Language #3: Gifts
All Xerxes wanted was the world. He showed his affection through gift-giving. Some reciprocity would have been nice. Like a thoughtful card, or that new sweater he's been eye-balling, maybe another golden-piercing, or countless subordinate minions. It isn't the price tag, but the thought that counts. Be kind. Put some thought into the gifts you give.

Love Language #4: Physical Touch
Give him a Baby Ruth and he's yours for a day. But what makes Sloth really feel loved is a hug, or a nice, wet lickery kiss, watching pirate movies cuddled up on the couch. Don't be a goonie. Show your love a little physical affection.

Love Language #5: Acts of Service
The question isn't what would Gollum do for his Precious, but what wouldn't he do for his Precious. Suffer torture in the hands of cruel orcses? Take out the garbage? Hike across Middle Earth? Dive into the fiery depths of Mt. Doom? Make a favorite dinner? Find ways to serve your Precious. When your love is truly giving it will come back to you ten-fold.

The Real Clause.

2011-12-20T17:12:00.000-08:00

You might not want to read this around innocent children or puppies.

I stopped believing in Santa the year I realized there was no way anything larger than a chipmunk could fit down our tiny chimney. My mom attempted to assuage my concerns by suggesting he came through the front door, which actually did not make me feel better at all. Santa coming through the front door= Super Lame. Plus, coming through the door would require he park his sled in our driveway and I had absolutely no evidence that a reindeer, let alone thirteen, had ever set hoof on our property. Raccoon prints- yes. Reindeer prints- no. Either Santa was breaking some pretty major Christmas code exploiting small woodland creatures or somebody else was the one eating the plateful of cookies. Somebody with a key.

Strike two against Clause was the fact that he never brought me what I asked for in the letters I wrote him at school. Granted, he brought me plenty of cool stuff- like mind puzzles and a light-up globe. But the thing was, I specifically asked for tiny fairy dolls with fairy outfits and accessories that existed only in my mind. I figured A) Santa's magic and B) He's got factories of free elf-laborers working overtime for him. He shouldn't have any trouble making it happen. Only every year the dude totally ignored me, almost like he wasn't reading my letters at all. Almost like somebody else was putting the presents under the tree. Somebody who had absolutely no clue what I wanted.

Strike three: Through the years I had encountered more than one fat man claiming to be Santa Clause. And not one of them made me "laugh when I saw him in spite of myself". No, not one Santa inspired anything but emotional discomfort bordering on terror- the exact reaction I have always had to clowns. Never trust a grown man in costume. If these false-Santas were anything like the real thing, I was dead bolting our front door. He could keep his light up globe. He and his army of scavenging raccoons.
My suspicions grew as Christmas morning came and I rushed down the stairs with my little sister, only to be spun around and marched directly back up the stairs by my Grinchy Dad to wait until Mom was ready. And you know Mom took her sweet time; she stretched and yawned and dragged each leg out of bed. Her hair a feathery-nest as she zombied towards the bathroom; My parents must have gotten some amount of satisfaction torturing us every Christmas. They had us right where they wanted us and my dad made sure he captured every second of the occasion on film.

When my mom finally emerged in her bathrobe, hair fluffed and camera-ready, we were given the green light to re-descend the stairs and race to our presents, so long as we were facing the camera. My generally mild little sister flew from nutcracker to toy to whatever else "Santa" had brought us shouting with territorial enthusiasm "That's mine! Look Diana! That's mine!" while I smiled and steeled myself for the probable socks that waited like ticking bombs of disappointment inside their deceptively happy wrappings. Wrapping paper which, I couldn't help noticing, looked incredibly like my mother's wrapping paper.

"Santa has the same wrapping paper we do." I tested conversationally.

"Well, Santa must have been running short on time and wrapped your presents here."

"Mommy! My reindeer won't work." My sister fidgeted with the on-switch of the electronic Rudolph she had claimed.

"Stupid Dang Santa forgot the batteries!" Mom exclaimed in exasperation. That sounded about right for an illiterate Santa who flew raccoons and came through front doors. It also sounded a lot like my Mom. It was then that I knew: I didn't have a Santa Clause magically providing me with gifts. And with this realization came a greater appreciation for what I did have: two parents who loved me. Even as they bumbled their way through Christmas, they did it for me and my sister- to make the holiday special for us. I also had a plethora of socks.

I continued humoring them for several years, all the while planning how to break the news. I would get up in the middle of the night Christmas Eve, add a few presents of my own, leaving hoof prints all over the driveway effectively blowing their minds. But I was nine and knew I couldn't pull it off convincingly so I settled on telling my little sister who didn't take it as well as I had.

"No Diana YOU'RE WRONG! Mom and Dad would never LIE to us!"

Yes they would. Merry Christmas!

Rudolph Has Low Self-Esteem.

2011-12-14T00:19:00.000-08:00

So I turned that magical age of thirty two months ago and felt nothing. I don't know what I was expecting. Something magical apparently. But that is a post for another day. I am now thirty, and like most North- American children of the eighties, I grew up watching a somewhat disturbing stop-motion-animation Christmas movie called Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. And while I cannot place total blame for my elementary-school anxiety on the sloping shoulders of that red nosed freak and his effeminate elf-friend, they played a festive part in my neurosis.

Imagine misfit me, staring wide-eyed through my crooked bangs, as Rudolph grovels for the acceptance of his reindeer peers in that embarrassingly nasal voice. "Why am I such a misfit?" He sings pathetically to himself after publicly humiliating his dad by losing control of his red and ominously humming nose. I don't know, Rudolph. Maybe you should stop hanging around with that cougar-doe who claims to be your age, but is clearly played by a fully-mature woman. Because you know, that isn't doing anything for your emotional health. Nor is the elf with the coiffe. The dude is performing dental work on dolls. That isn't misfit. That's messed up. As the kid who never fit in, I did not like the way I was being represented. Not by that whiny Rudolph. Not by that outrageously annoying elf. Not by the Island of Handicapped Toys. Rather than feeling the intended theme of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer: Its OK to be you! I recoiled in self-realization: It is definitely NOT OK to be me. Better to conform than be abominable snow man fodder. I was certain of one thing- I didn't want to end up like Rudolph, exploited by the very people who initially rejected me. Indebted to a dentist. A shell of a reindeer. No.

It was years before I could enjoy stop-motion animation again. And though in many ways I remain the misfit I always was, I am happy to report that my childhood fear of being in poor company was as ridiculous as Aaron Neville singing O Holy Night. Take my word for it. Excepting whiny red-nosed types, misfits are fabulous company.

Bruce Willis, Patrick Swayze, and Me.

2011-11-21T22:30:00.000-08:00

I was initially skeptical of Face Book. Odd that those same people who seemed previously oblivious to my existance should be sending me "friend" requests so late in the game.

"Wow." Says I, "I really misjudged these people and their feelings for me." No I did not, I realized the moment I spotted the "friend" tally under my profile picture. "Friend" is a strong word. I am a number to them just as surely as I was another awkward photo in the year book.

"I don't know you very well but NEVER CHANGE!"

You know, the only people who never change are the dead. Which made me start to wonder- is it possible that I have been dead all this time and I simply did not know it? Of course, I had just finished watching The Sixth Sense, but it was something worth looking into. It would explain a lot. Like why I always have the same outfit on with or without a coat. And why no one laughs at my jokes. And why people are always bumping into me without appologizing. I decided to do a little experimenting.

Instead of assuming that people were ignoring me because I was quiet, I began commenting. I shared my thoughts, I even left messages on a "friend's" face book wall. Things like, "hey remember when you dumped me without telling me LOL!" and "nice profile pic- this one makes you look less like Willem Defoe." and "Big Gulps huh?"

No response.

I stood in the middle of a crowded grocery store and no one made eye contact. I tried giving advice that went completely unheeded. I wrote a story that nobody would read. I faded into the park bench and no one said a word. Given my hypothesis you can imagine my distress. Dead all this time, and I'm wasting my time on Face Book?

Ten Reasons Why I'd Rather: Part Three

2011-08-09T22:12:00.000-07:00

You know, I have to admit the older I get, the more I realize what a jerk I really am. Not a jerk in that I wouldn't help someone out. Or that I'm impolite or would ever bring my baby to a movie theater. But I can be a real snark when it comes to taste in music, books, movies- or people who speed through residential neighborhoods. Yes, I can own being a jerk upon occasion. And one of those occasions (I am sorry to tell you) is right now. Because I have a little confession to make, something that may or may not offend more than a few of my friends and family members. But I have to be honest: I hate scrapbooking. I loath the stickers and the adorable catch phrases that come in packets of three, bedecked in ribbon and festive paper. I despise cutting with those horrible scissors that make stupid shapes and I detest those little photo-tape dispensers that don't even work properly. I use acid-free albums to clean up cat poo. And that isn't even convenient. Hey, told you I could be a jerk but hear me out-

"Ten Reasons Why I'd Rather Be Electrocuted than Scrapbook."
1) Being electrocuted is far less humiliating than purchasing stickers that say "Holly's First Crap" on them. Holly does not want to be reminded of that.
2) A little electric shock hurts for a moment. An unfortunate seventh-grade portrait commemorated on paisley-patterned- paper hurts for a lifetime.
3) Fact: 4509678868 people a year die from neglected paper cuts.
4) Electrocution makes for an interesting story, while stories about scrap-booking lead to anxiety and depression.
5) The thought that goes into creating a unique scrap-booking page could be better spent thinking about how to get your hair as voluminous as it was that time you were electrocuted.
6) Electrocution is free.
7) When you accidentally electrocute yourself you learn the valuable lesson of not sticking a knife into a toaster. When you accidentally scrapbook you learn the valuable lesson of gut-wrenching loneliness.
8) Anything printed on a sticker is better left unsaid. Baby Zebra.
9) The shock of electrocution is nothing compared to the shock of someone actually expressing interest in the album you spent innumerable hours painfully piecing together.
10) My chances of surviving electrocution are greater than my chances of surviving an encounter with a hardcore crafter down a dimly-lit embellishment isle.

People Without Eyebrows Cannot Be Trusted.

2011-08-03T13:15:00.000-07:00

I was a skeptic in the womb. I questioned the motives of those cooing over my crib. I never took for granted that a smile meant friendship. Which probably accounts for that blinking-eye tic I developed in second grade. Life can be stressful for a skeptical seven year old.

Life can be stressful for a skeptical 29 year old, but at least I don't have the tic anymore. Perhaps it's because I am capable of defending myself with ninja-like reflexes and jedi-mind tricks. Or perhaps it's because I have learned who generally can and cannot be trusted. For example, people wearing Muse shirts can be trusted to have awesome taste in music, while people wearing anything featuring a disney character cannot. But for all my sweet ninja moves and jedi-cognition there is one group that makes me particularly uncomfortable. And that group is the eyebrowless. Completely unwarranted prejudice? Absolutely. Hypocritical coming from a girl with a goiter you say? Just kidding I don't have a goiter. But even if I did I wouldn't trust the eyebrowless for the simple fact that I can't read them. I have no idea how they're feeling. Its unnerving. I don't like it. I may not have the most glorious eyebrows in the world (though people will insist upon telling me so) but they communicate everything you need to know about me.

\/ this means I am listening, concerned, worried, or angry.

/ \ this means I am sympathetic, sad, or really enjoying this soup.

- - this noncommital eyebrow means I'm sleeping, thinking about cupcakes, or being wry.

__ this means I have been too busy or depressed to pluck. Probably on my period.

~ _ this is my sarcastic look/ Tom Jones impersonation.

~ ~ this only happens when Andy accuses me of something I totally didn't do!

_ ~ this means I am suspicious. Very suspicious. Probably of the eyebrowless gentleman strolling the baking isle. What are you up to Mister?

I know, I know. There are plenty of very decent human beings including Whoopi who have been born without or have lost their eyebrows due to circumstances they refuse to or can't explain properly because nobody knows if their kidding or not. It must be a frustrating life though you certainly can't tell by looking at them. Take the following sentence:

Nice job today. You are probably the best pianist alive. ~_

As you can see from the eyebrow, I was totally being sarcastic. You are definitely not the best pianist alive. Not even close.

Nice job today. You are probably the best pianist alive. \/

I mean it, you probably are the best pianist alive but I'm not happy about it.

Nice job today. You are probably the best pianist alive. no eyebrow.

Yeah, not cool is it? Whoopi 1, Me 0. Well played you eyebrowless punk. I don't even know how to react to that. ~ \

Anticipating Free Time.

2010-10-07T11:43:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-07-24T10:31:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-06-28T11:02:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-04-13T09:43:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-03-29T13:05:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-03-21T18:07:00.000-07:00

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

2010-02-20T09:48:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-02-04T11:54:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-01-27T15:15:00.000-08:00

How to Age Ungracefully.

2010-01-16T10:24:00.000-08:00

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!

2010-01-01T16:34:00.000-08:00

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!

A Christmas Post

2009-12-21T10:47:00.000-08:00

In his book The Screwtape Letters, C.S. Lewis refers to it as "the law of undulation". It is the idea that everything about our human nature is cyclical: our relationships, our attitudes, our interests, our spirituality, our convictions. It is an idea that I personally experience on a regular basis and one that I don't particularly enjoy. But enjoy it or not, there are times when I am on. And there are times when I am way off.

There are times when I keep my house sparkly clean and ordered.
There are times when we wade through laundry, crumbs, and chaos.
There are times when I feel very pleased with how attractive, funny, and well-liked I am.
There are times when I catch my reflection and see nothing but lame.
There are times when I am a patient and attentive Mommy, making delicious meals for my family, exercising, and reading books in my spare time.
There are times when I am impatient and self-centered, feeding my family leftover pizza for breakfast, scarfing down whatever chocolate I can find in the house, and watching online movie-previews.
There are times when I have meaningful prayers, read my scriptures daily, look for ways to serve others, and feel humble and happy.
There are times when I choose to focus on other things, worry too much about what other people might think of me, question my life choices, and let my pride get in the way of my testimony.

For better or worse we can never seem to stand still. These past few months I've been on the downswing; my faith taking it full in the face.

Sunday I received a text from my church's Young Women's President. I am the Beehive advisor in my ward, meaning I am a leader over the twelve and thirteen year old girls. In light of the upcoming holiday, the president asked all of us (girls included) to bring something from home that symbolised our testimonies. I thought about this. I considered a picture I have hanging in my family room of Christ praying. I considered bringing a picture of my family. I considered bringing my scriptures or a hymn book. But then while I was getting ready for church, looking through my jewelry box I found it: a locket my mom gave me when I was six or seven years old. Inscribed on the front of it is "I am a Child of God." I put it on and went to church.

And out of all the symbols I could have chosen that one statement best represents my feelings. Because there are times when I am good and there are times when I'm not. But one thing remains constant: I am a child of God. And regardless of whether I keep a clean house, or feel good about myself, am always a good mother, or read my scriptures daily, His perfect parental love for me doesn't change- only my ability to feel it. And I know He is always there.

Psalms 46:10 "Be Still and know that I am God."

Merry Christmas.

Dude.

2009-12-15T13:13:00.000-08:00

Meet my long lost shantily-clad, coffee-drinking twin.

The Diana of an alternate universe.

I wonder if she listens to Muse?

I wonder if she likes writing young adult fiction?

Or if she's into british comedy and zombies?

Somewhere out there is another me walking around.

And she has awesome hair.

The Great Cough Syrup Fiasco 2009

2009-12-11T10:40:00.000-08:00

Chances are whoever coined the phrase "if its not one thing, its another" was a real unpopular guy. Brutally honest people often are. At least that's what I tell myself on lonely afternoons. And though its disappointing, it is a fact. And though "if its not one thing, its another" is equally disappointing, it is also a fact.

November did not go down smoothly. Maybe if you cross your fingers I'll fill you in on the details later. As for now, it suffices to say I have slept through the night maybe a handful of times since October and its starting to show. I would generally describe myself as good-natured, a little crazy, but harmless. November kind of killed the whole "good-natured" bit. And the past few weeks have knocked the "harmless" right off the end there. Which leaves us with "a little crazy."OK, make that a LOT crazy.

