If I'm Going to Make an Apron, Then By Golly, I'm Going to Obsess Over It

Not just any old apron will do. Oh no. The fact that I'm ready to put on an apron again, is a big deal people. A BIG deal. Let me tell you a little bit about the ones I was forced to wear as a child and then you might see why I'm being so picky.

They had sleeves, a square neck, and two ties in the back. They were much like hospital gowns, now that I think about it. You know, the ones that movies have their main characters wear while they break out of hospitals, when they hurriedly rip off their IV's and go flailing barefooted down the hall with their bare buns exposed for all to see. This is where I would like to make an ironic statement and draw parallels between members of my family and mental institution patients both wearing this particular style, but I won't. Moving on, one was coral colored and the other blue. Very thin fabric.

Now let me tell you about the ones I was forced to wear as a teenager and even a college freshman home from BYU during Christmas break (to which I refused and was given "Fine, then you can do your own laundry while you're home then," to which I said "Gladly!" and flung the apron off with the gusto that only years of pent up resentment and defiance over the wearing of said apron could produce.)

Full style, but no sleeves. (Risque!) A d-ring type neck strap thing, much like the Hooter Hiders that everyone is so wild about but I never got the hang of. Thick canvas fabric. Pockets for I don't know what. (A spatula because you're just too lazy to reach into that drawer right there? Some old Werther's Butterscotches? Hundred dollah bills, yo?) A tie in the back. These were mostly of the flowered printed variety.

Since that day when the apron and I parted ways, I've seen a plain royal blue, a cow print and a polka dotted number come down the line and into my Mother's overstuffed apron drawer. Was there a red one at one point? There had to have been. Mama Garlock's all about the red.

So since I have obviously been traumatized, I would like to steer clear of anything that resembles any apron that I've ever worn from the time I was squozed in the world (by a mother who everyone thought was wearing a hospital gown but was really just wearing an apron, SUCKAS!) until the day I dramatically flung off my apron and started doing my own laundry, which was the last time I wore an apron...over a decade ago.

Though there are a lot of aprons out there, I haven't seen any that really tickle my fancy. My lovey-dovey Anthropologie sells aprons (but we love her anyway) but there's nothing there I want to copy. There are a lot of skirt-styles floating around but that style doesn't make sense to me at all. Like why are we only going to be protecting our pants? Why discriminate against the shirt? I need coverage people. I'm a hot mess, which is why I've relented to going back to wearing a freaking apron in the first place. There are a bunch with like 4 different fabrics in them (the main fabric, the right pocket, the left pocket, the straps, the trim, all different but coordinating fabrics...gah!), some with ric-rac or puff-ball trim, some with ruffles or pleats but those are too cutesy-wootsie. I'm not anti-pleats or ruffles or puff-ball trim or ric-rac per say, but just because I'm a girl wearing an apron, doesn't mean I have to look like I've lost my sheep and don't know where to find them.

I think the look I'm going for is something Audrey Hepburnish. (What else is new?) Something almost French looking, like what your typical cigarette smoking, beret wearing, striped bateau-neck shirt and skinny black pants that hit above the ankle wearing, bicycle with a basket in the front carrying a loaf of bread and a bunch of red tulips riding French woman would wear...if she was forced to wear an apron.

Scarred for Life

When I was about 13 or 14, an Olympic swimming coach came to my Dad's health club and taught a swimming workshop for teens. I wasn't the fastest swimmer and always the last one off the block ("but always the farthest one out once she did jump off the block," my Mom is always quick to add. Thanks, viking quads!) so I took the opportunity and went. My Dad swam laps on one side of the pool while I "workshopped" with the coach.
"My, what viking-like quads you have, miss."
"Why, thank you, Olympic Coach!"
After I swam and the coach stood around stating the obvious, I got out of the pool and dried off. My Dad was already done and inside the gym at this point. I remember looking at the back of the building and seeing four unmarked doors--I swear they were unmarked. It was like the health club was so pretentious that you should just KNOW what door to go through because you are apart of the elite. If you didn't know what door to go through, you shouldn't be there in the first place. Be gone, day-pass street urchins. I decided to go through the door on the far left. That was SO the wrong door to open. It was the door to the men's locker room. I stood there in the doorway, stunned for about 10 seconds, my mouth agape at the sight of 4 elderly naked men, toweling off in a cloud of steam. All of a sudden, my Dad appeared right in front of me. "What are you doing in here?" and he sort of turned me around and led me and my viking quads out the door and pointed me towards the next door over--the ladies locker room. Unfortunately, the scene is forever seared into my retinas. I've stated that there was a time in college that I never wanted to get married--this experience may had something to do with that.
Today, my girls had a similar experience. We were at Costco and they had to use the restroom. I had a cart full of stuff and Olive strapped in the front, so I parked right outside of the bathroom and let the girls go in by themselves. I don't know how it's set up at your Costco, but at ours, it's like one big main entrance, with the women's side on the left, the men's on the right. It took me a couple of minutes and several bewildered men walking quickly out of the bathroom, checking the sign and heading back in to realize that my girls were indeed doing their business in the men's room. Not a proud parenting moment. Thankfully, they were secured inside a stall, with their retinas protected from the reality on the other side of the door at the urinals.

