Rant #1,986

I feel a Diana tangent coming on. Prepare yourself. 

Every day that I live, it becomes increasingly clear that I do not understand the people around me. I meet you, I talk with you, I read your reactions and after some interaction I begin to get the sense that I know you- but the truth is, I do not really know or understand you any better than you know and understand me. Despite the shallow connections that we make (maybe we like the same books, or movies, or music. Maybe we agree on religion or politics or the best way to raise children. Maybe we connect or maybe we don't) at the end of the day I really don't know what you're capable of. And you have no idea how I feel about myself. 

We have opposing preferences- we communicate them differently, we value different things, we make different decisions based on those values, we learn differently, we relate differently, we have different brain chemistry, different perspectives. And to top if off we were raised by different people in a unique situation and environment that influences everything we do. The truth is, half the time I don't understand myself so how foolish is it to assume I have the capacity to truly understand anyone else? Judge anyone else?

As a mother surrounded by a hundred other mothers- all with strong opinions on how to be "the best" mother- As a woman surrounded by a million other women- all with strong opinions on how to be "the best" woman- Just check out Pinterest- I have come to realize the futility of comparison. What seems obvious and simple to you, may seem overwhelmingly complicated, and a little unnecessary to me. What energizes and makes me happy, may seem dull and meaningless to you. When you hold me to your standard, I come up short. When I hold myself to your standard, I come up short. But the standard is false- there is no universal standard for raising children. There is no universal standard for being a good woman or a good person, apart from the agreed upon "Golden Rule" that very few people actually follow. Because no one likes to be judged, yet we judge each other constantly (sometimes subconsciously). And nobody likes to be misunderstood, and yet how often do we make a real effort to see things from another person's perspective? I assume that I know you- you assume you understand me. So I judge that you're selfish and crazy for doing this. You judge that I'm lazy and misguided for doing that. But honestly, I don't know the pain you feel or how hard you try to prove your self-worth every day. And you don't understand where I'm coming from or where I'm attempting to go. Its easy to throw around labels like Douche-Bag (my personal fave), Selfish, Crazy, Lazy, Misguided, Liberal, Conservative, Bigot, Close-Minded, Shallow, Socialist, Loser, Religious Fanatic, Hypocrite, Hater. Its easy because we think we know. We actually consider that after living our lives in Converse All-Stars, we completely understand the person in high-heels. We actually think living life in one pair of well-worn shoes qualifies us to judge, justifies our pettiness, and validates the false standard we take for granted is universal.

I believe in God. And not just any God. The Christian God. The Mormon idea of The Christian God. And with that belief comes an entire religion-full of standards: I don't smoke, I don't drink alcohol or tea or coffee, I didn't have sex before marriage, I donate 10% of my income to the church, I value motherhood over a career, I attend church every Sunday and serve in time-consuming callings without compensation. I avoid R-rated entertainment, I believe gender and family roles are eternal and essential to our progression and happiness. And I believe one of God's greatest and most unselfish gifts to humanity is free-will, our ability to choose for ourselves how we will live and what we will become.  

Obviously, the standard I hold myself to is going to influence the choices I make which undoubtedly differ from the choices of someone who believes differently. Does that make me a close-minded religious fanatic who hates smokers, alcoholics, feminists, atheists, and gay people? No. Pardon me, but Hell no. Do my beliefs or standards  make me even the slightest bit better than an agnostic whose choices are also based on his own beliefs? Of course not. The only real difference between us is that if I get drunk at a party I have the unsavory consequence of knowing that I am a hypocrite, while my drunk agnostic friend is simply enjoying himself.

And how can we compare personalities? According the Meyers-Briggs Type Indicator, I am an INTJ. Which, in short, means I require more time, structure and personal space than most others to function properly. I tend to make non-emotional, outside-the-box decisions based on intuition. I'm not particularly spontaneous. I'm not great at focusing on the mundane details that life often requires such as making appointments, renewing subscriptions, or maintaining the car. Sometimes I forget about the details entirely because they're just not that important to me. I've never been interested in pleasing the masses or living up to any one's expectations besides my own. There are very few women INTJs and of those women very few decide to become mothers. As a result of being different, I feel I am constantly having to defend myself against an accepted standard that I certainly didn't vote for.

