My Interest in Pinterest

I don't understand all these people I hear saying (or read posting on Facebook or on blogs) "What's the big deal about Pinterest? I don't get it." What's there to get? You see something you like on the internet and you pin it. I think some people pin for different reasons, but for me, I think of it as an easy filing system of good ideas. Beats having a million bookmarks or having to write the whole stinking URL into a Moleskine book.

According to the stats on my account, I've pinned 580 items. I love the internet! So many great ideas. Most of those things I've pinned are gift ideas or for the future when our bank account is different or my time is a little more free or items or recipes for special occasions or non special occasions, but I have actually managed to make/do a a handful of things that I have pinned:

I've read/obtained these books:

Rocked these looks:

Made these recipes:

Sewed these things:

Implemented this tradition:

I love Pinterest.

My Podcasts. Mine.

I am a die-hard fan of both This American Life and The Moth podcasts. They both bring me so much joy and delight, it's to a degree where I have a hard time putting it into words. Like, even though they both have millions of listeners, I feel like they were put on the earth just for me and me alone. Crazy? Maybe. Self-centered? Most definitely but that's how much I love them. Sometimes they're shoot-your-diet-ginger-ale-out-your-nose hilarious. Sometimes they're bawl-your-eyes-out tragic. Sometimes they're I'm-so-much-smarter-after-listening informative. Sometimes they're I-can-do-so-much-more-with-my-life inspiring. This morning while cleaning the blinds in the front room, I listened to the latest Moth podcast, which turned out to be of the inspiring variety. It kind of blew my mind. I'm embedding it here and if you have 16 minutes and 50 seconds, I would highly recommend listening.

Richard Garriott: The Overview Effect by The Moth on Mixcloud

2005 Called. They Want Their Shorts Back.

I still own an item of clothing I bought back before May was born that looks like this:

Long, brown, corduroy, gaucho-style shorts that go down like an inch or two below my knee caps. Some real lookers, especially with my unusually short legs. Really, there probably wasn't a more UN-flattering piece of clothing I could have worn. A flesh-colored mu-mu would have made me look better than these shorts did. And I think there were a couple of times when I even wore them with suede plum-colored lace up Camper boots. Arr, Matey. Shiver me timbers.

I have a looong list of projects I'd like to dive into but Etsy orders, though I'm grateful for them, have taken over my sewing machine time. But I'd like to try my hand at tailoring--I've never done anything like that before and I'd like to see if I can make these into something wearable rather than throw them away or risk getting snickered at if I donated them to the Salvation Army.

Tailoring these shorts so that they are fitted instead of (gulp) wide legged and taking them up to a normal Bermuda-short length is what I'd like to do with them, besides use them has a handkerchief while I look back at old photos of me actually wearing these beasts.

Playing is Fun!

Are your children's make-believe scenarios as disturbing as my children's?

"Ok. Pretend you're a baby and I find you abandoned in a Kleenex box wearing nothing but a soggy blue bandanna for a diaper. I'm a one-legged waitress at a 24-hour diner and I find you in one of my booths after your parents leave you there on purpose, their tummy's full of regret and Shepherd's Pie. Instead of contacting the authorities, I decide to raise you. We get along fine for the next 18 years until I tragically die in a Special Olympics wind surfing accident, leaving you penniless and forced to work in the very diner where you found."

So maybe I elaborated a little but their imaginations are almost as bleak when they play. Someone is an abandoned baby. Someone else has a deformity. Someone dies. There's always some sort of poverty involved.

Why all the drama?

Instead, I wish they were playing happy, shining make believe.

"Ok, so we're both well-adjusted college graduates applying for grad school. In our spare time we ladle minestrone soup to the homeless and design clothes for local boutiques. We live together in an old textile factory that has been remodeled into condos. There's a hip but nutty old woman who lives next door and we spend every evening with her sipping pomegranate limeade and playing dominoes."

Skeleton Boy

I meant to post this video a long time ago...but then I had a baby.

This video is rad. Such a good idea. We watch this all the time at our house. We particularly like 1:20 through 2:00, even though it is well after that you get the full vision of the video. I think it would be really fun to make music videos. It's a shame they're a dying art.

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.

Happy 8 Years of Mah-wage to Us

Dear Go,

I not only love you, but I really, really like you as well.

Love,
Me

Kind of Embarrassing

If you've been a reader of this blog for awhile, you might be able to recall that I like to read the verbage on the packaging of products.

On my new B&B color support conditioner:

Caution: Do not use for dyeing eyelashes or eyebrows; to do so may cause blindness. Avoid getting in eyes.

It's a good I read that or:

"I regret to inform the readers of Deep Lunges & Unitards that this will be my last post ever, as unfortunately last night I was trying to dye my eyelashes with my conditioner and now I am blind."

Education

Dear Mrs. Ruby's Teacher,

Imagine my surprise last night when I opened up Ruby's backpack and found this:
What, exactly, are you teaching my child?