What She's Listening To.

Back before we had three kids and Go was a resident, mostly every day when Go would get home from school, we'd play our own Name That Tune from iTunes' site. It was usually Go at the computer, and I on the couch or making dinner, facing away from the computer and he'd test my mad skillz. Things really got fun when iTunes started having celebrities post their own playlists. After playing Name That Tune with all the songs on a particular playlist, he'd have me guess which celebrity's playlist it was, based on all the songs I just guessed. I looked forward to this every day. And yes, we were, and still are, nerds.


Want to play? Last night, while I was making a mix for a friend, I came across this playlist on our own iTunes.

Who's playlist is this?

Blackbird-Beatles
Brandy (You're a Fine Girl)-Looking Glass
A Dustland Fairytale-The Killers
For the Price of a Cup of Tea-Belle & Sebastian
Girl-Beck
Girls-Beastie Boys
Good Day Sunshine-Beatles
I Gotta Feeling-Black Eyed Peas
I Like to Move It-Shaggy
I've Just Seen a Face-Beatles
If You Want to Sing Out Sing Out-Cat Stevens
Let's Get it Started-Black Eyed Peas
Oh What a Night-Four Seasons
Penny on a Train Track-Ben Kweller
Que Onda Guero-Beck
Read My Mind-The Killers
Say Hey (I Love You)-Michael Franti & Spearhead
Walk Like an Egyptian-The Puppini Sisters
You Make My Dreams-Hall & Oates
1234-Feist

Can you guess?
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It's Ruby's! She compiled this list of all her favorite songs herself.

I think if I was able to make a playlist at 6, it would have looked a lot like this:

Beat It-Michael Jackson
Ricky Don't Lose That Number-Steely Dan
Part Time Lover-Stevie Wonder
Crush on You-The Jets
Hip to be Square-Huey Lewis
Can't Fight This Feeling-REO Speedwagon
That's What Friends are For-Stevie Wonder, Dionne Warwick, Gladys Knight, Elton John
We Built This City-Starship
How Will I Know?-Whitney Houston
How Sweet it Is-James Taylor
Material Girl-Madonna
Jump-Van Halen
Sussido-Phil Collins
Don't Stand So Close to Me-The Police
You Can Call Me Al-Paul Simon

And with that, I leave you this shiny gem from my childhood:

My Childhood in a Nutshell

This is dedicated to the Garlock men in my life:

09.09.09

I thought I'd take a break from

to wish my little brother a Happy Birthday.
I don't even want to think about how old he is
because it weirds me out.
In my mind, he will always be 4.

Because I'm feeling nostalgic today
(An hour of Beatles Rock Band will do that to a person)
I thought I'd post some old pictures of the two of us,
all in black and white of course
to go along with the nostalgia theme of the day.
Now all I need is Joe Cocker covering "A Little Help From My Friends," Wonder Years-style.

Happy Birthday, John. Thanks for being my buddy for the past 26 years.
I love you.

Letters Written After Helping Chaperone an Irvine Stake Dance

Dear Hall Rats,
Instead of hanging out in the hallway and texting the entire time, how about you go inside and do the Cha Cha Slide?

Love,
Me

Dear Cute Boy With The Curly Hair,
Even though you decided to accessorize with a red bandana hanging out of your back pocket, you're still really cute. It probably creeps you out that an almost-thirty year old mother of three would do this, but last night, I secretly dubbed you as The Boy I Would Have Kind of Stalked 15 Years Ago.

Love,
Me

Dear Tall Girl With The Perfect Figure, Perfect Hair, Perfect Teeth, Perfect Everything,
It would be so great if you went and asked a short little shy guy to dance and was sincerely nice to him. Oh, and before you did it, I would like to be notified so I could witness it. I've never seen a grown boy pee his pants before.

Love,
Me

Dear Girl Who Reminded Me of Myself 15 Years Ago,
Stop talking so loud and reinacting that SNL skit out in the hallway. You're just stalling because you know you're going to head back into that gym and eventually a slow song will come on. You may get asked, you may not. If you don't get asked after 3.5 seconds, instead going to the drinking fountain and standing in line to get a drink, swallow your pride and go over to that cute boy with the curly hair and ask him to dance. While you're there, yank that ridiculous red bandana out of his back pocket.

Love,
Me

P.S. - Don't be intimidated by The Tall Girl With The Perfect Figure, Perfect Hair, Perfect Teeth, Perfect Everything. You may not know it now, but you'll come to figure out later on that you're just as good as she is.


Dear Kid Wearing The Shiny Jacket, Gigantic Tie And Pants With The Huge Multicolored Polkadots,
Yes. We all see you. Mission accomplished.

Love,
Me

Dear Little Spazzy Girl,
Instead of striking poses alone in the corner of the room while everyone else slow dances, you might want to consider heading to the restroom for the duration of the song? Or how about just going and asking someone to dance? May I suggest asking the guy wearing the shiny jacket, giantic tie and pants with the huge multicolored polkadots? I think you guys would really hit it off.