This is December in Utah, so everyone we know is sick including our children. Sick doesn't really mean anything unless it starts getting serious and that is where our story begins. Wednesday night Avery's cold took a turn for the worse. She had a fever, and her breathing was so labored she couldn't lie down to sleep. The cold medicine seemed to have no effect. The Tylenol helped the fever, but her croup was so nasty Andy and I felt we couldn't leave her alone. I sat with her in a steamy bathroom for a while, Andy gave her a blessing. Finally around two in the morning Andy went out into the snow to buy a new humidifier. We propped her up between us, and slept for about three hours before she woke up coughing and couldn't go back to sleep.

Thursday morning I made her a doctor's appointment. It was a busy day with Brooklyn's "Unusual Pet Show" at school, home-teacher visits, and daily necessities. And by the time we finished our Subway sandwiches I was very sleepy and ready to put the girl's down for the night. But first we had to give Avery her prescription cough syrup...

Dun-Dun-DUN!

Mkay, so I'm assuming you're all familiar with Avery and her notorious red-bummery? Even in the throws of illness she holds the prestigious title as the stubbornest child to ever walk the earth in a black tutu. We started off with exactly six teaspoons of cough syrup. She was supposed to take two the first night. Are you ready?

Though a huge fan of purple medicine Avery hated the red medicine. She spit out the first teaspoon onto her jammies. 6-1=5 teaspoons left.

When fifteen minutes of polite coercion yielded no results, we resorted to a Sortor ritual Andy and I refer to as "Moram". If you recall, there is a scene from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, where Indiana is forced to drink blood by the evil head-dressed villain, Moram. There is some chanting and a lot of struggling but in the end Indiana succumbs and in so doing becomes a compulsory member of the thugi cult. Awesome movie. And as it turns out, a super-fun and effective way to force our children to take their medicine. Well, fun for us anyway, the chanting at least. Really it just helps us to not lose our tempers. Anywho, we got two teaspoons down her and were ready to send her to brush her teeth when she says, "I'm gonna puke!" And she did. 5-2=3tsp.

While I cleaned up, Andy tried a different, less thugi-cultish, sneakier approach. He made a delicious strawberry smoothie spiked with the disgusting red cough syrup. Then offered it to Avery.

"I saw Daddy put medicine in it." Brooklyn warned. Five minutes later Brooklyn was crying in her room and Avery was refusing to drink her smoothie. We reasoned with her. We pleaded with her. I bribed her with new dress-ups, toys, and treats. She replied, "I don't want any treats and I already have toys." We cut our losses and put the smoothie in the refrigerator. 3-2=1tsp.

But the evil-genius Andy had one more trick up his sleeve. He poured the last teaspoon of precious cough syrup into the Tylenol cup. "Alright sweetie, how about some different medicine?" Reluctantly she agreed. You can hardly imagine my relief as she willingly tipped back the little cup and drank. "See it's not so bad!" Said Andy seconds before snatching her up over the sink where she vomited all of it. 1-1=O tsp.

Out came the smoothie. Out came the big guns: I threatened to take away her beloved blanket unless she drank her smoothie pronto. But I think my heart broke as she sobbed, "Mommy if I make my bed tomorrow can I have it back?"

"You're not in trouble honey, you just have to drink your smoothie so you can get better." "Please let me go to sleep! I just want to go to sleep!" And she cuddled up in my arms, with her eyes closed, genuinely exhausted from the night before.

"No Avery, you can't go to sleep! You have to drink your smoothie!" As a parent I'm often surprised at the things that come out of my mouth. But despite my desperation, fall asleep Avery did. Won Avery did.

Cry I did.

Chances are whoever coined the phrase, "Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger" was a real unpopular guy. Because who likes to be reminded that he will have to suffer through unpleasant, even excruciating circumstances time and time again simultaneously turning them into learning experiences? If its not one thing, its another that doesn't kill you but makes you stronger can I choose "pass"?

Thankfully The Great Cough Syrup Fiasco '09 didn't kill us. True, that was a lot of puke. True, I am that much closer to biting a stranger in line at the grocery store over laundry detergent. But Avery's immunities are now stronger so...

Dun-Dun-DUN!

Barbie Confessions

2009-11-19T10:02:00.000-08:00

(From left to right) Cinderella, Esther, Brietta, Belle, McKahn, Anaconda, Lullaby, Sleeping Beauty, Violet, Luna, Lollene, Ariel, Perstephanie, and Orea.

These are the dolls my girls play with almost every day. And you may think its all frills and frolic, but I am here to school you; A Barbie's life is not all handbags and bedazzling smiles. Not for these catty princesses anyway. In the Sortor home, a Barbie can expect a life as filled with beatings and drama as your average Lifetime movie.

For as long as I've known her Violet has been imprisoned in a cage. Belle, Lullaby, Lollene, and Orea have all lost their heads in horrific, bloody battle sequences. If Luna has anything to say about it, McKahn's days are numbered, and Brietta and Ariel have at times been forced into same-gender marriages for lack of available Ken dolls. What, you may well ask, became of Ken?

Prince Hindenpad, forced to do battle with the tyrannical Perstephanie, first lost one leg and then the other. Of course, these were mere flesh wounds to a brave soldier such as Hindenpad and made him no less popular amongst the ladies, but when the e-vile pink stuffed dragon took him away to its volcanic lair and then thrust him from the counter top with such brute strength, mighty Hindenpad's body broke upon the stony depths of the kitchenette floor, much to the sorrow of his fourteen lovers, who were now sadly, princeless.

You can imagine my concern for the violence displayed by my little girls towards their favorite toys. This is straight up Barbie abuse. But as I read the book Kids are from Jupiter and the author's similar hilarious accounts of play-aggression in his own children, my fears were calmed, and all visions of future visits to the woman's penitentiary abated. This isn't abnormal behavior for children, not as common in girls, but not altogether unhealthy. As long as they're not torturing grasshoppers or drawing anarchy symbols on Raggedy Ann we're good. Maybe they'll be dentists someday.

The Seven Habits of Highly Defective People

2009-11-17T12:30:00.000-08:00

Habit #Uno: Be inactive. A rad dude once said, "Everything I learned, I absorbed through the placenta." Because let's face it- learning is dumb. It often requires time, effort, and admitting that you don't already know everything, which is no fun at all. Its a lot more fun doing whatever the heck you feel like all the while maintaining that you're such a genius the normal rules of study, hard work, and social etiquette don't apply to you. After all, what does success matter when you can skate through life on pure, unadulterated cerebellum?

Habit # Deux: Begin with no end in mind. Unless your goals include eating your weight in Krispie Kremes, perfecting your Christopher Walken impersonation, or simply being kickass (which you know you already are), goal setting is lame. If you never set goals you'll never feel bad about yourself when you inevitably fail to reach them.

Habit # tri: Prioritize. Who has time for self discipline anyway? Between FaceBook, Final Fantasy XI, Runescape, and World of Warcraft you're lucky if you have time to eat and go to the bathroom.

Habit #Four: Think Me/Me. Life is too short to spend it considering other people and their problems. Especially those happy effective people who keep going off on how much they've learned through goal setting, prioritizing, and healthy relationships. Whatev. If you can't find happiness after all the thousands of hours you've dedicated thinking only of yourself, then it obviously doesn't exist.

Habit #fif: Seek only to be understood. You know as well as any suicidal songwriter that the key to satisfying relationships is one-sided communication. You've lived a full life of avoidance, indulgence, and delusion and you have a lot to say. Despite your best efforts at consistent self-centeredness life isn't always a bed of roses. All you ask is for a sympathetic ear. But apparently that's too much to ask. At least I think that's what she said. I don't know, I wasn't really listening.

Habit #6: Romanticize. When logic fails to support the benefits of the habits you've formed, you can always rely on fantasy to fill in the gaps. And in fantasy land you can both talk to cats and develop difficult skills simply through your powers of concentration. 4+4=$pegasus. Regardless of your antisocial behavior, people love and want to be around you. If you add "Aneus" onto the end of anything it automatically becomes more magical. And you never have to leave the comfort of your own deuchebuggary.

Habit# last: Dull the Blade. At this point the last thing you want to do is meta cognate. The less you consider where you're headed the more you'll enjoy the downward spiral. Just keep doing whatever it is you do because you're special. Very, very special.

Happy Birthday to Me.

2009-10-29T12:31:00.000-07:00

Today I am 28 years old. Strange, I don't feel any different. Well that's not entirely true. I do feel a bit more mature. A bit wiser maybe. A bit more contented with who I am even though the dream of playing keyboard in a punk-rock band becomes less likely each year. Even though being mistaken for a teenager (a troubled teenager with three children) becomes less flattering each year. Unless you take into account that my back hurts most of the time and that confused/angry/I can't see very well wrinkle in between my eyes is starting to stick. All things considered, I don't feel much different. In honor of this day I give you:

"28 Ways I Still Feel the Same."

I still have weird action/adventure dreams almost every night. Two nights ago it involved a young Val Kilmer who was highly insulted when I couldn't remember his name.
I still have a hard time finding long sleeves that come all the way to my wrist because of my genetically mutated monkey arms.
I still plan to write a book. About what I know not. But I still plan to write one.
I still envision myself with long flowing hair when the reality is I cannot grow this straw past my shoulders. I've been trying to for as long as I can remember.
I still prefer reading a good book to almost any other activity.
I still drink milk with almost every meal.
I still don't know what the crap the lyrics from "Glycerine" even mean. But they make me sad.
I still dislike raw onions.
I am still terrified of spiders.
I still crack jokes that nobody gets on the off chance that SOMEONE will laugh and then maybe that person will want to be my friend. That doesn't usually happen.
But I still laugh at my own jokes though.
I still believe that real ice cream is good for you.
I still feel the need to apologize after every social interaction.
I still swear when I stub my toe.
I still swear when someone cuts me off in traffic.
I still swear because sometimes its kind of funny.
I still pretend like I don't like swearing.
I still hate doing the laundry.
I still love swinging on the swing set.
I still prefer jeans and a tee-shirt to any other ensemble.
I still look like a retarded hippo when I run.
I still get really excited about Tim Burton movies.
I still put my feet up on the dashboard if I'm riding shotgun.
I still run into walls a lot.
I still can't hold still when I hear "Billy Jean".
I still like my salsa cut with sour cream.
I still can't watch the nurse when I get blood drawn.
I still get overly excited about my birthday!

WOO- HOO!

Round #1,179

2009-10-12T15:57:00.000-07:00

Oh my holy crap. I will begin with the end.

Yesterday I finally snapped.

It was fast Sunday. During the YW/YM combined lesson I had to continuously break up the hormonal teenagers in front of me. After church I was the lone leader assigned to stay after and clean the building while my family waited in the car. No young women stayed to help me. I ranted all the way home from church. I walked into my shredded house. Clothes, toys, shoes, a half-eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich, green food coloring, cup-cake crumbs, diapers, dirty blankets, last night's dinner, wrapping paper. "I am done." I declared to whoever would listen. Oddly everyone had dispersed so I had to talk louder. "I said I am done!"

By Saturday I was on the edge of the edge.

It was the day of Brooklyn's Halloween-themed sixth-birthday party. She had a soccer game that morning which I was forced to miss due to some last minute preparation. Fortunately I had made the 24 chocolate cupcakes in advance. The decorations were up, and costumes were complete. But the house was still a mess, there was a spider web to be hung, green frosting to be made, and I hadn't even showered yet. In the end the only real problem was Avery's home-made wig which kept falling off her.

Brooklyn and her friends had a great time with or without Avery's wig, so my mission was accomplished! Still, I'm not going to lie to you: keeping ten kids under control and entertained was no picnic and by three-thirty I was ready to put on my pj's and fall asleep on the couch. But we had invited our good friends over to play a rousing game of "Settlers of Catan" which was every bit as relaxing as world domination can be. Though fun in its own right, by the end of the game Andy and I were no longer speaking as our friends made their hasty departure.

Friday was pushing it as I readied myself for Brook's party in between school, piano lessons, and every day responsibilities.

Thursday I was feeling the pressure as I served my time in Brooklyn's classroom as a Parent Volunteer and declined a baby shower due to lack of breathing room.

Wednesday was Avery's Joy School field trip to the pumpkin patch. After dropping Brook off at school, enjoying some lovely autumn weather with Avery, picking Brook up from school, getting her ready for soccer practice, dressing for the temple, dropping all three children off with our excellent next-door-neighbors, and eating a quick meal at Chick Fillet...

Andy and I actually got to go to the Oquirhh Mountain Temple. It was a beautifully quiet, peaceful experience. And if it hadn't been for this small break in my insane week I surely would have snapped sooner.

Tuesday I still had the energy to mop the floor, make appetizers, and set up chairs for Book Club. Of course it was still crazy because I also had a Young Women's activity from which I rushed home to put the kids to bed before brewing hot chocolate in time for my ladies to arrive. The discussion was well worth it. Apparently Pride and Prejudice and Zombies isn't for everyone but made for one exciting book club debate.

Monday I was determined to put what had inspired me into practice. I would make a greater effort to read my scriptures. Spend more quality time with my children. Have more meaningful personal prayers. We had Family Home Evening that night.

Saturday and Sunday was the semi-annual General Conference for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. It is a opportunity to listen to the prophet and apostles and other leaders speak and what they have to say is always inspirational. It always makes me want to be a better person. This time I was especially touched. http://www.lds.org/move/index.html?type=conference&event=Oct179&lang=english My favorite part of conference was the Mormon Tabernacle Choir singing "Oh Divine Redeemer" in the Sunday afternoon session.

This was the beginning.

I always start off strong, brimming with faith and good intentions. And then somewhere along the way I get lost in all the demands of life, some of which are inherent some of which I choose. I become overwhelmed and within one lame little week I am done.

I woke up this morning with nothing but every-day life ahead of me. Renewed energy, renewed determination. Ready to begin again. Because I'm not done.

Not even close.

Gather Ye Rosebuds While ye May

2009-09-24T21:37:00.000-07:00

Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles today,
Tomorrow will be dying. -Robert Herrick

There was a time when I felt tying myself down to marriage and children at the tender age of twenty would disrupt the gathering of my rose-buds. In my head there was a disconnect between being responsible and being free to find myself. An insurmountable ravine between suburban housewifery and passion for life. Between polite decency and real happiness.

I saw a preview for a movie recently, depicting a mid-century couple, miserable in the quiet respectability of family life. "Did we really think we could be happy living this way???" One lamented, "Working nine to five? Being like everyone else? Living up to these idealistic expectations society has heaped upon us?"

Yeah, what hell. Getting married to someone you love. Raising children. Supporting your family making an honest wage in a modest house in the suburbs. No good has ever come of THAT. Dude, what bull crap has the media been feeding us?

And I bought into it for a while.

When relationships become difficult, when making an honest wage gets you down, when living in that modest house in the suburbs just isn't exciting anymore it must be because its all a lie! Because as everyone knows relationships are supposed to be easy, and working is always a hoot, and life is always supposed to be very exciting right? Because apparently no one is happier than all those friggin' celebrities and musicians we keep looking to for guidance.

Dude.

I don't know about every other middle-class suburban housewife out there, but I am gathering rose-buds by the apronful. I do not regret marrying my excellent husband at such a young age. Our love has grown in ways that only time and sacrifice can render. And I do not regret having three children. They are my roses. They give color its vibrancy and music its legato. No amount of travel or career or romantic endeavor could possibly compare to the depth in which I have found myself through the medium of motherhood. I do not regret being a housewife in a modest suburban home, in fact I friggin' LOVE it. I am individual enough as it is, I don't need to live in extraordinary circumstances to be true to that. And the neighborhood fourth of July pancake breakfast is killer.

What is passion without purpose? To think I could still be drawing pictures, listening to Morrissey, keeping it real alone in my room. Instead I'm planning an awesome Halloween-themed birthday party for my almost six-year-old. TO MORRISSEY. And there will be musical chairs and there will be frosted cupcakes with sprinkles. And someday, when I'm lying on my deathbed or under a bus wheel or wherever I will look back on my mundane, ordinary little family-centered life, think of all those missed opportunities, and then of all those frosting-covered baby faces and smile.