The spelling-tests and sandwich-making and nose-wiping of motherhood drains me. I vow never to become a member of the PTA, HOA, or any other A for that matter (Associations in my opinion, are not good). I couldn't care less if my children receive their High-Flying Hawk or Perfect Attendance Awards (shocking, I know). I don't mollycoddle my girls when they get hurt, I don't attempt to shelter them from the natural trials of life, and I expect them to be respectful, kind, thoughtful, and honest even when no one is watching. I don't lie to them about the Easter Bunny or fairies or leprechauns (I'm SUCH a jerk!), but I read imaginative books with them, write morbid/ funny stories for them, and give them sweet birthday parties. I encourage my daughters to think for themselves and to solve their own problems. I give them responsibilities and the security of routine and family traditions. They know what to expect from me- I'm always up for deep conversation about random, abstract topics. And even though I expect a lot from them, I hope I never leave them in doubt of my love and respect for them as individuals.

How can I compare myself to someone with a different personality-type and life experience? Its like comparing a guitar and a piano. Its a matter of preference isn't it? I do my best to provide my children with what I think they will need most to become functioning, independent, creative, confident, happy adults. I know I don't meet the accepted standard of "the best" mother. And I care about that less than the feminine standard indicates I should. I accept that I'm not a perfect mother. I'm not a perfect woman or person either. My weaknesses haunt me every waking hour and when I dream at night. I expend all my energy trying to live up to my own high standards. Maybe we all do. But with our energy spent on measuring up to our own standard the last thing we need is the added pressure of measuring up to someone else's. 

I don't expect everyone to believe what I believe. I don't expect everyone to value what I value. I don't expect everyone to understand the way I function, think, feel or parent. I don't expect everyone to appreciate what I've been through or the choices I've made or why I continue to make them. It isn't necessary to understand someone to have respect for them. Humble acknowledgment that we aren't really going to understand anyone until we've walked a mile in their shoes and spent a lifetime in their head and heart may be the first step towards real progression. Ending with the final step, "But I love you anyway."

January = Nerd

So I know most people feel about January the way I feel about watching football. I don't know what's going on. And its not from lack of exposure- I've asked questions. I know. Its just that I don't ca-aaa-re. It takes forever to watch and is usually  disappointing. OK this is a bad analogy but I think you get where I'm going. Most people are less than enthusiastic about January just as I am less than enthusiastic about never mind. Especially here in SLC where January means ten-degree weather and inversion so thick you can't see the gigantic mountains. January means paying off the credit card and no more Christmas splurging and trying to get to the gym and organize your house and your life and reading really depressing books because happy books make you even more depressed than depressing books. Oh and everyone EVERYONE is deathly ill. But you know, I was trying to be optimistic this January. I honestly didn't mind a break from all the holiday bustle. Bustle? That's right- bustle. And I didn't mind an excuse to hibernate inside my house reading Catcher in the Rye, drinking hot chocolate, and organizing the crap out of my medicine cabinet. For a week. And then I became as annoyed with January as everyone else. Through with the bitter cold. Through with my family being sick the entire month. Through with January being all up in my business. I'm like, come on January back up. Not cool.

Its just been a really awkward month. Due to all the illness and changes that come with a new year I haven't quite gotten back into a routine. And I think the lack of fresh air and sunlight and overexposure to Pinterest is making me twitchy and irritable. And you know what happens when I get twitchy and irritable- I blog about it. And I develop adult ADHD. I woke up this morning with all kinds of intentions to finish the laundry and clean downstairs but got distracted and ended up making blueberry muffins and going to the library with my daughter. Which, granted was a better use of my time, but even afterwards when she was watching her quiet-time movie the laundry didn't even occur to me. I started a book, got distracted ten minutes in and ended up on Goodreads. What? No fooling I still haven't done the laundry. I did not intend to blog today, yet here we are. January is literally making me crazy. Like a crazy lady who spontaneously makes blueberry muffins instead of fulfilling her cleaning responsibilities. I guess things could be a lot weirder. On the bright side, its a bit past midnight which makes this the final day of this awkward month. So, just another three months of cold and colorless SLC winter and we'll be right as rain...

*yay* 

Checklist for the End of the World.

Its been a busy year. Too busy. Like, there-are-so-many-things-vying-for-my-attention-I-can't-focus-on-one-long-enough-to-blog-about-it busy. I intend to cut back. But the truth is, whenever I find myself with a quiet moment alone I panic- "How long will this moment last?" "What shall I do with this moment?" until said moment is wasted in indecision and I end up huddled in the corner of my closet checking facebook on my phone, which is the last way I would choose to spend my time. Just as eating stale gummy bears from my pantry isn't the way I'd choose to spend my daily caloric intake, but as there is nothing more delicious in the house, I settle.