Love,
Me

Three Way Random Memories I've Had as of Late, Conjured Up For No Good Reason At All

- During the summer of 2000, I acquired an aquarium that came with a humongous olive green frog who I named "Mother," but pronounced it like someone from Brooklyn: "Muthah." He was a beautiful animal with skin that looked exactly like the gorgeous gloves Michelle Obama wore on Inauguration Day. Tell me you saw them; they were fabulous. Now, after seeing last season's Project Runway, I would have named that frog "Leather," pronounced "Leathah" in honor of Blayne's imitation of Stella and her love of leathah. Because Muthah looked like Michelle Obama's leathah gloves. That looked like buttah.

-I went on a couple of blind dates in college, all of which were arranged by various aunts of mine. One auntie in particular, who shall remain nameless, decided to give my number to this guy she swore up and down was great. We talked on the phone a couple of times. He was funny and I could tell he was smart, so I agreed to go out with him despite the fact that he was way older than I was, which was something of a turn-off, for fear he was desperately seeking a mate, any mate. But he seemed pretty cool, so I was like "Why not? Free food," which is basically my life's mantra. The day before we were supposed to go out, he called and it came up that the next day, for the 8 hours prior to our date, I would be at work all day long which I wasn't looking forward to. "Oh, where do you work?" he asks. "The Game Center," I reply. (The bowling alley/arcade/pool table place at BYU.) I'd like to note that I did not say where I worked with even a milligram of enthusiasm. We talk a little while longer and at the end of our conversation I ask what we're doing the next evening. I want to know how to dress. See if I can finally wear those black leather chaps I've been saving for something special, of course. "It's a surprise." Ok. So the next day, I work at the Game Center all day long spraying lemon scented poison into sweaty bowling shoes, getting greasy bowling balls unstuck from the pin ring in the back while totally smashing my fingers in the process, refunding perturbed customers after the Misses Pac Man arcade eats their quarter even though it says "Out of Order" in a big, bold printed sign taped right on the freaking machine's screen, listening to the same sappy Air Supply whining from the jukebox, and inhaling that dreaded Game Center odor of dust, sweat, drug store cologne and post-mission angst. I hated that place. So I come home, shower off the second-hand stench of fake rotten lemons, dust, sweat, cologne and angst and get ready for my date. The guy arrives, he's ok looking--a little "Peter P" for my taste but I don't hold it against him too much. We get in the car and he's like "So do you want to know where we're going?" and I'm like "Sure," and I kid you not, HE TAKES ME BACK TO THE GAME CENTER FOR OUR DATE EVEN THOUGH HE KNEW I HAD JUST LEFT THE STINKING PLACE NOT EVEN AN HOUR BEFORE, AFTER SPENDING LIKE AN ETERNITY THERE . And I didn't even try to be cool about it. I totally protested. Profusely protested, in fact. Like totally begged to go somewhere, anywhere but there. But dude wanted to bowl. Needless to say, I did not bother answering the phone when he called a couple of days later. Thanks for that gem by the way, Auntie.

- In high school I had a strict midnight hour curfew. Because nothing good happens after midnight. At the time, I thought it was like, so totally lame, you guys that I had a curfew. But looking back, my parents were oh-so-wise and my girls are totally having having a midnight curfew. Anyway, at midnight, and not a minute past or there was hell to pay, I would come in the door, kick off my shoes, which were always something kick-offable: Birkenstocks, suede Simple clogs or flip flops and sit up on a red bar stool. During the summer months, all the windows would be open, along with the screen door and the scent of oranges and jasmine would waft inside from the orange groves and jasmine bushes across the street. I would ramble on about the evening's shenanigans while consuming an entire watermelon with my Dad while we would sit side by side slicing off chunks. My Mom, with a red and white plaid dish towel thrown over her shoulder and an apron tied tightly around her waist of course, would be putting away dishes. The crickets would be chirping, my dog would be snoring upstairs. My brothers would be upstairs in the bonus room watching The Jamie Foxx show and howling with laughter. My Mom would start the dishwasher, filling the house with a rhythmic hum and swish song. Those were really good days.

"Girl You'll Be a Woman Soon", he sang. And he was right.

Back in the day when I was single, like a black widow spider plays a deadly game catching unassuming flies with her web, I used to catch boys with music. No, no, no, not music I sang or played (gawfah!), but a deadly combination of knowledge and taste--usually of the classic rock variety. I'd start by asking about their musical preference and if the words "country" or "Creed" was included in their response, I was out the door quicker than you could say Crosby, Stills and Nash. If their musical taste was acceptable, then it was game on. Oh you know I'd first lure them in with a "You know, Led Zeppelin got their name from when Keith Moon told him that their band would go over like a lead zeppelin," which was a double whammy because that also implied that I knew who Keith Moon was. And then maybe a one-two punch with some commentary about Bob Dylan or David Bowie. Then a little while later, I'd bring out the big guns and make parallels between acceptable modern artists and classic rock gods and then, AND THEN, I'd make them a mixed tape of lesser known artists with classic rock roots and if I was really set on sealing the deal, an elaborate cover was made for the cassette. The more colorful it was, the more interested I was. Or more desperate for physical affection. Or more bored and in need of pointless drama. Usually all three.