Sortor Rules and Zombies.

2009-09-09T08:08:00.000-07:00

I know, I know. What could I possibly have going on in my life more important than posting? I mean I posted through two kids and pregnancy, right? How can I expect you to believe I suddenly "have no time to breath much less post", when you know darn well I have nothing better to do than entertain you? Well I have news for you my friend. Caring for three small children (and all its accompanying busy-work) isn't the half of it. I'm also a young women's advisor at church, a piano teacher on Fridays, and a zombie killer on the weekends. Yeah, you heard me. And I'm sure you'll agree this leaves very little time for posting. Between walking Brook back and forth from kindergarten, feeding Cambria, teaching Avery the alphabet, soccer games, preparing lessons every other Sunday, attending mid-week activities, cooking supper every night, joy school, reading this month's book club selection, cuddling with Andy, folding clothes, and vanquishing satan's undead minions, its tricky finding the time to get those creative juices flowing. But I'll see if I can move some things around. Its all about priorities.

We're Not in Kansas Anymore, Todo.

2009-08-25T12:43:00.001-07:00

The other night I had a dream. I was sitting in my living room when I heard someone screaming outside. I ran to my front window and, looking east could see an enormous tornado headed directly towards my house. I grabbed for my children and dove to the ground just as the glass shattered. The house around us disintegrated in slow motion and the world was nothing more than yellow dust. I woke up and forgot entirely about the nightmare until later that morning, while we were sitting in the doctor's office preparing for Cambria's four-month shots. Brooklyn had been playing with one of those infant ring-stackers. She showed me how she had stacked them upside down, from smallest to largest. "Like a tornado", she said.

Brooklyn started Kindergarten today and I feel (and probably look) like I've been the victim of some kind of natural disaster. Because the facts is, few disasters terrify me more than the inescapable doom of my babies growing up.

For a year I've been preparing her. Worrying about the anxiety I was sure she would feel. Hoping she would feel confident and that she would want to go. Preparing myself for a possible melt-down...

One guess who had the melt-down?

I was doing OK until she brought me a book to read with her about a mother tree and her daughter tree and how the daughter tree grows up. I sobbed through the entire story. I didn't expect to be so emotional today, but the storm hit me all at once. Have I been a good mother? Have I enjoyed her enough? Suddenly crumbs on the carpet and fingerprints over every surface of my house don't matter much. It really is happening. There is no getting out of this tornado's path. She really is growing up.

Ode to Public Education: Part One

2009-07-13T11:00:00.000-07:00

Has it really been ten years already? In some ways it seems like yesterday, and in other ways it seem much longer ago that I graduated from high school. Either way it still haunts me. You probably don't understand; you probably enjoyed public education. Good for you. Why don't you go put on your Letterman sweater and shut the heck up? Sorry, I'm a little bitter. And here's why...

Cobb Elementary School

I was never very special. Not in the positive sense at any rate. From kindergarten through the fifth grade I was painfully shy and had really messed up front teeth, and a blinking eye tic. My mom clearly cut my bangs (as you can observe in exhibit A), dressed me in Victorian era inspired jump suits and I couldn't read analogue clocks. Nobody in my neighborhood liked me. Nobody at church liked me. Few kids at school acknowledged my existence. I recall being excluded from girl circles, getting into slap-bracelet feuds, and being sent to the Principal's office for hitting someone in the face with a tether ball. You can only imagine how excited I was for the clean slate middle school offered.

Middletown Middle School

Well, not exactly a clean slate. Middletown Middle school combined three elementary schools which meant my class went from thirty-five kids to about ninety kids, so there was still that thirty-percent who remembered the unfortunate tether-ball incident. Still, I had had braces, I was sporting sweet new glasses, and although I still couldn't read analogue clocks I was determined to turn my antisocial life around.

Riding the school bus changed my life. It arrived each morning at 7:30 at a cigarette-strewn shanty about half a mile from my house. It was always packed to full capacity with the motliest collection of foul-mouthed high school and middle school students Cobb Mountain had to offer. And since my stop was second to last I had to sit wherever I could. And generally the only open seats were those in the very back with the pirates; a dangerous place for an eleven year old girl in stirrup pants. I witnessed a lot of things back there. Learned many delightful new words and phrases. Saw a kid light his leg hairs on fire. It was a long bus ride with many a sharp corner. Fortunately for me weed + stoners = exceptionally accommodating seatmates and so I was befriended, my life experience expanded, and all the second-hand marijuana smoke probably helped me relax a little.

Of course Middle school wasn't all uncomfortable bus rides. There were plenty of other things contributing to one's discomfort. Like having to change for gym, when all I owned were granny panties. Or when a kid from my core class told me he was going to punch me in my "four inch forehead". Or my seventh grade yearbook photo where I look exactly like the deaf kid pictured above me. I was a nerd from my golden perv glasses all the way to my K-Mart tennis shoes. But the elevation from being rejected to mostly ignored was welcome. I did have a small group of equally nerdy friends, and being one of the eight kids chosen to go on a school-sponsored trip to Japan filled me with a small but happy confidence.

As far as public education is concerned, I peaked in the eighth grade. The summer after I went to Japan I got contacts, a more age-appropriate wardrobe, and started wearing mascara. I bought my first cassette tapes: Ace of Base, and Green Day. By some mistake I was put in the smart class with the smart kids and was able to make more nerdy friends than ever before. That year I was voted "prettiest eyes" in the yearbook. I had arrived. Little did I know it was all downhill from there.

To Be Continued...

I Am Venom

2009-07-04T12:30:00.000-07:00

I'm not going to lie to you, this week kind of sucked. And I can't put my finger on why exactly. Cambria's been sleeping though the night, and the lawn is looking better than ever so I don't know. I'm just not feeling it lately. Some weeks are like that. No matter how well things are going you're just off your game. Outwardly nothing's changed, but inside you'd rather be vacationing on some remote island, being served peach milkshakes by a burly native. You'd rather be somewhere else, even though you love your life, love your fabulous husband and children, love your home. Some weeks it just feels like you're just going through the motions. And you scold when you would normally laugh. And yell at the kids to stop yelling. And feed your family canned spaghetti three times in one week. And find excuses to be alone. And snack at eleven-o-clock at night even though you know its all going into your thighs. AND then feel incredibly guilty for everything you're doing wrong. Guilty for everything you haven't done right. Guilty for feeling down after all that God has blessed you with. Guilty for feeling guilty. Some weeks are a downward spiral that appear to have no bottom. Some weeks you make more mistakes than others.

Thank goodness for Sunday.

Darth Schlictenstein

2009-06-16T09:44:00.000-07:00

Since Brooklyn was a wee infant we have been taking her Dr. Schlicter. From the beginning we have fondly referred to him as "The Schlictenstein" and in the beginning he was both pleasant and helpful. I turned to him for every cough. But in the last couple of years something has changed inside The Schlictenstein. He has turned to the dark side. The enthusiastic pediatrician is dead. Darth Schlictenstein is our new doctor.
I first noticed the change last year at Avery's two-year check up. He could find nothing wrong with her. This angered him.

"Where did this bruise come from?" He insisted.
"I have no idea." by which I meant I had no idea.
"Strange place for a bruise."
"Yeah." Oh wait, maybe it was from that severe beating I gave her. (heavy sarcasm).

"Does she stack blocks?"
"Yes, she loves Legos."
"No, not Legos BLOCKS. How high would you say she stacks them?"
"I have no idea."
"I see."

Then, at Brooklyn's five-year check up...

"Well, she's definitely knock-kneed."
"What?"
"Yeah, it will probably cause her problems in the future. Does she play hopscotch?"
"Um, no."
"I see. Can she count backwards from twenty?"
"I have no idea. She can add and subtract and read books and memorize songs on the piano and skip, and ride a bike and draw everything she sees. But I don't know if she can count backwards from twenty."
"I see."

Finally yesterday at Avery's three year check up...

"Do you have any concerns?"
"Not really."
"Really? Are you sure?"
"Well, I guess she could benefit from being around kids her own age. She's used to playing with older children and has a hard time playing with other three year olds."
"That's very immature."
"Yes, well she is three."
"I'd say she's acting more like a two and a half year old."
"Hmmm."
"How high can she count?"
"She's solid up to five."
"The next time I see her I want her counting backwards from twenty."

"No bruises??? Is she a couch potato?"
"Not at all."
"I get worried when I see no bruises."

"I see that last year Avery was in the ninetieth percentile for height. Now she is only in the fiftieth percentile. Its probably not a big deal; she may be in between growth spurts. So we won't check her for cancer just yet."
"WHAT?"
"Yes, children with cancer don't grow the way they should. We'll have to see how she grows this next year. No reason to worry...yet."

What the-!!!

I cried and fretted the rest of the afternoon until it occurred to me: The Schlictenstein is a real douche. Time for a new pediatrician.

My Wildest Dreams Just Came True

2009-06-03T21:25:00.000-07:00

Midnight Snack

2009-05-21T15:34:00.000-07:00

... of three things I was sure. First, that Edward was a vampire. Second, some part of him thirsted for my blood. Third, I was idiotically and irrevocably in love with him...

"I don't know how to put this, Bella, but I'm kind of a big deal. People know me. I'm going to throw this out there and if you don't like it, throw it right back... I want to eat you."

"Common sense tells me I should Van Helsing your glorious, sparkly hiney... and yet I'll admit I'm flattered. You're a straight shooter and I can't fault you for that. Wanna be my boyfriend?"

"I watch you while you sleep."

"You're so cute when you're creepy."

"No seriously, Bella I'm probably going to kill you. I almost killed you just now. You don't even know."

"You're not the boss of me! I love you! Make me a vampire."

"And spend eternal damnation listening to your incessant whining? Not bloody likely."

"Come on! Please, please, Edward, please? Pretty please, please Edward, PLEASE!"

YOMP! Ahhhhh! sllluuuurrpppp...

The End

Holy Lack of Creativity Bat Man!

2009-05-17T13:12:00.000-07:00

I don't know what it is. Normally, in the word department, I overfloweth. I'm good at expressing myself; a little too good. Both on the internet and off I've chastised myself for being too wordy; talking too much, letting my posts go a little long. Not so lately. I can't talk good no mo. I can't write no mo. I embarass myself attempting to recapture some of that old wit. Apparently that well is all dried up. Too bad I'm not really good at anything else. What's that? What about volleyball, you ask? Yeah, I was lying. I suck. Last time I played my face became entangled in the net and everyone literally fell to the ground from laughing so hard. How fun for them. Thanks for bringing it up, jerk.

No, I've never been good at anything other than writing and making a fool of myself. Still pretty good at the latter. Its nice to know I can still make people laugh one way or another.

Me Like Tag

2009-05-04T11:47:00.001-07:00

1. Me Like llama

2. Me Like Edward Scissorhands

3. Me Like Homemade Bread

4. Me Like Music

5. Me Like Hyrdangeas

6. Me Like Books

7. Me Like Morrissey

8. Me Like Rain

9. Me Like This Dress

10. Me Like Sparta!

TAG! (your turn.)

Whatever the Heck I Feel Like

2009-04-28T12:15:00.000-07:00

All of my wildest dreams have come true. I survived another pregnancy. I have three scrumptrulescent little girls and a deadsexy husband. I wear cut-off overalls with slippers and nobody cares. I eat PB&J and apple slices on the trampoline for lunch. I rock out on my MP3 player while I fold laundry and watch Sponge Bob. I have lots of good friends, and lots of good books. And all of my wildest dreams have come true. Consequently this leaves me very little to write about. Apparently all my creativity stems from perpetual discontentedness. Who knew?

Diana - perpetual discontentedness = Happy Diana. Happy Diana = Unfunny Diana. Unfunny Diana = Unfunny posts = No more friends = perpetual discontentedness.

Just give it time, people.

My Testimony

2009-04-12T14:04:00.000-07:00

This Easter Sunday I just wanted to share my simple testimony that Jesus Christ is the son of God, and my Savior. That His sacrifice gives my life meaning, and reason to hope. I am humbled by his incredible love. I am grateful for the opportunity to repent each time I fall. I am grateful to have the opportunity to live with God again, to be with my family and friends forever, to continue progressing eternally. I am grateful for the peace I feel when I realize His hand in my life, when I consider His infinite patience with me. His infinite mercy towards me. I know He lives. And I say these things in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.

Elder Holland says it better. Click on the link below.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EpFhS0dAduc

By Your Side

2009-03-23T09:31:00.001-07:00

Love is a many splendid thing. Love is a battlefield. The greatest thing you'll ever learn, is just to love and be loved in return. Hey, I didn't say it. But after seven years of marriage I will say this: Love is a learning experience.

I met Andy when I was nineteen. I had recently moved back to Salt Lake after spending the summer with my family in Northern California. Why I decided to come back, is anyone's guess. I was not going to college. I had no job prospects. I had no family. All I had was my 1988 Buick Regal, some friends from LDSBC, and an air-mattress. But life was good. I scored a sweet job at Subway, where I got a six-inch free sub every day. I found an apartment in South Salt Lake with awesome roommates and an open bunk. I shopped at the D.I. I got the crap beat out of me in mosh pits, I survived almost entirely on tuna and Marshmallow Mateys. Each day was brim with limitless possibility. And I was happier than I had ever been.

I met Andy at a Trolley Square YSA dance. We had both arrived early to avoid paying the six dollar admission (it was only three if you arrived before nine) and for some reason I was under the impression that it was eighties night. My pants were pegged, I wore yellow high top converse and hoop earrings. And I was rocking out like a deranged Molly Ringwald alone in the middle of the sparse dance floor. Clearly I did not attend these dances to attract a mate. But attract one I did. For from his balcony perch Andy saw me for the first time, and thought to himself, "I could marry that girl." Love moves in mysterious ways.

He asked me to dance. I wish I could remember the song. I found him quite pleasant and conversation came easily. We touched on his mission to England, and his aspirations to become a graphic designer. When the song ended he mentioned it would be cool to hang out and asked for my phone number. I explained that I was in the middle of moving and didn't have one, which he took for a very lame blow-off and was about to cut his losses when I instead asked for his. He wrote the number on a dollar bill and told me not to spend it. Bold move- defacing money for me. I was intrigued.

We had our first date March 23, 2001. He took me to a comedy club downtown. We walked around the conference center. He bought me a banana shake. The more I learned about him the fonder I became of him, because let's face it, Andy is just a cool guy. We didn't share all the same interests, but were both from part-member families, laughed at the same movie-lines, and (what are the odds) he too owned a 1988 Buick Regal. A week later we had our second date. The week after that my life changed dramatically.

On April 3 I received a phone call. My dad had died suddenly of a heart attack while at work. It was a devastating and sobering shock. Everything was altered and I feared that I would never feel like myself ever again. Not ideal circumstances for a new relationship. I was realistic. I knew Andy would sympathetically fade away. After all he didn't know me well, and even some of my closest friends were distant. I didn't blame them. Death is awkward. But Andy called me. He didn't know what to say; he hardly knew me. It must have been scary for him, but he called to see if I was okay. He called out of genuine concern for me, as a person. He called because he is that kind of guy. And in one moment my fondness for him turned into appreciation and respect.

We took it easy. April was crazy for both of us. I was trying to readjust to life. Andy was preparing to graduate from CEU. We kept in touch through email. In May he moved home to Murray and started holding my hand. Appreciation and respect turned into attraction. Attraction turned into new love. New love turned into genuine friendship. He asked me to marry him that December on a sailboat, off the coast of San Juan Capistrano.

Andy entered marriage with a sigh of contentment and a flop on the couch. I entered marriage with a "to-do" list and a cattle prod. Between our miscommunications and unrealistic expectations it hasn't been all slow-dances and roses. Relationships are hard. They require a great deal of acceptance and self-sacrifice; the real-life applications of love. These past seven years have taught me so much. Love is a learning experience. Love is a choice. And as it turns out, love is a many splendid thing. After seven years, genuine friendship has matured into deep love and appreciation. Plus he's still H-O-T. Come on!