Its no body's fault but my own, really. In trying to be a productive, responsible, creative, hygienic person, I have inadvertently created a mental list of expectations I can never meet. For some reason I think I should be able to go to the gym, write a book, raise a family, teach piano, maintain a clean and awesomely decorated house and shower no problem. I know women who make this look like cake. Red-velvet cake in an alternate reality where I'm a friggin' super hero and not an anxiety-ridden mother of three high-maintenance children who refuse to dress themselves in weather-appropriate clothing, eat most foods, or sleep. Because realistically I can either raise a family and shower OR go to the gym and teach piano without showering while one of my children throws a ginormous tantrum because I insisted she wear socks to school.

And then there's the economy, and family members who can't stop making self-destructive decisions, and the upcoming zombie apocalypse to prepare for, and Christmas.

Sorry, I had to go eat stale gummy bears in my closet by the light of my phone, discovering more ways I am inadequate via Pinterest. Let's bring it down a notch: I have a good life. I married my best friend, we have three beautiful and healthy children, and a sweet little house with a yard. And if the world ends Friday it wont matter that I never ran a marathon or finished a book. It wont matter that my house wasn't perfectly clean or that my kids had some bizarre sock-prejudices.

And when the sun rises Saturday morning and life goes on, I hope I can remember that I'm meeting my real goal every day I get out of bed and serve my family, every day I make someone else feel loved. Maybe if I stopped trying so hard to be perfect I could actually enjoy being good. Instead of settling for facebook and stale gummy bears, maybe I should settle for quiet moments alone and just let myself be happy.

Its either that or 5-hour energy drinks. Your pick.

Read to Pink Floyd.

I haven't written anything beyond the occasional face book status update in many months. You see, sometimes when I say what I'm really thinking at 11:47 on a week night, I wake up at 7:13 the next morning with a horrible panicked feeling- "Did I seriously just admit my Easter Bunny contempt to everyone I know?" "Did I describe in detail my weird crush on Joaquin Phoenix?" What the what? I was kidding- whatever. So harelips are kind of hot. In a piratey sort of way.

Anyways, I have held a six-month long internal debate whether society as a whole is better off with or without my thoughts. And while the jury's still out, I do take comfort in the fact that my influence- for good or evil- is minuscule. Like a tiny little scule. So small. Almost non-existent. So, I worry needlessly. That said, I really don't like Easter Bunnies or any bunny for that matter, cute and fluffy as they may be. A pink-eyed devil tried to take my arm once and I've not met a bunny since that made a good impression. Just think of all the bunnies you know- Playboy, Bunicula, Roger Rabbit, the bunny from "Monty Python and the Holy Grail." Despicable creatures all.

Which does not segue into "I am terrified of the future" like I thought it would. My little girl is starting first grade in two weeks, meaning two out of three of my children will be gone until 3:30 every weekday until they finally grow up and leave me a withered college-dropout with a disproportionate hatred of bunnies (there's my segue!) Although I love to watch my children grow and become increasingly independent, the reality of my eventual uselessness has been crashing down on me like a sack of hot nickles. What will I do in three more years when all of our children are in school and I have eight hours of uninterrupted nothing? The possibilities appear in my head so numerous and loud, it sets my head spinning. The thing to do is go back to school and get my degree, obviously. A degree in what I don't know. Creative writing? Not very profitable. None of my interests have ever been profitable- and if they are not profitable does it warrant a student loan? And all the while that nagging ache in the pit of my stomach- "have I been a good mother? Am I a good mother? Will I be a good mother if-?" Eventually settling into that dull, depressing pain- time's insistent progression- they're growing up so fast.

I am afraid to make them my entire life, and afraid not to. And often afraid that it wont matter anyway if I completely lose my mind. On the upside, some very successful writers have been insane. Lewis Carroll for instance- writing about rabbits, obsessively worried by the ticking of that bloody pocket-watch... 

The Language of Love.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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

For now anyway.

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

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

Ten Reasons Why It Sucks to Be a Unicorn.

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Hate Parades.

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

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

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

The Best Concert Ever.

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

Perchance I Flipped You Off in Traffic.

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

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

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

A Post for Wayne.

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

A Free Association Post:

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

2. Freddie Kruger is Edward Scissorhands on crack.

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

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

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

6. What ever happened to The Violent Femmes?

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

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

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

10. Ever After is the gayest movie ever made.

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

Stranded at the Stop Sign

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

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

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

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

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

Third Baby Heaven.

There is just something about a third child.

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

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

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

"Total Eclipse of the Heart" Literal Video.

How to Age Ungracefully.

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

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

Hella lame.

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

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

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