My freshman year at college was when I first feasted my eyes on Go and I was instantly intrigued. I knew if I just had the guts to turn around in art history class and talk music with him, he'd be mine. But I was chicken. He was a boy without a real name, just dubbed "Art History Boy." Then my sophomore year, when my roomie Katie came home talking about a "Brandon Reynolds" she ate lunch with, I asked if she was interested in him, she shrugged and said "Actually, you guys would be great together," but I didn't end up meeting him until a year later and made the connection that this kid standing in front of me with greasy overalls on was Art History Boy AND The Brandon Reynolds. I remember asking Katie about his taste in music because honestly, those overalls really threw me. (Insert Go's urgent "THAT WAS WHAT I WORE FOR MY WINDOW WASHING JOB! I HAD JUST GOTTEN OFF OF WORK! GEEZ!") "Um, I think I remember him talking about Jimi Hendrix..." Allright. We can hang, I decided. On our first date, he did not wear overalls. Score five points for that one. Then he serenaded me with Neil Diamond. Scored some more points there for humor but I was still a little iffy if Neil was all he listened to. Did this guy just sit in his car with his overalls on and listen to Hot August Nights? I played it cool and waited until our second or third date when I ventured into his glove box and found several obscure artists who I also was into. "You know G Love and the Special Sauce?" I said and he was like "Yeeyah. I practically invented G Love and the Special Sauce." Katie was right. We were a good match. And it was done. The game was over. I tagged out and that was the last time I ever played the game.

Looking back, it never ceased to amaze me what kind of powers just liking cool music had. I mean, I was averagely cute, but let's be honest, I was no super model. I did not stop people in their tracks with my looks. Guys didn't get in car accidents because I walked down the street. What I had going for me was that I listened to cool tunes and I got their jokes quicker than most other girls and I did all right with the fellas.

But I always wonder, if I wasn't as into music as I was, would I had the same dating experience? Would I have married the man I married? What if I was really into model airplanes? Or Chinese Checkers? Or Steven Segal? Or the English translations of Spanish writers? What would my life be like? I had a little taste of this the other day when I went into Borders. After reading The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon a couple of years ago, I have been waiting for his second book to be translated into English. This book wasn't exactly a household name--it was no DaVinci Code or Tuesdays with Morrie as far as popularity goes but seriously 100 times better than both. Not knowing whether to look for Ruiz or Zafon, I asked a Borders employee and he furrowed his brow behind his coke bottle glasses and was like "Hm. That's a good question. Who exactly are you looking for?" and I said "Carlos Ruiz Zafon" and I swear to you, it was like I was in college again and I had busted out with the Eric Clapton/George Harrison/Pattie Boyd love triangle story behind Clapton's song "Layla." His gigantic pupils turned into the shapes of hearts and he was all "You know Carlos Ruiz Zafon?" and continued to follow me around the store like a puppy for the next hour. I think he wanted to have my babies. And those babies would grow up reading awesome authors but probably listen to Hoobastank, Nickelback and the like. I'll take Go and his Neil Diamond and his Harry Nilsson and his G-Love and his Andrew Bird and his Josh Ritter and his Simon and Garfunkle and his Okkervil River his Bell X1 and his Glasvegas and his Ryan Adams and his Spoon any day.

Happenings and Going Ons Parts One and Two and The Tale of the Cross Dressing Electrician

Part One: Rollerskating with Ruby

The sound track for this event would be something from America's Weekly Top 40's circa 2002 with a not so subtle stomp, stomp, crash; stomp, stomp, crash in the background, overlayed with a lot of laughter. It took us over an hour to make it around the rink twice.

My oldest is a spaz. There's no way a around it. Though the Coordination Well is bone dry right now, I have hope for her in the future. Luckily, she can laugh at herself which makes up for any lack of physcial prowess in my book.

I knew if I got frustrated, she surely would so I channeled my Dad and his laid back teaching style and though she is no closer to successfully skating as she was when she stepped foot onto the rink for the first time, she didn't cry, she didn't give up and she kept a strong and steady stream of giggles. I admire her for this, as I get frustrated easily when I don't pick up something right away. Hey, college roomies. Remember when I got that hair cut that required using a round brush? And anyone remember a round brush sailing across the apartment, accompanied with mild curses, chucked by yours truly? Yep. And Dad. Remember the hissy I threw in Lake Powell when I was 11 when I couldn't get the hang of water skiing? Good times. No. GREAT times. So thinking she would be like her mother, I was surprised when she didn't dramatically fling herself on the floor of the roller rink and through buckets of tears declare herself unfit to skate.

Aftwards, I asked if she had fun. She took a long time responding, no doubt trying to come up with something diplomatic to say but decided on a "No, not really." Hm. Well, at least there were no tears.

Part Two: Olive's Blessing

I really can't believe I'm posting not only one but TWO fat-face pictures of myself, but I don't want it to go undocumented. Hopefully you'll be near an eye wash station when you view this. No? Then just simply sticking your face under cold running water will do just fine.

Our friend who was in the blessing circle said he peeked down at her and Olive was looking up and smiling. That's my girl.