Happy Anniversary Sweetie!

I love you more than ever.

A Day in the Life of Avery

2009-03-18T14:21:00.000-07:00

These days I never can be certain on which side of the bed Avery will wake up. On a good morning I wake up to the sweet sunshine of toddler kisses, and the quiet crunching of the apple she got herself as she cuddles at my feet watching Dora the Explorer. She gives me time to get her cereal. She joins me for my morning stretches. She disposes of her own bedtime diaper and dresses herself (always in her favorite orange skirt). She plays Barbies in a singsong voice. On a good day she will happily put away the dishes for a couple marshmallows. She is happy, independent, and generous with her affections. On a good day she truly is my angel.

But the last few mornings have not been good mornings. I have been waking up to noises that no human child should be able to make with Avery standing in my doorway wrapped in her blanky, hair wild as a pet monkey, brows knit, lips puckered, shooting flames of displeasure from her eyes.

"You wanna watch Dora honey?" "NOOOO!" "How about a nice crunchy apple?" "NOOOO!" "Ba-na-na?" "NOOO!" "Cereal?" "Pancakes?" "Maybe some brimstone? Or my soul? How does that sound pumpkin?" What does one feed an angry devil-monkey? On a bad morning there is no pleasing her. She doesn't want to say the prayer, but gnashes her sharp baby teeth if anyone else does. She will not get in the bath, she will not get out of the bath. She weeps over her princess panties. Putting her into her car seat causes her to speak in tongues. Today was one of those days. But it gets better. Today was also grocery-shopping day. I seriously considered staying home, but in the end my desire for a dill pickles and cream cheese won out. Huge mistake.

As soon as we entered Smith's lobby, the red box caught Avery's eye. "Come on babe, stay with me!" She stood statue still, slowly turning her head to give me the stink eye. "We can rent The Highlander later if you're nice. Come on!" But she did not come on. Every five minutes she would wander off, or start a fight with Brook. At one point she threatened to "spank my bum" if I failed to buy her chocolate chip granola bars. "You're NAUGHTY!" She cried on the way through check out. She threw her head back and screamed and flailed about "NAUGHTY MOMMY! NAUGHTY!" "You're very patient", the cashier commented, looking a little frazzled herself. I forced a smile. Funny how losing the will to live and patience can look so similar. She kicked and screamed all the way to the car, all the way home, and all the way into a much needed time-out.

On bad days like this I question my parenting skills (as I rub my nine-month pregnant belly). But I know this too shall pass. The bad days and the good days too. Avery won't be two-and-a-half forever. Today I am grateful for that. But then there are those good days...

Ode to Mango Sorbet

2009-03-16T14:11:00.000-07:00

Life is hard.

I have been known to dwell on this fact from time to time. I've been known to author sad and pathetic posts about this from time to time. I've been known to whine incessantly until the person on the other end of the telephone fakes a medical emergency to avoid having to talk to me anymore from time to time. Often, when life hands me lemons, I chuck them at innocent cyclists rather than making the lemonade God intended. And while those innocent cyclists in their brightly-colored, embarrassingly snarky body suits may have had it coming- I'm suddenly quite thirsty and find myself with nothing to drink but prune juice. And with nothing to drink but prune juice, I am presented with a whole new set of problems.

Straight up- I'm not really a lemonade kind of girl. So when I am faced with life's trials I opt for mango sorbet. Because not only is it refreshingly delicious, but has the creamy texture of ice cream without the artery clogging saturated fat. It is scrumtrulescent. It is a delight. But I'll be honest, it isn't easy making happy mango sorbet from life's lemons.

First of all, you have to accept that life is both difficult and unfair for most everyone and that it isn't singling you out because frankly, you're not THAT special. Let marinate. Secondly, you should honestly and periodically self-evaluate. Maybe you ARE doing something wrong. Or maybe you're doing the best you can and simply need to readjust your expectations. Maybe you need to humble yourself and pray for help. Or maybe you need to get up out yo comfort zone and serve someone else. Allow to chill. The third and final step is the most difficult for me. Endure. Be patient. Quit rubbernecking your problems lest you crash and burn. Keep moving foreword. Be positive. Have faith that in due time, with consistent effort and a lot of help from Heavenly Father, you can overcome your trials no matter what they be. Serve and enjoy.

Life is hard. And it may not be easy making mango sorbet from lemons. But when faced with the alternative of prune juice and a gang of angry cyclists, totally worth it.

Superhero

2009-03-11T21:06:00.000-07:00

What child doesn't dream of possessing super powers of one kind or another? What child doesn't fancy herself the brightly-suited victor of her childhood fantasies? What child doesn't imagine the kind of cookies she could snake from the weak-minded Girl Scouts with the use of the Force?

When I was a kid I had a recurring dream that I could retract my nose into my face. And I could fly. I also drank water straight from forest streams and talked quietly to my reflection in bus windows...not sure where I was going with that. Another post for another day. My point is, I remember well the superhero dream. Perhaps it is because I continued dressing-up as one and making embarassing home movies long after it was socially acceptable. Perhaps it is because I occasionally still wish I could fly over them mountains, bringing justice to the downtrodden, protecting the meek, sprinkling the children with sparkly marshmallow cereal. The dream lives on my friends. I give you "If I Were a Superhero":

My alto-ego would be a bespeckled, cardigan-wearing housewife who taught piano lessons, blogged, and belonged to a neighborhood book club that met monthly... and nobody would ever suspect...

They would call me "The Owl" because a) I've been told I bear an uncanny resemblance to one, which may or may not have been meant as a compliment, and b) I would only be able to work nights due to the demands of motherhood.

My special powers would include: flight (obviously), sharp, retractable talons with which to scratch out the eyes of my enemies, the Force (because that would be rad), and puking pellets at will. And if the pellets were explosive, all the better.

My weakness (because all superheroes HAVE to have at least one) would be anxiety and self-doubt. Like I would be engaged in a smack-down with Towtruck Man, puking explosive pellets at him, swiping ferociously with my talons. I would have him in my clutches when all of a sudden he'd say something like, "Are you sure you've thought this all the way through? What are your real motivations? How can you be sure you're doing the right thing?" And that's when you'd get a close up shot of my wide, glowing eyes filled with anxiety and self-doubt. And then I'd drop him and fly off to do some introspective thinking in my hollow-tree lair.

My super suit would look very much like David Bowie's feathery Goblin-King ensemble at the end of Labyrinth. Minus the bulge.

Andy would be the only living soul that would know my true identity, and although he would sometimes feel torn between pride and jealousy of my incredibly awesome super-powers, he'd undoubtedly support me. I mean come on- free Girl Scout cookies!

My Real Life Nightmares: Part Four

2009-03-09T11:28:00.000-07:00

"Ikea: Human Rat Trap of Terror"

One rainy day, about a year ago I was sitting at home, looking forlornly out the window, thinking to myself in a sad and pathetic voice, "My, my it sure is rainy. And while I'd rather not sit here at home watching the rain fall and thinking to myself in a sad and pathetic voice, I cannot think of a single place to go where I can both purchase affordable curtains AND enjoy delicious macaroni and cheese with the children." And then it hit me, "But of course! Ikea- that wonderland of inexpensive and stylish goods/ Swedish food! Suddenly life makes sense." And without further ado I packed the kids into the jeep and away we went, whistling merrily. And we were never heard from again! The End.

No, I'm just kidding. But we were incredibly naive in our merry whistling. Upon arrival we made our way to the Ikea restaurant. We all got their macaroni and cheese. The children got chocolate milk, and I splurged on the sparkling apple juice because frankly, I like drinking out of fancy, sophisticated, sexy glass bottles and being a hardcore Mormon its about as edgy as I get. In any case the kids were ready to shop before I had finished savoring my edgy apple juice, so I loaded Avery into the impossible-to-manage-shopping cart, held Brook's hand, and tucked that puppy into the deep pocket of my jacket for safe keeping. However, no sooner did our shopping experience begin than things began to go down-hill. Brooklyn wanted in the cart, Avery wanted out. The arrows pointed one way, we seemed to be headed another. And that friggin' impossible-to-manage-shopping cart kept sliding all over the slick floor while my kids loudly demanded we go home. But one does not simply exit Ikea.

We made it past the Tupperware, into the area rugs, through the shower curtains and down the storage isle. It was there I paused to catch my breath. And while I caught it, I noticed a lovely and practical storage box. Well, I couldn't very well leave Ikea empty-handed. I considered its usefulness and reasonable pricing and decidedly put it in the cart. Unfortunately, there were two other less reasonably priced, macaroni-faced items in the cart, one of which playfully expelled my storage box out and onto the floor. I may or may not have said something negative under my breath, I don't really recall. I don't recall because as I leaned over to pick up the box, something heavy, breakable, and very sexy came sliding out of my jacket pocket. And when she broke upon the floor it was a sparkling apple juice explosion of such magnitude a piece of green glass sliced the corner of my left nostril and blood came streaming down my face. Customers stared in alarm. Shocked, I fled the scene of the crime in search of a bathroom. But one does not simply find a bathroom in Ikea.

Back through the shower curtains, into the area rugs, past the Tupperware, I found the lone bathroom. She was in use. I waited, holding a wipe to my still bleeding nose. I waited, and I waited, and I waited. Back through the Tupperware, area rugs, shower curtains, storage, lighting, frames, and house plants. At long last I spied what I thought might be natural light- an exit perhaps? It had to be! I threw the bloody wipe aside and forged full speed ahead, the shopping cart sliding this way and that as my children clung desperately to the sides. Blood trickling down my quivering upper lip as we neared the source of the natural light: A large window overlooking the parking lot and a sign reading "This Way to Flooring". And we were never heard from again! The End.

Such a Little Thing

2009-03-03T10:49:00.000-08:00

I'm sure you don't recall, but back in January I made some resolutions. Very few of them were feasible, but among those more serious goals was having meaningful prayers, and reading my scriptures every day. Admittedly, I haven't been 100% successful in either. However, I have found that in making the attempt to pray and read every morning I feel added strength beyond my own. On those days I read and pray I feel less anxious, less frustrated, less sorry for myself, more patient, kinder, happier. Nothing has changed, but things that usually overwhelm me don't. And for me, that is huge.

I am also rediscovering that the more I read, the more I enjoy reading, the closer I feel to my Savior, the easier prayer comes. Its so simple...almost too simple.

1 Nephi 17:41 "...And because of the simpleness of the way, or the easiness of it, there were many who perished."

It never ceases to amaze me how such a little thing can make such a difference. How Heavenly Father is just waiting to bless us, if we only give Him the chance.

Alma 37:6 "Now you may suppose that this is foolishness in me; but behold I say unto you, that by small and simple things are great things brought to pass..."

Of Poo and Parenting

2009-02-26T20:08:00.000-08:00

I have few simple requests in life. I like a sunny stroll now and again. I enjoy an occasional bubble bath. I love a fresh-baked donut in the morning. And I like having as little to do with human feces as possible. Friends, I beg you is it too much to ask? Apparently, yes if you are the proud mother of the most anal-retentive child on the planet. I will spare you the details of "the incident". Suffice it to say at around eight-o-clock last night Brooklyn found herself trapped inside the bathroom- a poo lying menacingly between herself and the door.

Now don't judge me too harshly. Since I have become a mother I have dealt with my share of nasty diapers, vomit, and various bodily fluids- most times with a great deal of patience and understanding. But "when poo is found where poo ought not to be, it becomes the responsibility of he of whom it was created, once that person is above age three." Not only is that a lovely bit of poetry, but it is also my motto. Plus I think its in the Bible somewhere. Old Testament. So anyways, everyone in the family felt that Brook really ought to be the one to put said poo to rest in the toilet where it belonged, seeing as it was her fecal matter and all. She disagreed. She strongly disagreed. She swore in her wrath that she would not ever, ever, ever pick up that poo. I suggested if she planned on spending a great deal of time with the poo she ought to ask for its name. Andy asked her if her new friend was too good for its home. She didn't laugh, or even crack a smile. I suppose it was hard to see the humor from her perspective, holed up as she was with the silently ominous poo.

After some soul-searching and some Clorox wipes, she did eventually farewell the poo in a flush of triumph. And I believe that once she works through the emotional trauma of our questionable parenting techniques, that she will have learned some valuable lessons. Firstly, that she is ultimately responsible for dealing with her own crap (effective on so many levels). Secondly, in the midst of life's most horrific moments Happy Gilmore references are still funny. And most importantly, poo will out.

Pass the Tylenol

2009-02-18T10:41:00.000-08:00

I think a lot. I think about the present and how exhausted I am. I think about how large I am getting and wonder how much more my body can take. I think that I would enjoy a bundt cake. I think that other women are better at this than I am. I wonder why it sometimes seems Heavenly Father requires more of me than I am capable of giving. I wonder why He doesn't give me strength and patience and endurance. Then it occurs to me He is teaching me strength, patience, and endurance. I think I'm a slacker student. I think I need to lie down. I think my girls are very cute. I think they deserve more. I think Heavenly Father must know something I don't know. I think about this new baby. I think about newborn baby smell. I think about little toes. I think about holding her. I think if I can just make it two more months of pregnancy without going insane, maybe everything will be alright. I think if I had more energy. I think if I could lead a more balanced life. I think if I laid off the bundt cake. I think about playing in the backyard with my girls this summer. I think about planting annuals. I think about scrubbing the bathtub and washing the windows. I think about fitting into my clothes again. I think about taking three children to the grocery store. I think not. I think about how lucky I am to be a mother. I think about how overwhelming it is to be a mother. I think about how quickly time goes by. I think about how far I've come and how far I have to go. I think I need to slow down and take it one day at a time. I think too much.

Top Five Sappiest Love Songs You Sing in the Shower

2009-02-09T11:29:00.000-08:00

Let's not deny it. When you fancy no one can hear you with the water pouring down around your ears and a locked door between you and the rest of humanity, you might get a little overconfident in your singing abilities. Maybe lose some of those inhibitions that hold you back. And you sound good my friend. I mean real good. So good you sort of wish a talent scout would accidentally wander into your house because you know he would be blown away by that shockingly awesome voice of yours. Perhaps you should invest in a kareoke machine. Perhaps you should try out for American Idol. Perhaps..."you're worrying the children. Are you wounded?"

Here's to those songs that enhance all your embarassing moments, those songs so cheesy they give Velveeta a run for its money, those songs that make you laugh and dry-heave and break out in melodramatic song simultaneously. Here are my nominated "Top Five Sappiest Love Songs You Sing in the Shower"... Because you know you do.
1. "I'm Your Lady"
2. "Take My Breath Away"
3. "Fever"
4. "Total Eclipse of the Heart"
5. "You're the Inspiration"

Enjoy them on my playlist below.
Angie, Wayne, Shana, Amy, and Anna: YOU IS TAGGED!

Love Languages

2009-02-04T14:32:00.000-08:00

There are five love languages/ five ways we express love/ five ways in which we feel loved. No more, no less. FIVE is the correct answer. Some of us are fluent in love. Some of us are bilingual. Some of us speak with a British accent. But some of us are less eloquent, stuttering, lisping, mispronouncing, and generally making arses of ourselves. If you find yourself in the latter category, here are a list of tips for you this lovely Valentine's season. Enjoy.

Love Language #1: Quality Time

Poor Norman. He just wanted some one-on-one. That's what made him feel special. A private conversation, with plenty of eye contact. A little mutual bonding. Time spent together in pleasant activity- like taking a walk together, sharing a bundt cake, playing a board game, taxidermy...

Why not take some time for your favorite psycho this Valentine's Day. A little quality time goes a long way.

Love Language # 2: Words of Affirmation

For Grima, a simple, "I love you." would have really made his day. He needed a little verbal reassurance. Maybe a "thank you for folding the laundry, Grima," or a "your hair looks especially wet today, Grima," or a "You certainly have a knack for emotional-manipulation, Grima."

Don't let another day pass you by. Take the opportunity to say what's in your heart.