Just curious,
Annie Reynolds

Happy Birthday, You Handsome Devil

Go is officially old. How is it that this 10 year old:
(who has had obvious fashion sense from the beginning)

And this 22 year old:
Is now 30 years old?

*Emmy, I will always be grateful to you for snapping this picture of us during the freshly budding and thus semi-awkward stages of our courtship.

Consumerism For Dummies

Three examples found inside my very own home:

1. THE TOTALLY OBVIOUS:
In our frozen pizza's "Baking Instructions" for dinner tonight: (don't judge me, it's been one of those days)

"Do not eat pizza without cooking."

Whew, that was a close one. We would have been sitting at the dinner table, gnawing on our frozen pizza for hours if it wasn't for those instructions. Thanks, frozen pizza guys.


2. THE TOTALLY RIDICULOUS:
On my bottle of conditioner:

"CAUTION: Before use, a preliminary patch test should be made. IMPORTANT: A preliminary patch test should be made before application. With soap and water, carefully choose a skin area the size of a quarter on the inner elbow or behind or near the hairline. Apply conditioner to the cleansed area with a piece of cotton and allow to dry. Leave unwashed and uncovered for 48 hours. If no sign of irritation or redness appears, proceed with application. Do not use on abraded or abnormal skin."

"Hey, you've got something on your inner elbow."
"Oh, that's just my conditioner. I'm doing a preliminary patch test."
"A preliminary patch test? What's that?"
"I don't really know. The bottle told me to do it, so I did it."
"The bottle told you to?"
"Well, it didn't tell me..."
"I know, I was just kidding."
"Oh. Ha-ha-ha-ha."
"Yah, I can be really funny sometimes. So how is the test going so far?"
"Well, there's no sign of irritation or redness, so I'll proceed with application in an hour. It's been there for 47 hours. Just one more hour to go and then I can take a shower."
"Well, it's a good thing your inner elbow wasn't abraded or abnormal."
"You can say that again."
"Ha-ha-ha-ha."
"Ha-ha-ha-ha."

And scene.

This concludes my proposed script for the public service announcement needed for the endorsment of preliminary patch tests of conditioners campaign. I think it will be a sensation that will sweep the nation.


3. THE TOTALLY AWESOME:

Found on a package for a Texas Hold 'Em Poker Set: "For ages 3 and up."

Sorry, two year olds. You can't play poker with us tonight, not until you're three. Now run along and go back to playing your little Russian Roulette game.

The Journey

I found this gem misplaced in one of my computer files this morning. At a glance, they are just some high school photos. But look a little closer. You won't have to look too close. This just isn't a visual tale of awkwardness, but also a tale of masacre, a tale of misery, a tale of horror, a tale of survival and revival. May I present: The Little Eyebrows That Could.

10 Year High School Reunion a la Mastercard Ad

Plane flight to Irvine in October for me and the girls: $1800.

Ticket to Reunion Event: $85.

Deciding not to go (see aformentioned plane ticket price), thereby relieving myself of an evening spent explaining the past 10 years of my life over and over and over and over: Priceless.

Christmastime in Days of Yore: Part Two

I came across some old family Christmas pictures and was reminded of all the different ways me or one of my brothers "ruined" the picture each year. Here are a few of my favorites:

2006. Who knows when my Mom will be brave enough to try this again.

Face squishing in 1999.


The eyebrow massacre of 1994. 


The peak of my brothers' comedy, which was 1992.

Christmastime in Days of Yore: Part One

Tonight was our ward Christmas party, complete with a visit from Old Saint Nick. May was all about it: an old man with facial hair? Yes, please. Ruby wanted to know why Santa wasn't wearing gloves and what those spots were all over his hands. "They're liver spots, kid. Here's a candy cane. Now take a hike." I wanted to know why his beard looked like stretched quilting batting, the cheap kind. It got me thinking, over the years there has been a sad decline in the quality and authenticity in Santa Claus costumes. I did some research and the results I found were astonishing:

Take for instance this costume circa 1980. Even my keen 5-month old observation skills could not detect that this was not the real deal. In true 80's fashion, look at how fluffy that hair is. Top notch.

Then we've got 1983. That brass belt buckle is the real deal, folks, no rectangular piece of felt for this guy. My brother couldn't even make eye contact with this Santa Claus, he was so awestruck.

1986. See that velvet? Straight from the North Pole. And with such a lifelike portrait of Mr. and Mrs. Claus hung in the backdrop, who's not to say that this guy's for real?

1989. Way to old to have done this, but I was drawn in by the sheer magnificence of his frothy white beard. And the candy.