You see my shoes? I got these over ten years ago back in high school and hadn't worn them in ages. But after some fresh-faced enjenues from the pages of a magizine whispered up to me that 6-inch wedges were back in Style's good graces, I was stoked. And I said wedges, not wedgies. I don't even want to think about what a 6-inch wedgie would feel like. "Let's bust these puppies out, " I said as I dusted off my shoes. Then I did The Running Man and just when I was about to make a smooth transition over to The Roger Rabbit, I realized what had just taken place. It was the first time I had put something of my own on that had come "back into style." After weeping a little, I realized that these weren't actually the first straw wedges I owned and was reminded of a story. My Straw Wedges Story. Come gather 'round, children.

Once upon a time, there was a young princess who bought some straw wedges. She was about a junior in high school. Earlier in the week, it was there in her chambers of the enchanted yellow-walled castle, that her ceiling fan stopped working. The king and queen of the yellow-walled castle beckoned a lowly electrician to come and fix the ceiling fan straight away. Now unbeknownst to the king, queen and princess, this humbly electrician was in fact, an evil electrician. In the midst of the fan repair, the electrician reached down, stole the princess's new straw wedges and stuffed them into his tool box. With a great deal of naivete, the king, queen paid and thanked the electrician for his good work and bid him farewell. When the princess returned to her chambers, she discovered her straw wedges missing! Oh no! It was then decided that the evil electrician was indeed either a clepto with a shoe fetish or a drag queen in need of something fabulous for 'da clubs that weekend. Either way, the princess wanted to give the evil electrician a 6 inch wedgie for stealing her 6 inch wedges but then thought better of it, for fear he'd probably enjoy it. The end.

Elated to be Related

I can put yet another notch in my "You Are Married to Your Spouse Thanks to ME" belt, otherwise known as the "You Guys Owe Me Big Time" belt. It is encrusted in diamonds, just like the city of Provo (where it originated) in case you were wondering.

Here's why:

Did you ever have a bestest besty friend growing up, one whom obsessed over the Beatles with you, consumed massive amounts of frozen yogurt with you, watched every single Hitchcock film ever made with you, memorized the Newsies soundtrack with you, cried with you every time Meg died and Jo denied Laurie, wore Birkenstocks with you, got annoyed with the same pesky boys with you, drove to seminary in the dark early hours of the morning with you, rode bikes with you, looked for stolen bikes with you, baby sat with you, worked at Chick's Sporting Goods and Hogi Yogi with you, jogged with you, jogged while eating Hershey bars with you, was on swim team with you, TP'd people's houses with you, Girls Camped with you, Youth Conference with you, skiied with you, Palm Springed with you, EFY'd with you, ate pepperoncinis with you, had Sunday night game night with you, had the same curfew as you, had the same futile crushes on various boys with you--though thankfully never at the same time as you, had endless amounts of inside jokes with you, and since you both were attached to the others' hip, applied to the same college with you, then roomed at college with you, was like a sister to you and together you vowed you would someday be related?

No? Man, you missed out.

I was lucky enough to have had (and still have) a friend like the aforementioned. Elizabeth Eaton Jex and I? We did it: at the end of July, we will be related.

Though it may look like it, we did not take each other to the prom.

We both had dates.
I swear.

[E: you may find this hard to believe, but this was one of the FEW pictures that did not have
a) at least one of us in our swim suits
b) someone else in the picture I would have felt obligated to Photoshop out
c) both of us covered in an assortment of condiments]

Elizabeth's little sister, Sarah Eaton, whom I would love and adore regardless of her last name, is marrying my brother-in-law: Go's little brother Harry this summer. She will make a stellar addition to the family.

Elizabeth and I. Related. Who would have thunk?

Good Birth Memories, Part 3

The afternoon after May was born, I was alone in the hospital bed with her, waiting for Go to return with my Mom, Ruby (who I hadn't seen since we had dropped her off at the Jacksons before my induction) and a Reuben sandwich from the New Poineer Co-Op deli. The good memory could actually end right here. That's how good those sandwiches were--one of the VERY few things I actually miss about Iowa.

I was looking at May and pondering if we had given her the right name. Our "policy" really isn't to ever completely decide on a name before the baby is born; we usually have a main name in mind, a couple of back-up alternatives and then wait until we see her. We never call the in-utero-baby by any specific name until after she's actually born. So far, we have always ended up going with our main name idea. So I was sitting there, not really doubting our choice persay, just sort of looking at her and thinking about it.

The silence was broken as Go, my Mom and 2.5 year old Ruby entered the room. "Hey, Rubes," I said and reached out for her. As she came over, she sort of glanced over to May, who was sleeping beside me and casually but matter-of-factly said "Oh. It's May," just like "Oh, hey. What's up," like she had always known her. The fact that we never really called her "May" when she was still in the womb and Ruby's nonchalant attitude confirmed to me that we definitely went with the right name.

Good Birth Memories, Part 2

I had forgotten about this one. Kristen, an old work buddy from Iowa, who watched me waddle down the common hallway of our across-the-way offices at UIHC with a plate full of grilled cheese sandwiches every day for my entire pregnancy with Ruby, commented with this memory on my last post. I thought it was so good, I am making it Part 2. A Birth Memory? No, but that's ok. A Good Memory? Not really, but a funny memory nonetheless.

Kristen: "Remember when that dude asked you on the UIHC elevator, "One or Two?" and you got kinda pissed at him and then you realized he meant what floor you were going to, not how many babies were residing in your belly.