Love Language #3: Gifts
All Xerxes wanted was the world. He showed his affection through gift-giving. All he wanted were a few gifts in return. Like a thoughtful card, or that new sweater he's been eyeing, maybe another golden-piercing, or countless, subordinate minions. It isn't the price tag, but the thought that counts.

Be kind. Put some thought into the gifts you give.

Love Language #4: Physical Touch

Give him a Baby Ruth and he's yours for a day. But what makes Sloth really feel loved is a hug, or a slobbery kiss, wrestling in a tickle war, or a good cuddle on the couch, watching pirate movies.

Don't be a goonie. Show your love with a little physical affection.

Love Language #5: Acts of Service
The question isn't what would Gollum do for his Precious, but what wouldn't he do for his Precious. Suffer torture in the hands of cruel orcses? Take out the garbage? Hike across Middle Earth? Give a back- message? Dive into the fiery depths of Mt. Doom? Make a favorite dinner?

Find ways to serve your Precious. When your love is truly giving it will come back to you ten-fold.

My Middle Name

2009-01-26T10:06:00.000-08:00

"I hope that someday we will be able to put away our fears and prejudices and just laugh at people." - Jack Handy

Tact is not my middle name. Nor is Diplomacy. My name is not Diana "has a way with people" Sortor. I know this may come as a shock to those of you who know me, but I say really stupid, insensitive things on a regular basis. I say them to my friends. I say them to my family members. I say them to total strangers waiting in line at the grocery store. I raise my hand and say them at church. Basically, I keep trying to talk when I really shouldn't.

I used to be shy, you know. So shy that I was almost held back in the second grade because my teacher didn't think I could read. So shy that when my elementary-school crush of five years asked me if I wanted to be his reading partner I stood gaping at him until he felt uncomfortable and walked away. So shy that I missed out on friendship after friendship because I didn't know how to respond. So shy that I watched life pass me by for fear of exposing myself as the moron I am. So shy that I never expressed how I really felt to anyone. Of course, I grew up and grew out of that. At this point I think maybe I've become a little too comfortable. Maybe a little too expressive. There were definite advantages to keeping my mouth shut. True, I was unfulfilled and friendless, but on the upside I wasn't influencing others negatively. I wasn't embarrassing myself. People didn't dislike me. They nothinged me. I took comfort in that.

In a perfect world everyone would understand and like me for all my blundering. I could laugh at people when they fell down and they'd innately take that as a gesture of friendship. I could make random Nacho Libre references without having people think I'm off my rocker. I could be honest about my feelings concerning Twilight. But this isn't a perfect world.

And so to anyone out there I've offended or inadvertently ostracized I apologize. I really don't have anything against postal workers, Tom Selleck, people with mullets, or llamas. (But I do think they're funny.) For someone who enjoys words as much as I do, I seriously struggle forming thoughts into coherent sentences, especially in public. So, when I say "Heylop! Nothin'" I mean, "Why hello there my fine friend, what is up? Things are good with me as well." And when I say, "I'm easy. No. No. I never clean the toilets." I mean, "Sure, send your children over, because I understand your predicament, am not currently busy, and would like to assist you." When I try and give you a compliment that comes out, "I can't tell whether you're pregnant or not." I actually mean, "Even when you're pregnant you are as beautiful as you regularaly are." And lastly, when I announce, "I don't want Andy becoming a woman just to make me feel better." I mean to say, "I am grateful for the differences between men and woman even if they cause me some frustration. I like men. And I love Andy the way he is."

Yeah, my middle name isn't Eloquence. Its Lynne.

Ten Reasons Why I'd Rather: Part Two

2009-01-22T11:13:00.001-08:00

A wise man once said, "A trip to the post office will likely result in an unsavory demise." An even wiser wise man added, "Plus its inconvenient and is lame and sucks." You can't argue with that logic. That's why I keep my distance even when I accidentally steal Christmas presents from my sister's house that I really should mail back to her before her children outgrow them. Morally, I am obligated; but in all other ways I am opposed. And so, without further ado I give you: Ten reasons why I'd rather become a pirate, than go to the post office.
10. Fact: the average pirate is 82% more diplomatic than the average postal worker.
9. Swabbing decks gives one a feeling of accomplishment while waiting an hour for postage stamps does not.
8. Pillaging and plundering seems pretty straight forward.
7. While pirates and postal-workers both tend to have missing body parts, pirates have a better sense of humor about it.
6. While pirates and postal-workers both tend to kill people, pirates have a better sense of humor about it.
5. Four dollars for a cardboard box? COME ON!
4. When you greet other post-office customers with "ARRR!" they judge you.
3. I much prefer the salty-sea air to the smell of broken dreams.
2. Searching for buried treasure beats the heck out of keeping my children away from the packing tape.
1. Landlubbers.

My Slothful Ways

2009-01-13T10:47:00.000-08:00

My question to you: Are you ready for some hardcore whining? Because honestly, I feel like I was just beat, head to toe, with a sack of hot nickles. Though I am not yet thirty, yet I feel a solid eighty years old. Allow me to paint you a picture people.
No cute pregnant lady am I. I have already gained 35lbs and expect to gain a'plenty more by the time this kidos done a'cookin. What is that nerve that runs down your right side into your bum? Yeah, that one that shoots pain through my body when I move and makes me walk like a zombie from Night of the Living Dead? The psychotic nerve? What?
And what is up with this vile cold I've got going? This motha's unleashed several restless nights on me regardless of the Tylenol Cold I'm all doped up on. And for the few hours I did get a little shut-eye last night, I was busy escaping snarky, secretive, sparkling vampires, which was perhaps even more exhausting than all the tossing and turning I was doing trying to get comfortable with this watermelon I call a belly. Then I got really thirsty at about three in the morning and had to psychotic-nerve my way into the kitchen, running into walls, making noises like a creature from the dark swamp. I terrify small children. I'm a MONSTER!
This morning Avery and I had a ten minute argument about whether or not we have any bananas in the pantry. I don't even know who won that debate. I put her in front of "The Lion King" and let it go.
There are women out there who make this look easy. There are women out there who can pull off being pregnant AND fully functional. I am glad that I can make those women feel really good about themselves as I lounge on the sofa in my pj's like this sloth, only slightly less motivated and significantly less attractive, wishing we DID have friggin' bananas in the pantry.
That moron Fred Durst, had it right when he so knowingly stated, "Its just one of those days". Indeed it IS Fred. Indeed it is. Only 96 more days to go! Whoopidy-do!

My Resolutions

2009-01-06T09:37:00.000-08:00

Six days into the new year, I have just completed my list of resolutions which have nothing to do with the above picture. Number One: stop procrastinating the making of this year's resolutions. Done and done. Wow, I already feel a satisfied sense of accomplishment. Number Two: Stop using sarcasm to mask my childlike vulnerabilities. Check. Question: Why would Disney make a children's movie about a beloved family dog who acquires rabies while protecting said family and then has to be shot and die? Uncool Disney, uncool. Number Three: Childlike vulnerabilities too painful, revert back to sarcasm. Number Four: Eat more fiber. Number Five: Be more proactive, less deactive. Number Six: Have a baby. Number Seven: Lose pregnancy weight so people will stop confusing me with Drew Carey. No I don't know who's line it is. Number eight: Try Sushi. Number nine: Find ways to keep from freaking out. SERENITY NOW! Number ten: Be in bed by eleven. Except on book club night. Or if we have friends over. Or if its Friday night. Or Saturday night. Or if we're having a 24 marathon. Otherwise its nighty-NIGHT! Numbers eleven through fifteen: Read scriptures daily, have more meaningful prayers, enjoy the every day of being a mom, avoid pessimism, and read at least one book a month.

And there you have it. One step at a time towards total domination.

My Nightmare Before Christmas.

2008-12-22T10:23:00.000-08:00

I'm a large six months pregnant, attempting to keep the peace between two highly charged girls, while trying to maintain a chipper holiday spirit, while adjusting to my new church calling, while struggling to keep the dishes and laundry in check. Unfortunately, I have the energy level of a three-towed sloth and find myself unable to accomplish any save one of the afore mentioned items. I'm still a large six months pregnant. So, no neighbor gifts or Christmas cards this year. Potty training has been indefinitely postponed. And as for that chipper holiday spirit? Well, "chipper" isn't exactly in the cards. "Mildly contented holiday spirit" more like.
Still, as mildly contented as I am this year, it sure beats the pants off of last year. Last year was nothing short of a nightmare. Are you ready for this? I call it "Merry Christmas 2007."

First there was Brooklyn's notorious ballet recital. She was supposed to be a doll in a high school rendition of the Nutcracker's Suit. Dressed rehearsal went well, except for having Andy's car towed from the gas station in the middle of a snow storm. That didn't go well at all. Two-hundred dollars and countless frustrations later we got our car back. Merry Christmas douche tow-truck driver. On the night of Brooklyn's first performance she wandered out on stage in the middle of Act I, but was conspicuously absent from her own dance in Act II. That is, until she made her debut clinging desperately to her teacher's leg, screaming like a nazgul while all the other dancers and audience watched in nutcrackery silence. Brooklyn refused to go to her second performance, and the next day developed an eye infection. Merry Christmas lil' nutcracker.
One morning I woke up to about a dozen baby spiders crawling on and dangling from our family room ceiling. Our Christmas tree was infested with them. I hate spiders. Merry Christmas exterminator. That next weekend was Brook's Joy School Christmas party, where she would be playing the part of Mary in their little six-child production. Thirty minutes 'til go-time a massive tantrum ensued causing Brooklyn's eyes to swell completely shut. So rather than attend the party, we dropped our cookies off and spent the evening at the nearest Instacare where Brook and Avery were both diagnosed with Pink Eye. Merry Christmas pharmaceutical intervention. This was mere days before our planned trip to California to visit my family, which we were compelled to cancel due not only to Pink Eye, but the terrible congestive colds that Andy and I both developed. It was a bitterly disappointing vacation. Instead of sharing goodies and hilarious antidotes with loved ones, we tackled both children four times a day, attempting to hold their eyelids open for expensive medicated eye drops. Merry Christmas ruined festivities. The day after Christmas we disassembled our tree in low spirits. The webbed star said it all. I have never been happier to see January.

I don't know about you, but I'll take large six-months pregnant mild-contentedness.

My Dilly-Dallyer

2008-12-18T09:28:00.000-08:00

Brooklyn is a dilly-dallyer. Meticulous and careful by nature, she has exceptional concentration for a five-year-old. However, this does make it difficult for her to move from one activity to another. In a world where we are often driven by the clock, life can be frustrating with someone who will not be rushed.

This month she has been attending our neighbor's Joy School twice a week. Each Tuesday and Thursday morning we awake with time to spare. "Hurry and get dressed Brooklyn" I instruct. She disappears in her room. Thirty minutes later I find her still in her underwear, putting multiple outfits together, unable to decide. "Brooklyn we only have ten minutes before Joy School starts and you have to eat breakfast. PLEASE HURRY." I emphasize. Five minutes later, "Brook, if you don't put something on and eat RIGHT NOW you will be late for Joy School." "Brook, less talk more action." "Do you know what HURRY means?" "It doesn't MATTER what socks you wear. JUST HURRY." "Brooklyn, no TALKING- EAT!" "HURRY! HURRY HURRY!"
Its not her fault. Like many kids her age, she just doesn't grasp Go-Time. But unfortunately I still get frustrated with her.

This morning it was my fault. I thought it was Friday until Avery remembered, "Is Brooklyn going to Joy School?" Thank you Avery. She was already fifteen minutes late. "Brook! Today is your Christmas party! We have to HURRY!" And she tried to. But there were so many pretty panties to choose from. And she couldn't find the socks she wanted. Avery and I said a quick obligatory prayer over the Cream of Wheat but I soon realized Brook wouldn't have to time to eat any of it. "Brooklyn! You are not very good at hurrying! You are going to miss your party!" I yelled. She came running down the hallway with her snow boots, flopped down and pulled them on as quickly as she could. "Is this the right way Mom?" She asked. "Yes! Hurry!" I threw her her coat, "Hurry!" I handed her a Pop Tart. "Eat this! Hurry!" She flopped back down to the floor. "What are you-?!" But I had to stop. She was kneeling down in the middle of the floor, eyes closed, arms folded, head bowed reverently, saying a silent prayer over her breakfast.

I don't teach my children half as much as they teach me. In the midst of worldly demands I had grossly neglected my priorities. My five-year-old Brooklyn, however, my little dilly-dallyer, had remembered her Savior. And in her humble way, she taught me the most valuable lesson I've learned this Christmas season.

Twelve Days of Christmas Tag

2008-12-15T10:07:00.000-08:00

One amusing Christmas memory * Two Christmas' ago, when Brooklyn was three, she received a Raggedy-Ann doll from Andy's Grandma Dot. As she opened it, I thought to myself, "My what a classic and lovely present from her great grandma." Brooklyn's reaction, "Red hair? Oh NO!" as she chucked it across the room. Prejudice little ingrate. She has since come to appreciate the doll as well as the untamed glory that is red hair.

Two theories why Santa chooses the chimney as his best means of entry * a) free rooftop parking, b) Santa's a pyro.

Three things you want for Christmas * a web cam, impractical shoes, and gift cards.

Four of your favorite Christmas movies * A Christmas Story, Christmas Vacation, It's a Wonderful Life, and The Grinch (original cartoon).

Five ways you've been naughty this year * I hid Andy's old shirts in a bag under the bed and pretended I didn't know what he was talking about. Yes, I heard the phone ring but I let it go to voicemail. I purchased Blades of Glory. I used expletives while driving. I gave the impression I agree.

Six ways you've been nice * I refrained from punching the snooty woman in the grocery store in her perfectly whitened teeth. I said please and thank you. I saved the last cookie for Andy. I gave others the benefit of the doubt. I practiced patience beyond my own. I took a giant leap of faith.

Seven people you suspect are elves * Elija Wood, Erika, Rene' Zellwegger, Beck, our Olive Garden waiter, Hugh Grant, and Shana.

Eight of Santa's reindeer (no cheating) * dasher, dancer, prancer, vixen, comet, cupid, dunder, and miflin.

Nine uses for snow * instant icepack, to make delicious snow-cones, to throw at unsuspecting bescarved victims, fortress to hide behind while throwing at said victims, good excuse to stay warmly bundled inside house, cloaks ill-kept yards, easy to track people on foot, awesome to slide down on sleds, keeps salesmen at bay.

Ten least favorite things about Christmas * frenzied shoppers, middle-aged women in SUV's (see frenzied shoppers), creepy Santas, Michael McLean, hallmark movies, unbridled avarice, driving through snow, pop stars mutilating Christmas carols, non-gifts (the obligatory ones you receive from people who don't really know or like you), extreme commercialism.

Eleven word associations to "figgy pudding" * giddy, puddle, poodle, fiddle, goopy, fructose, yeti, piggy, Cedric Diggory, bling-bling.

Twelve reasons you love Christmas * pine-scent, gingerbread cookies, the first snow, twinkling lights, classic Christmas carols, new pajamas, hot chocolate, neatly wrapped packages, family togetherness, eggnog with sprite, reverent nativities, and my children's faces.

*i tag you.

My Gosh!

2008-12-11T08:29:00.000-08:00

Is it just me or have any of you noticed the steady decline of the Sortor Rules! fan base? Before October hit I had anywhere from 12-20 comments per post. Since October the average has dropped significantly to around 5. I thought this was, in part, due to the destruction of my brother's computer. It turns out he and his wife were responsible for a great deal of commentary. I thought maybe their return to the blogosphere would raise numbers back up, but unfortunately this has not been the case. This begs the question: What's the dealio yo? I have a few theories.

Theory #1: Others find me offensive.

Hey, we all have strong opinions. I have especially strong opinions. In fact one of my especially strong opinions is that we can agree to disagree. Another strong opinion is that a sense of humor is absolutely necessary to make it in this often unpleasant world. Sometimes you have to choose between breaking something or laughter. I have broken things before but I prefer laughter as the healthier, less destructive option. Granted I'm not as funny as sometimes I think I am, so please take half the things I say with a grain of salt.

Theory #2: Its the economy.