Athleticism Later in Life: Part Three

So a year after the Ballet Incident, I find someone who will actually marry me and he happens to be a work-out-aholic. While we are dating, he invites me on several occasions to come work out with him at the RB/Fieldhouse, to which I decline and make up excuses like "You know what?  I think I'm allergic to foot powder.  You wouldn't believe the amount of foot powder that is floating through the air ducts of those buildings. I don't want to risk another breakout like last time," and "Yah, I have this thing with tiled hallways.  I get vertigo."  I guess I always could have gone with "Well, you see, there was this one time I had to run all the way home from the RB in the snow without any pants on, so I'm kinda turned off to the place," and it would have sounded just as good.  

So somehow I trick the Work-Out-aholic into marrying me.  Isn't he pretty?  One of the first things we do after we move to downtown SLC, in typical Work-Out-aholic fashion, is join a gym.  For the next 9 months we live there, he pleads and begs everyday to come to the gym with him, to which I always give in into because we are newlyweds and at this tender, early stage in our marriage, I am still a nice wife. But to my surprise, as the weeks tick by, I start looking forward to kickboxing, yoga and aerobics.  This is a win-win situation.  He doesn't have to beg me anymore and I'm not getting fat.  

But of course, we have a one step forward, two steps back situation when we move to Iowa and a couple of months later, I am pregnant.  The Work-Out-aholic, now a busy med student, starts to plead and beg for me to come to the gym with him after school/work.  On most occasions I decline.  Why?  Because we've made it past the year mark and every day after that, I get potentially meaner.  That and I'm usually still digesting the cheesecake my co-workers have fed The Pregnant Girl at work. When I do actually give in and go, my time is usually spent sitting in the women's locker room reading trashy magazines.

Work-out-aholic: So how was your work out?

Pregnant Girl: Very educational.

Surprise!  I gain 50 pounds while pregnant with Ruby.  I can recall a conversation I have with my very sensitive, caring and warm OB.  

Pregnant, Fat Girl: I've gained so much weight!  What should I do?

Very Sensitive, Caring and Warm OB: Stop eating so much!  My gosh, stop putting food in your mouth, woman!  Wire your jaw shut!

Two days later I have Ruby.  This is her first picture.  See these cheeks?  They are made of cheesecake.  

I have 35 pounds to lose.

To be continued...  

Athleticism Later in Life: Part One

As I child I was not what you'd call "athletic."  This was something I developed much later, an arduous and embarrassing journey of sweat and tears.  Join me for a trot down memory lane.

I tried soccer for a season in fifth grade, a miserable several months in which I was to endure humiliation every Saturday, followed by a baggie of sliced oranges, a Kudos bar and a Squeeze-It.

Welcome to Phase 1 of  3 of My Awkward Stage.  Comfy?

Then there was swimming, which I was better at but still not fantastic, which I did the summers after the 6th and 7th grades.

Summer after 6th: Phase 2 of My Awkward Stage. 

 Summer after 7th: And now tapering off into Phase 3, the final stage. (That is, until I over-plucked my eyebrows my sophomore year and My Awkward Stage started over again.  But that's a whole different post.)

During high school, I took a big hiatus from all things athletic.  I was too busy being a hippy and kissing my boyfriend.

College rolled around the Freshman 15 hit.  I went to the RB (the workout room at BYU) a couple of times, but all I really did was half-heartedly do the StairMaster and pretend to read a magazine while I stared at boys. 

To be continued...

Really? With cleats on?

Last night, a minivan in the Blockbuster parking lot caught my eye.  It had two bumper stickers in the rear window, one down on each bottom corner.  On the right it said "Middletown High Football Mom.  Go Raiders!" and on the left it said "Football players do it with cleats on."  Hm, you learn something new every day.  So you're saying that your son plays football?  Great!  Good for him.  And he "does it" with cleats on?  Wow, did he tell you that?  Gee, thanks for sharing.  And thanks for encouraging your young son to be spreading his seed around.  While wearing cleats, no less. 

Time to break out the shoulder pads

Today I was called as the Relief Society secretary. Now all I have to do is find some pearls, some flowered dresses, and get myself some supportive pantyhose to seal the deal. And don't be surprised if you see me sporting the following three sweaters:



I was turned onto this website by an IA friend. This sweater lady kills me. I especially love the titles she gives each one.
"Butterfly Tears", "Mesquakie Keno", and "Breath of a Criminal" are shown above.

You can find more gems like these here:
http://www.lesliehall.com/gemsweater/gallery/gallery1.htm

Grandma Love-It

This is where you could most likely find my girls during the reunion, on the lap of my Grandma. These three took to each other instantly. Even though May looks like she's reeling back in horror in this picture, whenever I would come to get her, May would say "NO!" and bury herself into my Grandmother's cleavage. I'm quite sure after doing so, she retreived a couple bucks, a shoe, a toothbrush and Eli Whitney's first cotton gin from out of those depths. As my cousin put it so perfectly "It's like Mary Poppin's Bag in there." I hadn't seen my Grandma in 4 years. What a strong, smart and fun woman.