Thinking of you telling me that story still makes me laugh today....Oh memories....."

Good Birth Memories, Part 1

May 31, 2003
Had sporadic contractions all day, went and saw "The Italian Job." As always, Mark Wahlberg is a great distraction. (See ya lata, goat! Say hi to your motha for me!)

June 1, 2003
My water breaks in the middle of the night. We rush out the door. Go starts the ignition and the radio automatically starts playing, which is the very first note of "Everybody's Talkin'" by Harry Nilsson. This song is one of both Go and I's top favorites. It was like a small gift on the way to the hospital that night.

About 2 hours later, Ruby is born.

All About 2009!

Odd-numbered years have typically been good ones in my life.


Let's start at 1989 because mostly everything before that is a blur:

1989: My family moved to southern California. And we all know how I feel about that.

1991: 6th grade, which I really liked. Outdoor Ed was rad, plus I was a superior handball player.

1993: I was at the height of my Beatles obsession and had no responsibilities whatsoever. Life was good.

1995: Actually, this year I could skip and be ok. What 15 year old actually likes being 15?

1997: The year my parents surprised me with the old red and white VW bus. sniff.

1999: College = Freedom.

-2001: The year I got married. That was good. Kind of. I guess. Oh, come on. I haven't seen Go in over a week now so he's due for some teasing from his wife, because that's how I show affection. That's actually how our children are conceived. I tease him about his facial hair and 9 months later, I birth a baby.

-2003: Ruby was born in 2003.

-2005: May was born in 2005.

-2007: I actually don't remember much about 2007.

-2009: Here are some possibilities of why 2009 will be totally cool: Baby #3 will be born...and that's about all I know right now.

You want to hear my 5 resolutions for 2009? NO? Ok!

1. Stop picking my nose! In public anyway...
2. Blog less!
3. Start a get-rich-quick scheme! Something involving a pyramid scheme.
4. Stop throwing stuff at the elderly Wal-Mart greeters! It isn't their fault I'm there...
5. Read the last Twilight book!

Salt of the Earth

I would venture to say that Go and I's relationship was first built upon a large mound of salt.With him, when it comes to food, everything must be salty. All meat must be marinated for him to truly enjoy it. His favorite foods: green olives, kipper snacks, anchovies, capers, popcorn, pretzels, salty cheeses, salty crackers, salt and vinegar chips and just a good old plain spoon full of salt never disappoints. Just kidding but the salty list continues. I mean, I really like salty food myself; I was known to sneak a nibble of dried play dough back in my day, but he hardly likes anything unless it's salty.

If you've been a reader of this blog for awhile I've already established that I was a creep dog and had my eye on him a couple of years before I officially met him, right? "Art History Boy." Is this ringing any bells? Well, after finally officially meeting him and discovering that he and I lived on the same street, I made it my mission to get him to ask me out on a date. This was tricky for me, as I had also made it a rule never to be The Pursuer, but always be The Pursued. I turned my nose up towards aggressive females! As if! So uncharacteristically, I went out on a limb, made a cake with homemade chocolate frosting, called his apartment and invited him and his room mate Ethan over for dessert, which was also uncharacteristic of me--to appear the slightest bit domestic. I've come a long way, people. So even though I was uncomfortable, I made that cake, the frosting, the phone call, they accepted and came over. With trembling hands, I cut the three of us big, fat slices. We all sat around at my ghetto mustard yellow kitchen table upon my mustard yellow plastic chairs and took our first bites. Splat! Out came Ethan's bit right back onto his plate. Splat! Out came mine as well. All I could taste was salt. And lots of it. "What did you do?" Ethan exclaimed through a pinched face. I jumped up, went over to my recipes and discovered I had put in like 4 times the amount of salt the frosting recipe called for. Mortified, I turned around and looked at Go. Surely I had just blown the mission. I had for sure scared the guy off with my salt frosting. But his plate was completely empty. He licked his fork and asked for seconds.
"Are you serious? Pff. Shut up." (I really have a way with men, don't I? I should write a book.)
"No, really. That was good. Is that ok if I have some more?"
"But, it's so salty! Here. I'll scrape the frosting off for you."
"No way! This frosting's good," he said.
Ethan looked at him like he was crazy. He did not ask for seconds and I don't blame him at all. Go finished off his second helping in minutes flat. Didn't even flinch. He might have even asked for thirds. He complemented me on my baking and ate every morsel, salt frosting and all. And thus began our love affair that was built upon a mound of salt.

As is tradition, this weekend we are celebrating Thanksgiving a week early with (half of) our old med school buddies who will be making the drive all the way from Pittsburgh. I can hardly wait. (Jacksons, you will be sorely missed.) Since we're hosting that means that we, of course, are cooking the turkey. This will be our first turkey ever. Go's reaction to this: "Hey, see if you can find a good recipe for a salt brine! We really need to brine it first. "

Ringgers, I hope a little salt won't scare you off. My Thanksgiving issue of Bon Appetit magazine arrived and suggests a salt rub instead of a brine...Go couldn't be more pleased.