I know a lot of people out there are stressed and struggling right now. Blogging probably doesn't rank high on the priority list- totally understandable. Or NOT! Blogging is free. Throw me a friggin' bone people!

Theory #3: I have lost my mojo.

This seems to be the most obvious answer. Pregnancy will do that to a person. That first trimester literally sucked the creative juices from my veins. Not only that, but it also rendered me fat, unattractive, and generally useless as anything other than a pod in which our fetus might feed and develop. I get it, nobody likes a pod. Methinks I will go eat worms.

Theory #4: You have all been drawn away by that siren, Stephanie Meyer.

Theory #5: Blogging is no longer hip.

Maybe blogging has lost its novelty. Maybe people have moved on to something better. Maybe something I don't even know about. Maybe Sortor Rules! is the hammer-pant of the Internet. But you know what? I like hammer pants. And I'm not going to stop wearing them just because everyone else is into high-waisted acid wash jeans.

Whatever the reason, the point is I enjoy blogging because it helps me feel connected even when I'm isolated. I enjoy writing; I find it therapeutic. I enjoy sharing my family with you and keeping a record of our goings-on. In short, while I miss the abundance of comments I used to receive, and I don't completely understand what changed, I still have every intention of continuing on with Sortor Rules! because ultimately it isn't about the comments. Its about the narcism.

Tagnabbit

2008-12-03T11:26:00.000-08:00

Nothing like a good old fashioned tag in the mornin'! Shana, Wayne I dedicate this to you.
*i am Batman.
*i want a collection of adorable and ridiculously overpriced handbags.
*i have a hankering for fish & chips.
*i miss my regular clothes.
*i fear hardcore crafters.
*i hear distant bells.
*i search in vain.
*i wonder what bark is made of.
*i regret talking too much and not enough.
*i love butterfly kisses and pumpkin butter.
*i forgive your lack of comments.
*i ache mostly in my lower back.
*i always enjoy a good book.
*i try to maintain eye contact.
*i am not a smart man.
*i seem even less savory than I really am.
*i know I KNOW.
*i feel large.
*i dance like a child of the night.
*i dream of world domination.
*i give 97%
*i listen at doors.
*i sing Metallica in the shower.
*i laugh at my own jokes.
*i can't multitask.
*i write for your entertainment.
*i cry at Juno and The Return of the King.
*i sleep on my side nowadays.
*i am not always tactful.
*i see by the grace of corrective lenses.
*i need constant affirmation.
*i should practice self restraint.
*i tag Erika, Angie B, Brittany, Trish, Chrystal, Denise, Anna, and Emily.

Lay Off, I'm STARVING!

2008-11-20T09:26:00.000-08:00

I have honestly never been more excited about Thanksgiving than I am right now. One week away and I already have visions of bacon-baked green beans dancing in my head. Turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, my mother-in-law's killer stuffing, homemade cranberry sauce and pecan pie! Pumpkin pie! Marshmallow-crusted sweet potatoes! Yes please. Momma's eating for two. So what if one of us is roughly the size of a baseball? This is one ravenous fetus! Pardon me, but "What to Expect When You're Expecting"s Best Odds Diet can kiss my creepy second-toe. I feel like I'm giving life to a Velociraptor. This is my third pregnancy and I am reluctantly accepting that the closer I come to resembling Jabba the Hut during pregnancy, the happier my babies are. So as much as I would like to stay within the bounds of regular weight-gain this time around, my body is telling me to forget it. Afterall, I still have three more years before my metabolism shuts down right? Bring on the real whipped cream; the fetus wants what the fetus wants!

My Real Life Nightmares: Part Two

2008-11-17T15:09:00.001-08:00

"When Good Geese Go Bad... "

I do in fact realize that I have had more bizarre and embarrassing experiences than the average human being. Maybe its just rotten luck. Maybe I cause it. Whatever the reason, I have come to accept that it is the price I pay everyday for being me. With that in mind you'll have to excuse me for being a little paranoid, even fearful of seemingly non-threatening objects/ situations including: pottery wheels, Ikea, volleyball nets, rope-swings, phones, drive-thrus, spiders, friendly gestures, leaping, multi-tasking, and geese. While all make for entertaining stories, today's story is about a goose. An exceptionally e-vile goose we will call Jorge. He wasn't a Mexican goose or anything. His parents just happened to like the name.

When Brooklyn was a baby, Andy and I lived in a little townhouse in Murray. We liked our little townhouse, and all the identical surrounding townhouses. We liked the landscaping and the pool. We even liked our neighbor who covered all his windows with tin-foil. The only downside to our little townhouse was the fact that Jorge lived on the roof. Not directly on top of our unit, but close enough to observe our comings and goings. And the thing is, he didn't seem to pay mind to anyone else's comings and goings. No, he only had eyes for me. Beady, angry eyes.

I don't know what I did to offend him. But he watched for me. And at the sight of my attempting a stroll with my infant, looking nervously about, he would launch unwarranted attack. Swooping at my head, charging me with his vicious hissing beak, flapping his dirty great wings. Yes, Jorge was a real douche.

I called the condo manager, but she liked Jorge and considered him an asset to the community. I considered calling animal control, but figured Jorge had people on the inside. Retaliation was my only option. My next walk I played it cool. I pushed the stroller casually, looking straight ahead, whistling, all the while aware of Jorge's ever- ominous presence. I was not disappointed. He appeared suddenly from behind a bush and slowly turned his face towards mine. Our eyes met. I could feel his hatred permeate the street between us. I stepped towards him. He seemed surprised.

"You seem surprised," I quietly taunted. He hissed menacingly and took two steps towards me. Tension mounted. "Freedom!" I shouted as I ran at him. He dodged me and tried to bite my calf. But I had a secret weapon. Before he knew it, I had my flip flop in hand and was delivering a beating the likes of which he will never forget. A car drove past us. I can only imagine what the people inside it were thinking.

"Check out that crazy barefooted lady beating that beautiful, defenseless creature of nature!"

No matter. Brooklyn thought it was a jolly fun show, and Jorge received his comeuppance. Unfortunately, he was more of an emotional than a logical thinker and continued to threaten me every chance he got, but I did observe the haunted look in his eye and his reluctantly kept distance whenever I reached for my shoe.

Twenty-seven Things I've Learned

2008-10-29T08:14:00.000-07:00

Its official. Today I turn that magical age of twenty-seven. Much the same as twenty-six you say? I beg to differ. Perhaps I'm only a little bit wiser, a tad more mature and self-assured, a little less likely to lose this pregnancy weight- Sure. After all, what difference could one year make at this point? I'd like to think I learn something new every year. Sometimes, I even learn two or three things a year. I know. I'm kind of amazing. In most ways I will admit, I'm probably the same old Diana. Worry-prone, yes. Slightly off, yes. Really, really, ridiculously good-looking, maybe. But to tell you the truth I feel like I've learned some valuable lessons lately that I would like to share with you now. I call them "Twenty-seven things I've learned." MMM-yes, very creative I know.

1. Nausea can serve a duel purpose; one- to satisfy a fetus, two- to make me appreciate life.
2. Nothing compares to watching my children share and play nicely together.
3. Sometimes others see me more clearly than I see myself.
4. Happy jobs make happy husbands.
5. Even when we make a minimal effort Heavenly Father watches out for us.
6. I need to pick my battles.
7. Blogging is both fun and therapeutic.
8. Some people need more personal space than others.
9. People are generally more concerned about their own flaws than yours.
10. Cheese soup is much harder to make than it should be.
11. Muppets are a whole different brand of scary.
12. We all need friends even if we don't all realize it.
13. Modelling isn't my cup of tea.
14. Nothing is radder than David Bowie's hair in "Labyrinth".
15. With the right camera, anyone can be a great photographer.
16. Sometimes just laying in the sunshine is all I really need.
17. Everything is good at the Cheesecake Factory.
18. I'm an extrovert with a white personality.
19. You don't really know a person until you see how they react to tragedy.
20. Its futile to appeal to one's good nature, when one is a tow-truck driver.
21. Paying a little extra for a good haircut is totally worth it.
22. The first step to friendship is exposing yourself as the nerd you are.
23. Needing someone to talk to isn't a weakness.
24. Being pessimistic isn't as fun as it looks.
25. There is no gain without sacrifice.
26. Extreme exaggerations, or half-truths are useful tools in creative writing.
27. Nothing beats waking up to your children and husband jumping on the bed, mauling you while exclaiming "Happy Birthday Mommy!" Its the best.

My Real Life Nightmares: Part One

2008-10-21T10:23:00.000-07:00

Unless you are a freakishly secure person, or a very heavy sleeper you know the terror of a nightmare. You've felt the embarrassment of being naked in public. You've known the frustration of not being able to locate your locker. You've shared in the dread of being chased only to discover you run in slow motion. You've watched with horror as your nose dissolves into your face...or not. You know, whatever. You know how bad dreams take you right up to that moment before you hit the pavement, and then you wake up. Granted sometimes you wake up punching your sleeping husband, crying, and giving him ultimatums, but eventually you get a grip and realize with relief that it was just a dream and that you still have all your front teeth.

Then there are times when horribly embarrassing, emotionally scaring things happen to us in real life and the only way to make ourselves feel better is to share these occasions on our blog for the enjoyment of friends and family members. So without further ado I give you My Real Life Nightmares: Part One.

A little personal history: Until I came to live in Utah, my senior year of high school, I lived with my family in a very secluded, wooded town in Northern CA. When I say secluded and wooded, I am talking no traffic lights. No lamp posts. You know how when you go camping in the middle of nowhere. Well, you take a couple lefts and that's where I lived. We did have neighbors, but it was hard to see them through the trees. And when it was dark outside you could see every star in the constellation. Very remote. Very spooky to be home alone.
My dad was the manager of a geothermal power plant and he was NOT well liked. He had a tendency to take over other people's jobs, and that tended to rub people the wrong way. At the time of this story, one of the men he had fired had been calling our house in a very threatening sort of way. He would always call when my dad wasn't home and if Angie or I picked up he would harass us. Pretty creepy.
I was probably fifteen at the time. It was nighttime and Mom and Dad were gone. He called and I hung up on him. Later that night the phone rang unexpectedly again. I answered and was greeted once again with "Your dad home?" That was it. In emotionally charged situations I often morph from harmless innocent into dirty fighting sailor with tats. Not unlike Jekyl and Hyde. I turn into my father. I let the dude have it. "Listen ^&%^&! If you ever call back here again I will %#$$##@! all over your sorry $#@!!*!" Silence. That'll teach that scumbag. And then, "Diana? Is that you? This is Brother Moore from the bishopric."

Oops.

Morphing quickly back into harmless innocent, I cried and explained and apologized. But I couldn't help but notice a little gleam in his eye whenever he saw me at church from then on. Cussing out a member of the bishopric; one of my more nightmarishly embarrassing experiences. Don't think I ever gave Dad that message. And I don't need to tell you that Brother Moore never crossed me again.

My Favorite Season

2008-09-29T09:35:00.000-07:00

Even feeling as terrible as I have been this past month, I can't help but be grateful for the arrival of my favorite season. The crisp, cool air. The ripening apples on my apple tree. The chrysanthemums. The changing foliage. The promise of caramel apples, cozy sweaters, and hot chocolate. That back-to-school feeling. Sparkling, lovely autumn. It makes me want to bake a pecan pie. It makes me want to throw a party. It makes me want to read books in the park, greeting passersby in my sauciest British accent. And though none of this is likely in my current state of physical discomfort, you know where to find me next fall. Good day Gov'na!

This Fetus is Sucking Away My Life Force.

2008-09-26T09:01:00.001-07:00

This fetus is sucking away my life force.

The New Super Movie Line Ultimate Knock Down Champion Is...

2008-09-12T13:40:00.000-07:00

Todd! Missing only seven.
Second Place: Shana and Angie tie. Well Done Everybody!

1. Billy Madison
2. Braveheart
3. The Breakfast Club
4. Bring it On
5. Charlie's Angels
6. The Fellowship of the Ring
7. Edward Scissorhands (nobody got this one!)
8. Ferris Bueller's Day Off
9. A Few Good Men
10. Ace Ventura: Pet Detective
11. As Good As it Gets
12. Beetlejuice
13. Batman
14. Back to the Future I
15. Austin Powers II
16. Billy Madison
17. Nacho Libre
18. 300
19. Oh Brother, Where Art Thou?
20. Office Space
21. Orange County
22. The Usual Suspects
23. The Others (nobody got this one either)
24. The Princess Bride
25. Psycho
26. Strange Brew
27. Happy Gilmore
28. The Matrix
29. Monty Python and the Holy Grail
30. The Wedding Singer
31. Napoleon Dynamite
32. Groundhog Day
33. Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom
34. Mars Attack!
35. Napoleon Dynamite
36. A Series of Unfortunate Events
37. Drop Dead Gorgeous
38. Blades of Glory
39. Juno
40. Shrek

Super Movie Line Ultimate Knock Down Championship

2008-09-10T18:40:00.000-07:00

I declare myself the Super Movie Line Ultimate Knock Down Champion. Anybody wishing to challenge my title will please email their answers to disortor@gmail.com. Also, if you would like to test me please feel free to leave your favorite movie line under "comments". May the force be with you. No using the internet to cheat. Angie I'm looking your way.

1. "No milk will ever be our milk."
2. "I didn't like him anyway. He wasn't right in the head."
3. "Face it, you're a neo-maxi-zoom-dweebie. What would you be doing if you weren't making yourself a better citizen?"
4. "Cheerleaders are dancers who have gone retarded."
5. "The Chad is great."
6. "Ash nazg durbatuluh."
7. "You can't buy the necessities of life with cookies."
8. "I did not achieve this position in life by having some snot-nose punk leave my cheese out in the wind."
9. "What are we going to discuss next, my favorite color?"
10. "Do you know the dolphin? Do you call him at home?"
11. "Must try other people's clean silverware as part of fun of dining out."
12. "Don't mind her. She's just upset that someone dropped a house on her sister."
13. "I've been dead once already, its very liberating."
14. "Last night Darth Vader came down from planet Vulcan and told me that if I didn't take (name) out that he'd melt my brain."
15. "You know what's remarkable? That England looks in no way like Southern California."
16. "'Sorry' doesn't put the Triscuit crackers in my stomach now, does it (name)?"
17. "I'm a little concerned right now, about your salvation and stuff."
18. "Bow to Xerxes!"
19. "A lot of respectable people have been hit by trains."
20. "It's not that I'm lazy, it's that I just don't care."
21. "A writer? What do you have to write about? You're not oppressed, you're not gay!"
22. "The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist."
23. "Are you mad? I am your daughter!"
24. "Life is pain, highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something."
25. "We all go a little mad sometimes."
26. "The power of the force has stopped you, you hosers!"
27. "Good news, everybody! We're extending arts and crafts time by four hours today."
28. "I know kung fu."
29. "This is supposed to be a happy occasion. Let's not bicker and argue about who killed who!"
30. "We're living in a material world and I am a material girl. Or boy."
31. "Smashing in the face of a pinata that resembles (name) is a disgrace to you, me, and the entire gem state."
32. "Well what if there is no tomorrow? There wasn't one today."
33. "Nothing shocks me, I'm a scientist."
34. "I want the people to know that they still have two out of three branches of government working for them, and that ain't bad!"
35. "She said she doesn't want you here when she gets back because you've been ruining every body's lives and eating all our steak!"
36. "I've opened my heart to you two loverly children and your hideous primate."
37. "The swan ate my baby!"
38. "No exaggeration, I could not love a human baby more than I love this brush."
39. "This is one doodle that can't be undid, Homeskillet."
40. "I like that boulder. That is a nice boulder!"

If You Can't Say Something Nice.

2008-09-04T11:35:00.000-07:00

You want a new post do you? YOU WANT A NEW POST? Let me entertain you. So I haven't been my usual congenial self lately. Though I have hurled but twice, yet everyday for the past oh, I don't know, I have had to suppress the urge to do so. Because suddenly I have a heightened sense of smell so keen I could be used to track down criminals. And what an incredible smell I have discovered. My house reeks. That air-freshener I so enjoyed a couple weeks ago, my shampoo, the refrigerator, the garbage cans, toilets, the carpet, my children, my husband. *shudder* Even my own scent makes me dry heave. I also have a severe aversion to anyone touching my stomach, or having to change diapers, or having to move at all really. And I cry a lot, all of which make it more challenging to be my home-making, outgoing, ever-witty self. But I don't like to complain. I like to look at the glass half full. Like at least I know I stink. Some people go through life never realizing. And I imagine that could really hold you back in your various endeavors.

Ten Reasons Why I Will Never Be An Olympic Champion

2008-08-25T14:03:00.000-07:00

Yes, I enjoyed watching the Olympics. I won't claim to be hardcore about them, because I'm not really hardcore about anything athletic. Probably because I'm not very athletic myself. And by "not very athletic" I mean "The frequency in which I run into stationary objects is alarming." Obviously I am impressed when Chinese girls half my size flip, and fling, and fly from stuff. And don't even get me started on the fish-people. Its incredible to watch those crazy athletic freaks. And I mean that in a good way. No sour grapes here. So what if I will never be best at anything ever? that's okay! And here are my top ten reasons why:
1. I have better things to do. Take Blogging, for example. I can't even count the number of lives I touch with my inane ponderings. At least eight to ten. And I'm willing to wager half those so-called Olympians don't even know what inane ponderings mean!
2. I choose to live a more balanced life. Because I don't JUST blog you know. I do lots of important stuff. Like sort socks, and make delicious treats using marshmallows, and analyze Harry Potter books, and make up pretend superhero scenarios. Sure I could win gold medals if maybe I focused on one of those things, but life isn't about gold medals. Its about making delicious treats using marshmallows.
3. I'm not selfish.
4. I don't test well. Even if I am extremely knowledgeable or skilled in a certain area, I definitely don't do well under pressure. So, maybe I am an awesome volleyball player- you'll never know I guess. You'll just have to take my word for it. I am by the way.
5. I don't believe competition is healthy. You know those poor Olympian kids have a totally skewed outlook. Imagine peeking at sixteen. Ten years later, they're still trying to play the "Olympic Medal" card. "These coupons have expired?! Do you know who I AM???" Twenty years later they're still wearing their medal to the post office, making small talk about how they'd give anything to go back to '08. "How'da like to bet I could hurdle myself over them mountains?"
6. The outfits look uncomfortable. I get it, you can move more freely when your underwear rides up your backside and absolutely nothing is left to the imagination. Fine. Just don't come crying to me when the entire world knows you stuff.
7. I'm not much of a diplomat. Judging from how many of my fellow Americans I inadvertently offend on a regular basis, I can only imagine the effect I could have on a world-level. There would be war. Oh yes, there would be war.
8. The camera makes me look pale and bloated. All I am saying is, the lighting had better be fantastic or I would be super pissed.
9. Russians are sneaky.
10. I'm not special. Nope, not even a little bit. Guess Momma was wrong. Sorry Momma. Baby aint bringing home no gold.

Our Noisy Years Seem Moments

2008-08-12T12:49:00.000-07:00

Its been a fun and busy month and promises to continue being a fun, busy month. And while I do enjoy being busy, I sometimes regret how the time gets away from me. When I went to bed last night I peeked into the girl's room to check on them, found them sleeping soundly and marveled at how big they are getting. Brooklyn is almost five already and at age two, Avery hardly seems a baby anymore. Everyday they play, and eat, and learn, and fight, and talk, and sing, and laugh. The days fly by. And while they are still little I make it a priority to learn as much from them as I can.

*Avery is two, and the all time favorite phrase of every two year old is "Do it myself!" I hear it when I pour her cereal in the morning, during bath time, when getting dressed, climbing into the car, getting out of the car, even getting in and out of her crib, and on many other occasions throughout the course of the day. Sometimes she can do it herself, sometimes she can't. I almost always let her try, and when she succeeds I give her praise, and when she asks for help I gladly give it. Interestingly enough, more than half-way through my twenties I still find myself stubbornly exclaiming "Do it myself!" The only real difference between myself and my little daughter, is that she's willing to ask for help when she needs it, and so often I am not. Even though I know from experience that Heavenly Father will answer my prayers, its so difficult to let go of that toddler pride. Of course Avery can't buckle her own seat belt yet, that's why she needs a parent. Of course I can't be perfect yet and that's why I need the Savior.

*I have yet to figure out a way to make my kids eat their vegetables. They peck through the tolerable ones but really prefer ice cream, to be honest. I mean come on! If I let them eat ice cream all the time they would never give me any grief at mealtimes. Then again if I let them eat ice cream all the time they would be undernourished and obese and would probably not last very long. And so I keep trying to coax those vegetables down them because even though they may not taste as pleasant as ice cream, those vegetables are what's good for them. Unfortunately, I have to admit that I whine obnoxiously when life isn't all ice cream too. Obviously there are times when life is sweet, but its also meant to be bitter too. Sometimes its tasteless, sometimes I don't like the texture but those are the experiences I need to be strong, those bitter times build the character I need to survive.

*Brooklyn is a very smart kid who notices everything. Because she notices everything she's a bit distractable. When I tell her to go to her room, get her shoes and sweater, and put them on, she heads to her room and disappears for thirty minutes. When I find her, she's busy drawing on her floor- no shoes, no sweater. She intended to listen, she went to her room, saw her shiny art set and got distracted. I understand, I'm the same way. I know that I should be constantly focused on important things. I should read my scriptures every day, I should have meaningful prayers often, I should attend the temple, I should spend more time playing with my children, I should continue expanding my knowledge. There are so many important things I should be doing, and I intend to act, but somewhere along the line I get distracted by all the shiny things in life. Not that there is something inherently wrong with shiny things, but when the good things distract us from the better things, we don't reach our goals.

* We have a lot of stickers in our yard. Not the fun happy kind. The hurting kind that sting your feet. I tell my girls to put on their shoes. Sometimes they don't listen and end up stepping on stickers and crying. I don't force them to wear their shoes, and I can't take away the pain of a sticker, but I hope that eventually they will learn from their mistakes and listen to me so that by the time they're off to school they will choose to wear shoes and avoid even more painful foot injuries. Heavenly Father doesn't plan to keep us babies either. He wants us to grow up and learn from our mistakes and listen to him. So he allows us our agency, and he allows us consequences even if they sometimes sting.

*Last one. I am far from a perfect parent. I make a lot of mistakes, but when I have erred I make a point of admitting to my children that I am wrong and that I am sorry. I do this because I want them to understand that none of us are perfect, but that we need to repent and then get up and try again, and again, and again. And watching my children sleep or play I feel how deeply I love them, and how I would forgive them for anything. And if I have such love for my children, how much greater and deeper Heavenly Father's love is for me. Repentance is such a difficult concept for me. It must be that toddler pride. But I know that when we are sorry for our mistakes, and when we ask for forgiveness, and continue trying to be better people, Heavenly Father forgives us. Not only does he forgive us, but he takes our sin away entirely.

I know I have a lot more to learn from my children and that we've only just begun. But I am grateful for them, and grateful to God for sending them to me. They are still so little, and believe me life isn't all ice cream but I adore them. And although I may have passing futile wishes that time would stand still for a moment, that they will stop growing up, I realize that's selfish. I try and keep in mind that I'm raising them to be strong faithful women. I try and be a stronger, and more faithful woman myself. And the days fly by.

Desert Island: Part One

2008-08-06T13:11:00.000-07:00

"One of the world's tiresome questions is what object one would bring to a desert island, because people always answer "a deck of cards" or "Anna Karenina" when the obvious answer is "a well equipped boat and a crew to sail me off the island and back home where I can play all the card games and read all the Russian novels I want." - Lemony Snicket

Imagine you are weightless, floating in the ocean, surrounded by tiny little sea horses... no wait even better you're in the middle of a sweltering desert island, the white-hot sun on your face. Just you and one loan palm tree. Totally destitute. After weeping bitterly over the loss of everything you had in this world, you suddenly realize this isn't entirely accurate. "I am miraculously still in possession of my five favorite books of all time!" You shout to the palm tree you will eventually name Roy. "Man, being stuck on this desert island doesn't seem half so unfortunate now! I suddenly feel very optimistic about my future." Never mind how your books managed to outlast the apparent catastrophe that landed you in this forgotten nothingness. What five books did you bring?

My Lesson Learned

2008-08-01T14:17:00.000-07:00

A little bit-o-wisdom from me to you. "Eye of Sauron" avitar- great for leaving funny comments amongst family.
When leaving a friendly note like- "Hey cute pictures of your innocent children...BLAH I SEE YOU BLAHHHHH" or "I'm sorry for your loss...YOU CANNOT HIDE BLAH!!!" Not so much.

My Friend Casey

2008-07-24T14:55:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time there was a dude named Casey. Casey wasn't a bad dude. He held down a respectable job where he got to wear a uniform and a name badge everyday, and party every night. Casey wasn't a bad dude. But Casey was a disoriented, drunk dude. One night Casey met the girl of his dreams. Her name was Melanie. Or Emily. He wasn't completely sure, but he did know that she was everything he was looking for in a woman. He knew she had kind of blondish- brownish- reddish hair, and he knew that what they had was special. He didn't know exactly where she lived. But that did not concern Casey one little bit. Into his car he staggered, up and down streets he drove until he saw a light. "That must be Melanie's house!" He thought, "Or Emily's!" Out of his car, up the steps, he knocked at her door. Todd answered. This was confusing to Casey. Did Melanie or Emily have a brother? No matter, Casey was quick to regain his confidence. "Is Melanie here?" He asked as he peeked expectantly into the Living Room. He saw Andy and a woman. Andy was of small consequence, but the woman- She did have hair. Could this be his lady? "Melanie? Emily?" He called hopefully. In an odd coincidence a woman named Melanie had previously owned the house, but had moved three years earlier. "Melanie moved about three years ago." Not Melanie, but Diana responded. Casey felt very confused. "Emily?" He tried again. "You've got the wrong house." Andy assured him. "See you later Casey," Todd began closing the door. There was obviously something fishy going on. "How do you know my name?" Casey wondered out loud. "Its on your shirt dude." This momentarily blew Casey's mind. But of course! Casey laughed and pointed to the name of his company on the opposite side of his shirt. In the midst of this ah-ha! moment, Casey had nearly forgotten the task at hand. Nearly, but not entirely and without skipping very many beats at all he had regained focus. "Do you know where Melanie lives?" He found these people very unhelpful and slightly alarmed. But Casey was nothing if not undaunted. Oh, and drunk. He cheerfully got back into his car and continued his search, taking no notice of anyone taking down his licence plate numbers. Because Casey knew a girl like Melanie, or Emily, only comes around once in a lifetime. The End.

Who Would You Want Saving Your Hide?: Legolas vs. Spiderman

2008-07-21T14:06:00.001-07:00

Humor me. Today is a day like any other. You wake up before you're ready, you spend time looking for a pair of matching socks, regardless of whether you're on time or not you find yourself rushing from chapter one to chapter twelve, with very little time for reflection. Little do you know today might be your last day. Little can you see the monster waiting around the corner, lurking in the alleyway, just beyond those suspicious looking trees. But he sees you. You routinely check your watch, lists playing in your head when suddenly he has you twenty feet in the air ready to make a meal of you. Your options are limited, your prospects very dim. Who will save you? Legolas or Spiderman? When Legolas saves you he makes it look easy, gracefully scaling your monster and unleashing a series of arrows which cleanly severs its foul head. He then performs a triple elf spin through the air only to land flawlessly, flash you a glowing grin like he has a secret, and flip his luxurious golden locks back before disappearing in some nearby shrubbery. Impressive.
When Spiderman saves you he does it with flare. Just as the monster releases you and you find yourself plummeting towards his gaping jaws, in swoops Spiderman! He makes a moderately clever pun as you fly through the air and deposits you safely miles from the monster. But before he jettisons his web back to finish the fight, he looks at you expectantly with his over sized black eyes and you realize he wants a kiss. "Listen," you tell him kindly but firmly, "I'm grateful you saved my hide and all, but-" and you try to explain how you don't like him that way, and that you had onion rings for lunch. But then, you see the disappointment behind his little red mask, and after all it isn't everyday you get saved by Spiderman, you justify as you lay one on him.
But in reality that isn't what happens. As you hang suspended twenty feet in the air, watching your life rewind inside your head, wishing you had spent less time looking for socks and more time playing Wii with your family and neighbors- As you feel the blood rushing to your head and all you can think about is how you should have paid more attention to where you were going, everything suddenly goes black. And as you slowly open your eyes you realize you aren't dead. You are in a Bat Cave. Bat Man saved you. And even though you find him a little odd and uncommunicative at first, you realize he's just an introvert and that's okay, because in retrospect you wouldn't want anyone else saving your hide.

My Five Favorite Bands From High School

2008-07-12T13:02:00.000-07:00

So I took the bate. ANOTHER tag from my brother. I'm telling you I cannot resist! You should know I do not look back on my High School years with much fondness. And no, I don't want to talk about it. But while in High School I enjoyed a variety of music, from nineties-punk and ska bands, to alternative music, whatever that means. I think that as I've matured my tastes have become more specific and less stupid. And I'm of the opinion that recently the music industry has turned out much better stuff (for the most part) than the junk I listened to back in the day. Maybe its because people my age are writing it, I don't know. Anywho, without further ado here are my top five favorite bands from High School.

Green Day. Honestly, I liked them better before they grew a political opinion. They used to sing about really intelligent things like poo and ...other stuff. Dookie was the first album I ever purchased in 1994 when I was thirteen. It was a cassette tape because I didn't have one of those fancy CD players. Up to that point I had led a musically sheltered life and I'm pretty sure I still called my parents "mommy and daddy". Green Day put and end to that. I continued liking them and bands like them through High School and really, I still like them. I just don't put much stock in their political mumbo-jumbo, and that goes for anyone who sings about getting wasted and blowing stuff up.

No Doubt. From the moment I heard "Just a Girl" on the radio I thought Gwen Stephani rocked! Sure she was totally insane, but I had no problem with that. I liked No Doubt because they were really different than anything I'd ever heard, and had a very charming innocence to their insanity.

Radiohead. Come on, "I'm a creep, I'm a blahblahha" I relate to that! Its like Thom knows me! So I don't understand half the lyrics, I have no problem with that because the music is awesome. I'm probably alone in this, but when I'm sad happy music just makes me sadder. Give me some melancholy Radiohead to cheer me up. I still love them.

Beck rocks. He's so simultaneously weird and hilarious he's either totally wasted, or he's a friggin' genius. And the cool thing about Beck is that his music is constantly evolving. No two albums are the same.

Ah, Garbage; the sum of all my teenage angst! Garbage is appropriately named because they kind of suck. But, they sucked to such a degree that they were kind of sweet. That happened a lot in the nineties. I was a big fan of Garbage because they were different. I don't really listen to them anymore.

Other bands that rocked the nineties: Nirvana, Live, Weezer, Foo Fighters, Rage Against the Machine, The Red Hot Chili Peppers, The Beastie Boys, Bush? Gavin what the heck are you talking about? And what the flip is Glycerine?

Oh yeah, and I hereby tag Brittany, Emily, Gina, Angie, and Angie B.

My Marlboro Man

2008-06-12T13:45:00.000-07:00

I was raised by the Marlboro man. No lie, he even owned the jacket. It was free with proof of purchase, an honor reserved for only the most loyal of customers.

My dad wasn't the kind of father you would cuddle up next to on the couch. He wasn't an open, laughing, soft-bellied father. He was tattooed, tough, and smelled of cigarettes and Old Spice. He was a strict disciplinarian, a religious workaholic, and a seasoned rebel. He was a distant cowboy silhouetted in the sunset. He didn't teach me to ride a bike. But he did teach me to fear no living man. He never took me camping. But he taught me to take responsibility for my actions.