Not Boring

A couple of days ago, I posted about a kid I had dated. An old room mate, who was present for a lot of these wackos I encountered, posted a comment and said something like "Seriously, where did you find these guys?" What you have to understand is that while most girls' prerequisites for potential suitors included "nice" or "smart" or "spiritual" or "ambitious" or "confident" or "cute", my main one was "NOT BORING." Of course, all the other normal stuff went with that as well, but "not boring" was always tippy-top. Imagine my delight when I found Go who was absolutely not boring but also nice, smart, spiritual, ambitious, confident and cute.

I'd like to express this combination of notboring-nice-smart-spiritual-ambitious-confident-cute in a conversation that look place last night after the very masculine tooth fairy insisted on giving Ruby $1 for her second tooth (as opposed to the 50 cents that Miss Cheapy Pants Tooth Fairy was going to give her) because that's the amount he always got for his teeth:

Me: So Ruby's mouth bled a lot more this time after you pulled it.
Go: This tooth wasn't as ready. I mean, it was ready but her first tooth was hanging by a single strand and this one wasn't.
Me: Did it hurt her?
Go: No way. I've got skills. (Gives me a quick twist-and-yank maneuver with his hand for demonstration.)
Me: I bet between your own and all of your brother's, you've pulled out like over 100 teeth.
Go: You're probably right.
Me: And you guys probably did dumb stuff like tie strings from the tooth to a door knob and then slammed the door.
Go: When I was pulling out someone else's tooth, I did. But I usually just used pliers when it was my own.
Me: Pliers?
Go: Yah, like needle nose pliers.
Me: Why?!!!
Go: Because my teeth usually weren't ready to come out yet.
Me: Why in the WORLD would you pull out your teeth with needle nose pliers if they weren't ready to come out yet?
Go: (looks at me with a mixture of confusion and "duh") Because I got a WHOLE dollar. And I was procedurally-oriented.

Because I married this notboring-nice-smart-spiritual-ambitious-confident-cute, I get to hear stuff like this on a regular basis.

I really like my life.

Tenderness

For a very short and unfortunate blip in my life, I dated a boy who called me "Tenderness." It started out as a joke, but then quickly stuck during the few months of our courtship, so much so that he probably even forgot my real name, which is why I feel I can totally blog about him because if he was ever creepy enough to Google me, he couldn't. Anyway, the relationship didn't end very well. I'd like to think that if I saw mostly any guy I dated years ago, today I could give him a friendly high-five and crack a joke about how weird it is that his wife looks exactly like me, proceeded by some overly exaggerated awkward winking, of course. But I can't because if I saw the boy who called me "Tenderness" today, I would just turn around and walk the other way. Even if I was in line for something good, like chocolate truffles. Or a grilled cheese sandwich.

Yesterday while at the grocery store, I was minding my own business, you know, cursing the pineapple for poking me or sticking some celery stalks up my nose, when an older couple strolled by with rickety elbows interlocked and I couldn't help but smile. Then, to my horror, the man turns to his wife and says "Tenderness, would you like me to bag the asparagus?" Ack! Memories! No thank you! I proceeded to flee the produce section immediately. I didn't even stop to get that head of lettuce I had wanted to play soccer with in the parking lot afterwards. Shoot.

Ten Songs I Cannot and Will Not Listen To

1. "I Swear" by Boyz II Men:
At our 8th grade graduation dance Bootsie McGee asked me to "go out" with him while slow dancing to this song. I said no and he started crying. This was a very sad night, as Bootsie had become a pretty good friend. We didn't speak again until our senior year when we had English together and were required to sit next to each other. Bootsie was like "Remember that time in 8th grade when I asked you out and you said no?" I started laughing was all "Ha-ha. Yah. Ha-ha." Stunned, he goes "You're a b****." I don't remember what happened next but I'm pretty sure I stopped laughing. In my defense, though, I was not laughing at the memory of his pain. I'm a nervous laugher. And maybe a b**** sometimes, too.

2. "The Battle of Evermore" by Led Zeppelin:
There once was a room mate named Donna who walked in on her other room mate named Darla who was kind of maybe making out with a boy while this song was playing. It was awkward for all parties involved and still is to this day actually, since Donna likes to bring up that memory from time to time and will not let me, er, I mean, Darla forget it happened. For evermore.




3. "Heard It Through the Grapevine" sung by Creedence Clearwater Revival:
The Marvin Gaye version of this song--awesome. But when John Fogerty sings it like "I hoyd it through the grapevine," I cringe-a-linge.




4. "Gonna Make You Sweat" by C&C Music Factory:
At your first boy/girl birthday party, do not roller skate to this song next to the boy you kind of like, BooBoo Underpants, because this boy will become your first "boyfriend." All having a boyfriend in sixth grade means is that you are officially "going out," and all that changes is that you no longer speak to him at school, but after school on the phone instead with your Mom breathing down your neck. BooBoo will go on to smother you with the heavily supervised phone calls, pepper you with questions like "Are you mad at me?" and pass notes in class containing semi-disturbing Poe-like poetry. Because of this, you will become suffocated with the attention and "break up" with him after lunch one day. Selfishly, you choose to do it two days after Valentine's day so you can at least get your Valentine gift from him, which ends up being a swim trunked troll doll affixed to a tiny surfboard and a gold plated drama comedy/tragedy mask that you will sadistically hang in your room for the next 7 years, reminding you of the heart you once crunched while standing in line for tether ball.