My dad never joined the church. And when I turned eight and wanted to be baptized I had to ask for his permission. If I've painted an accurate picture for you, then maybe you can see how imposing a figure my dad was and how daunting a prospect was laid before me. But, I wanted to be baptized so I summoned my courage and entered the garage (where he always seemed to be) and asked him if I could be baptized. A twinkle never failed to appear in the old man's eyes whenever he was asked for permission or advise, and somehow they were always one and the same. I will never forget his response. "Making a promise to Heavenly Father is a very important thing, Diana. You don't get baptized because your mother wants you to or because I want you to, you get baptized because you want to. And if you do get baptized I will hold you to it whether you're sixteen or thirty. If you make a promise I will make sure you keep it." At eight years old I learned what integrity meant. Being baptized was my choice and that has made an incalculable difference in my life.

When I was fifteen I wanted to learn to drive. Here is a little background. I grew up in a tiny mountain resort town in Northern CA with winding two-lane roads. My dad prided himself in his ability to manipulate these winding two-lane roads going speeds more appropriate for an interstate freeway. And what really chapped his hind-quarters were all the "incompetent" drivers blocking his way. He would intimidate them off the road, shouting obscenities through his cigarette and making suggestions of where they may shove their heads. Oh, it was all great fun until he met other road-ragers. On more than one occasion the car in front of us would pull over and challenge my dad to a fight. My dad would oblige, much to their surprise and dismay. But he never actually had to fight. The offending victim, upon seeing a friggin' scary angry dude coming for him, would always opt for flight. So naturally, when it came time to learn to drive, I wanted my mom to teach me. That didn't last very long as the old man did not approve much of her skills and wanted to pass along secret driving techniques to me that only he knew. Teach me the ways of the Samuri. That also didn't last very long. After a few lessons I absolutely refused to drive at all and did not get my licence until I was eighteen.

I left home at sixteen just like he did. As you can imagine, he was not very pleased with my leaving and refused to give his permission. But I guess that's why its called running away. A week after I left he called me. "Honey, I've given it some thought and I am giving you my permission." I didn't know it then, but in fact he was not only giving me permission to leave home, but his consent to grow up. I had stood my ground and gained his respect and he treated me accordingly from then on. I knew I had arrived the day he thought I was old enough to share in a dirty joke.

The summer following my first year of college was the last summer I spent with my dad. I hadn't lived at home for two years and I could tell he was very pleased to have me back. So pleased he bought me two cars. The first one we saw while we were out together- a beautiful dark red 1954 Mercedes. The body was in wonderful condition, even the interior, but it didn't run. In his younger years my dad had been an exceptional mechanic. Word on the street had it he even built his own car once. So, to my utter delight he bought the car. He tried so hard to fix it for me, but couldn't do it. It must have been frustrating for him, that his mind wasn't working so clearly as it had once done. But he would hardly admit defeat. He explained that he would continue working on the Mercedes but would buy me a new car in the meantime. I understood what he really meant. He bought me a 1988 Buick Regal- straight cash. "This is a good car" and he was right. It was no Mercedes, but it ran and that was what mattered. I drove that car back and forth between UT and CA five or six times and it never gave me any problems. After Andy and I got married we sold it to his cousin and it still runs to this day. Sometimes at night the horn will start honking and the hood will pop open. They say its my dad, haunting it.

The last time I saw my dad was that Christmas. I wish I had known it, then we could have had that talk he kept telling me he wanted to have, "Just you and me." When he took me to the airport, Angie and Mom waited in the car while he waited with me, holding the boxed-up dinner he insisted I take with me. We stood a long time in silence. He never was a man of many words. He bought me a milkshake and when it was clear my plane was going to be very late he sighed and told me he had better head home. He hugged me, that great cigarette-Old Spice hug and told me he loved me. I was always proud of the way he walked in his cowboy boots, how he didn't give a crap if he stood out like a sore thumb in the San Francisco airport.

That spring he annoyed the crap out of me with phone calls about my income tax forms he was preparing for me. I was ungrateful and a little short with him a couple times. That is why I called that Sunday, so I could talk with him and let him know I loved him. I ended up talking to mom for a long time, but he walked in just as I was about ready to hang up. I told him I was dating a guy named Andy that was 6'4. "I could still take him." He said. That was the last thing he said to me.

Tuesday morning I got a phone call.

He thought he was invincible. The man who tackled my boyfriends to the ground, the man who called me "smartass" as a term of endearment, the man who showed me his love by sharing his garage-stashed candy with me. The man who taught me not to judge a man by his tattoos and his pack of cigarettes, but by his heart. That was and always will be my Marlboro man. Happy Father's Day Dad.

My Cold Heart

2008-06-03T13:08:00.000-07:00

Funny story. Years ago, when Andy and I had first started dating we happened to run into each other at a dance. A slow song came on, signaling the opportunity to pair up. With my studded belt and Buddy Holly glasses, I was his obvious choice. There was a lull in our somewhat awkward conversation which Andy broke with, "So, do you like Chicago?" Unaware that the Napoleon-esque song we were dancing to was by the very band, Chicago, unaware in fact that there was such a band, I responded politely that I had never been there. And I wasn't going to judge him for it, but I did think it an odd inquiry.

So how did we end up together when my idea of a romantic song includes heavy drums and death imagery and Andy's romantic notions fall under the genre I laughingly refer to as "Butt Rock?" When my day-dreams include reading the "Lord of the Rings" trilogy together, and his include shouting wildly at televised basket-ball players? TomAto-tomato. We both like England, art, playing Chess, and watching Will Ferrell movies, and really what more could you ask for? But I digress. What were we talking about? Ah, yes...

I've never been a fan of love songs, chick-flicks, romance novels, floral arrangements, or puppies. Alright, puppies are cute and I do like roses, but you get the picture. It isn't that I'm completely unromantic, I just have different ideas about romance than most women. The most difficult moment for me in any friendship with another girl is the moment she says, "Hey let's have a girl's night and go see (insert she-film here)" First I have to muffle my cringe, then diplomatically explain how I'd rather see the awesomely nerdy epic movie playing in theater 5 because I read the book multiple times- simultaneously making it clear I'm not being judgemental, that it's not her- its me, that I'm a cold-hearted-wench that doesn't want to see a movie about bridesmaid dresses and women who overlook their gorgeous guy-pal until he finds happiness with someone else, all the while keeping my fingers crossed she still wants to be my friend. So I usually just see the friggin' movie and vent to Andy later.

Don't get me wrong, I'm plenty girlie. My favorite book is Jane Eyre, I love the A&E Pride and Prejudice mini-series, I break down in tears bi-monthly, I love newborn baby smell, and I'm constantly asking Andy his honest opinion of whether I look fat in these jeans. And to set the record straight I'm always up for a girl's night out, let's just skip the movie and head straight for the ice cream shall we?

My Own Drum

2008-05-27T07:42:00.000-07:00

"The Lord did not people the earth with a vibrant orchestra of personalities only to value the piccolos of the world. Every instrument is precious and adds to the complex beauty of the symphony. All of Heavenly Father's children are different in some degree, yet each has his own beautiful sound that adds depth and richness to the whole." - Elder Joseph B. Wirthlin

OK, let's be honest. So I'm a little off. That made public education a little more colorful for me, but as I've grown to accept myself and everybody else, I'm finding that I get fewer and fewer blank stares, fewer rude hand-gestures thrown my way, fewer torch-wielding mobs demanding my immediate removal. Life is good nowadays, but it has been a long and lonely road. There was a time I found myself torn between the knowledge that I couldn't be- didn't want to be- anyone but myself and the feeling that being myself was unacceptable. After all, how could God not favor angel-faced, soft-spoken, goal-setting, casserole-making, jumper-clad optimists over little misfit me? And yet I've met and admired so many misfits in this world, and have come to understand what Elder Wirthlin is talking about. We are all misfits. And Heavenly Father is no respecter of persons. Our circumstances vary, our experiences, our brain chemistry, our tastes, temperaments, hair-styles, trials, cooking-skills, and other talents all render each of us essentially incomparable.
I believe we are here to learn to love God and we do that by serving each other. The very nature of service demands our differences. If we were all the same, none of us would have anything to offer. It is humbling to realize how much we need each other. I consider myself exceptionally blessed by the diverse variety of people I've been privileged to know. I've had the opportunity to glimpse talents far beyond my own. I've learned of self-sacrifice, endurance, long-suffering, hard work, and generosity. I've seen sweetness, integrity, humility, sincerity, good-humor, clarity, and genuine friendship. And I'm confident somewhere in that list of goodness there's a little niche with a footnote especially for me.

Its inspiring to be surrounded by so many good people who do the best they can in the face of overwhelming odds; whether those overwhelming odds include being threatened with a gun, or getting a plastic cooler stuck under your car while driving along I-15, struggling to be a better parent, or coming to terms with the fact that you look very much like Rob Schneider. Hey, we all have our things.

Interview with a Vampire

2008-05-23T13:26:00.000-07:00

Me: So Mr. Vampire-

Vampire: Call me Phil.

Me: OK Phil. So it turns out you're a little peeved about coming in last place in our scariness poll. Is that right?

Phil: You know, Zombies I can understand. I've got to admit they're pretty freaky. But Julia Roberts? I could eat Julia Roberts for breakfast.

Me: If only. So why is it, do you think people are no longer taking you seriously? I mean you made a deal with the devil, command legions of ravenous wolves, stalk young women, suck your victim's blood, occasionally turning them into minions of the damned. What gives?

Phil: You know, the sad truth is it takes a thousand years to build an evil reputation and only a few to tear it down. I blame the "Twilight" series. What kind of wussy vampire is that Edward anyway? Put a stop to Bella's incessant whining and bite her already! I don't care how good she smells- less adolescent flirting, more slow-tormented death.

Me: Beautifully put Phil. You seem to feel strongly about this.

Phil: Oh, you don't even know. Since that book of lies emerged my phone's been ringing off the hook- people inviting me to midday luncheons, baby-showers, golf-tournaments-

Me: So you feel you've kind of lost your edge?

Phil: Even Renfield's been on my case- wants to see me "sparkle" in the sunlight. Its like a bowie knife right through my heart. Just because Edward doesn't turn to dust...

Me: Do you need a moment?

Phil: Sorry. Its just that sometimes I feel like disappearing back into the Carpathian Mountains, you know? I might lay low for a while, feast on some local wenches. Maybe give Julia Roberts a call.

Me: If its any consolation, I think you're super-duper scary...Phil?

My Zombie Encounter

2008-05-20T15:37:00.000-07:00

I know what you're thinking, "But Diana, aren't Zombies just fictional monsters found in such hilarious films as "Night of the Living Dead"?" No, my naive back-talking friend, they are real. I know because I saw one in the RC Willey parking- lot just off Redwood Road not a fortnight ago.

Every so often Andy and I like to pretend like we have the money to afford new pieces of furniture. We go a-looking, find that everything is unreasonably expensive and instead splurge on gas-station doughnuts. It was on one such occasion, while waiting for an opportunity to pull out of the RC Willey parking lot, that we spotted him- a real live zombie. His blue hood was pulled completely over his eyes, but exposed his gaping mouth. His legs- stiff from being dead so long, his arms held out limply in front of him as he staggered towards our stagnate vehicle. I pointed him out to Andy, who was equally concerned at the rate at which he was approaching my passenger- window, apparently hankering for brains. The very moment before he hit our car, Andy put her in reverse. This sudden movement served to disorient him momentarily- throwing him off the scent. We watched in stunned silence as he reared his hooded head and let out an fevered moan of disappointment the likes of which I will never forget, and then continued down the sidewalk in his rambling zombie way. It was a narrow miss, and I am pleased not to have joined the hellish army of the living dead. Still, some part of me wished the little fella luck in his never-ending pursuit for juicy brains.

Ten Reasons Why I'd Rather: Part One

2008-04-19T19:39:00.000-07:00

A wise man once said, "To pick up clothes and wash them, dry them, fold them, and put them away is the lamest, most time-consuming chore known to man." And you know what? He was absolutely correct. You know what else? It wasn't a man who said it, it was a woman. And that woman was me. I have no beef with the dishes. No problem vacuuming, or washing the windows. But laundry is the never ending gentle cycle from hell. My Friends, I give you Ten Reasons Why I'd Rather Eat Canned Spinach Than Do My Laundry...

1. While canned spinach smells horrible, Andy's stinky socks smell far less appetizing.
2. Disgusting as it may be, spinach is packed with vitamins. Who knows what's packed in my children's pockets.
3. Eating an entire can of spinach couldn't take longer than forty-five minutes. Completing a single load of laundry could take me forty-five years.
4. I would rather have Popeye on my side than that creepy snugly bear. Popeye has more integrity and would probably make a better friend. I guarantee you that snugly bear has a shady past and is not to be trusted. Plus Popeye could kick the crap out of snugly bear.
5. Puke stains.
6. Yes I've heard of Spray and Wash. Sixty percent of the time it works every time.
7. Spinach doesn't shrink to baby-doll size when you accidentally dry it.
8. If I save half the can of spinach for later, it doesn't grow into an unconquerable pile of spinach so enormous and deep I fear for my children lest they fall into its murky depths.
9. My mom has yet to become so concerned about my ability to eat canned spinach than she gives me a step-step-book about how to go about it.
10. There are limitless cans of spinach in the world but I have nothing left to wear.

Liono Vs. Jack Skellington Presidential Debate

2008-04-17T13:08:00.000-07:00

Liono: "So it has come down to you, and it has come down to me."

Jack: "Would you mind putting the sword away? Its just a little distracting."

Liono: "This is no ordinary sword. This bad-boy is the Sword of Omens! With it and my enchanted claw shield there is none who dares oppose me!"

Jack: "I oppose you. And I believe that if the public took a closer look at your healthcare plan they would oppose you too."

Liono: "How can you sit there and talk about Healthcare when you're dead?"

Jack: "Touche."

Liono: "What did you call me?"

Jack: "And what of your shady past? You don't expect the public to believe that was catnip in your dormroom back on Thundera."

Liono: "Since I have been Lord of the Thundercats Thunderian crime has gone down thirty-seven percent, the planet is cleaner, and our kittens are receiving a better education. I think my record speaks for itself."

Jack: "What, your record makes no mention of your possible indiscretions involving Cheetara?"

Liono: "You have absolutely no proof of that!"

Jack: "But Mr. Ooogie Boogie-"

Liono: "NO PROOF!"

Jack: "Ok fine. My point is, the public needs a leader they can trust. I am an open book; Yes, I attempted to steal a holiday. Yes, I kidnapped Santa Clause. I can be honest about my mistakes. And that is something that clearly sets me apart from my opponent here."

Liono: "He's a friggin' skeleton people!"

Jack: "By the way Liono, bold move running with Snarf as your vice president."

Liono: "I'll admit Panthro may have been a better choice. But at least I don't have a head that's too big for my body."

Jack: "Do I smell kitty litter?"

Liono: "BIG HEAD!"

Jack: "That's it!"

Liono: "Thundercats HO-OH!"

My Little Black Cloud

2008-04-07T13:19:00.000-07:00

"If an optimist had his left arm chewed off by an alligator, he might say, in a pleasant and hopeful voice, "Well, this isn't too bad. I don't have my left arm anymore, but at least nobody will ever ask me whether I am right-handed or left-handed," but most of us would say something more along the lines of "Aaaaah! My arm! My arm!"- Lemony Snicket (Horseradish)

I'm an optimist. I do believe that eventually everything will be all right, after inevitably wading through colossal amounts of agonizing emotional and physical suffering. It snowed today but I am optimistic it will be sunny again someday, although I worry that I could be sick the day its sunny and not be able to go outside. If it is ever sunny again I would love to go camping. But chances are it would snow. Or we could forget to bring food with us and break the zipper on our tent while we are inside of it and when we call for help the only thing that hears us is a family of bears who also forgot to bring food with them and so they eat us. Then everyone will wonder "Where are the Sortors on this fine sunny day?"

That blogging is so hot right now

2008-04-02T14:05:00.000-07:00

Blogging brings out the narcissist in all of us. But lets be honest, nobody really cares what I have to say. So enjoy the photos and take any commentary you do read with a grain of salt; I am a huge Will Ferrell fan.