5. "Where Have All the Cowboys Gone" by Paula Cole:
A high school English teacher I had, Mrs. Crankpot, who was like 200 years old, once sang the first line of this song (and if you don't know the words in the first line, you obviously were not listening to the radio in 1997) as an example of how dirty song lyrics had become since "her day" when they sat around that crazy new invention called fire and beat on dried gourds. I really could have done without witnessing her dance while singing those lyrics, though--sort of a weird bump and grind movement that is forever burned into my brain.

6. "Smoke on the Water" by Deep Purple:
My next door neighbor growing up, Timmy Toodles, got himself a bass one day and never stopped playing those twelve notes over and over. In fact, I'd bet you 5 bucks that Timmy's still there sitting in his room with the window open, fifteen years later, playing that blasted bass line.

7. "Boot Scootin' Boogie" by who knows who cares:
This was my cue at stake dances to make a beeline for the water fountain/bathroom while the rest of the hee-haws still inside the gym pretended they had belt loops to hitch their thumbs through while they skipped and hopped together in rows.





8. "Breakfast at Tiffany's" by Deep Blue Something:
I think every boy who lived in Helaman Halls while I did at BYU knew how to play this song on the guitar. They'd would walk around with their beloved instrument they swiped from an older brother out on a mission probably, just playing and singing it, over and over because it was the only song they bothered learning before hopping off to college. This was the cornerstone of their plan to woo coeds in their desperate and extremely unoriginal attempt to kiss as many girls as they could before handing back the guitars to their returned older brothers and leaving on their own missions. If you're reading this right now and you ended up marrying one of these Breakfast at Tiffany's guys...um, my condolences.

9. "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" sung by Israel Kamakawiwo'ole:
This song makes me cry. It just does, ok?






10. "Lady in Red" by Chris De Burgh:
Newsflash: If you are dancing with a young lady who just happens to be wearing red, this does not give you permission, hormonal teenage boy, to dance cheek-to-cheek with her. Especially if you do not know the young lady at all. And especially especially if you have particularly over-active sweat glands.

A Baby

When I was around Ruby's and May's age, I wanted to be three things when I grew up:

1. A bus driver. I guess I accomplished my goal, seeing as this was my vehicle in high school and considering the number of people that were stuffed into it at times.

2. A tap dancer. Are you laughing? You should be.

3. An artist. I've done enough now that I can say with confidence that yes, I am an artist. Now if I could just get my dang etsy shop off the ground, I could even further my standing.


While making apple turnovers today (post/recipe to come):

Me: Rubes, what do you want to be when you grow up?
Ruby: My teacher asked me that yesterday and I said a zookeeper but I want to change it to a teacher.
Me: Cool. You could actually be both if you wanted to. May, what do you want to be when you grow up?
May: Um, a baby.

I'm with May. I want to be a baby when I grow up.

Especially if I looked like this: Look at those rolls. And how it looks like she has rubber band around her wrist. I miss that. I'm very much looking forward to seeing if this next baby will be just as fat and delicious as my other two. I sure hope so.

Growing Up Very UnHalloweeny Part Two

When I was like 11, I was a cheerleader...isn't it obvious? Because cheerleaders wear sweatshirts and turtlenecks...it's really no wonder I never went onto seeking after the real thing in high school. This is my Dad (who is a football player. Obviously.) and I at a Daddy-Daughter Halloween Party. Have I ever mentioned that my Dad is a king among men for many reasons, one of them being actually going to this thing with me cheerfully even though I knew he'd rather gargle a hand full of staples?
See those gold skorts I'm sporting? (Because cheerleaders wear skorts, duh.) They were only fastened and held together on one side by a single snap. A couple years prior to when this picture was taken, I wore these to school one day. During recess, we were playing Red Rover and having a grand time until I was "called right over." I started running and halfway across to the other side, I realized it was getting more and more difficult to run. I also realized that I was feeling a gentle breeze on bare thighs. I stopped in my tracks and looked down and found my gold skorts around my ankles. Needless to say, I never made it to the other side.

And then I was a gypsy for the next four or five years again.

One year in high school, though, I went crazy and was Waldo or Wanda or whatever her name is. The outfit was recycled from another school's dance I went to. Where'd I go? I can't find me.

And then in college, out of the clear blue sky, I started trying. My freshman year I was asked to be Baby Spice from the Spice Girls. Because I was cute and petite like Emma Whatsherface? No. Because I was the only one in the dorms that had long blonde hair. I would not categorize this as a proud moment.

The next year, I splurged on some wings and was a fairy. I don't know what Melissa and I are doing here but I might be granting her some wishes and she might be basking in my glory. Just a hunch. And those are my boyfriends Ossie and James in the background who always waited patiently for me to finish getting ready.

The following year: a recycled fairy. Thank you to my dear friends who neglected to tell me that night that I was wearing my wings upside down. I'll remember that next time I'm in town and we're at the Cheesecake Factory and there's spinach in your teeth.

The picture above was taken a couple of weeks after we started dating. I'm not sure Go had his costume on yet--he looked like this most of the time. Ah, yes. Here's his costume below. And let's all be keeping in mind that Brokeback Mountain came out like six years after this picture was taken...