Only Sophia

A little while back Sophia had some fun by saying that if she would have gotten her middle finger cut off she would have to say "give me four" when wanting a high five for the rest of her life.

I recently came across this picture, and wanted to share the funny story.

Raising Sophia is so much fun. She is hilarious. She is smart. She is beautiful. She is SWEET. And she is also blonde. Very blonde.

A few years back, as we were visiting my in-laws, for some reason, LeGrand and the girls and I ended up driving to church in Grammy's van. Aunt Michelle was with us. Halfway to church, Sophia starts screaming from the back. We, being the experienced parents that we were, told her to knock it off. Michelle attentively found out what was going on. She calmly declared, "Her finger is stuck in the seatbelt."

"Well pull it out", I say. "It won't come out", Michelle says. Sophia is now crying with full force, which is slightly louder than a whimper. I forgot to tell you the girl is quiet. And although she has mostly outgrown it, she used to be terribly shy. I climb in the back of the van to take care of whatever it was that 22 year old Michelle couldn't.

I was in for the shock of my life. HER FINGER WAS STUCK IN THE SEATBELT. What the heck? How did this happen? Sophia explained that she was just trying it on for size. You know, like a ring. What?.. had she worked her way up to the middle finger from the pinky? Well, she found the finger that it WOULDN'T fit. The middle finger was painfully and obviously TOO BIG. Honda Odyssey engineers must not have thought this one through. 3 year old stuck in a van + an empty middle seatbelt = an ultimate disaster.

I still thought I may be able to rectify things. I asked Michelle to hand me the A&D Ointment out of the diaper bag while thinking "thank goodness I still have one in diapers." I slathered it good. The finger would still not budge. It wanted to keep that seatbelt on for the showing I guess. Sophia started really screaming good. I pulled hard to no avail. That thing, that ring, um, I mean that seatbelt was not coming off, and her finger was now swelling up good. The seatbelt started cutting into her skin.

By this time, we pulled into the church parking lot. LeGrand got in the back of the van to assess the damage. He calmly asked Michelle to go into the church building to get his dad. Papa came out and was astonished. Remember he is an engineer and he raised five kids....one of which, was Jordan. (a whole other story - one bragging rite was rescuing Jordan vs a hot water heater and although the hot water heater tried to shock Jordan to death, Jordan still won) Who would have guessed this could ever happen? Not any of us if we weren't staring at it with our own eyes.

We decided I should try and get some ice from the church to see if we could get the swelling down. At this point, Sophia is resigned to be stuck in this van for a very long time. At least she had stopped screaming. The ice didn't work. At all. It may have cooled her off a little but, that was about it. The only other thing we could think to do was call the fire department. I went in and found a NON EMERGENCY number and called. They questioned, "Her finger is stuck in the seatbelt?" "Yes", I said, "but it is so much worse than that." "We can't get her out of the car." With my brief explanation and their utter curiosity they said they would send someone out.

Meanwhile, we solicited the help from a prison doctor who happened to be attending church. He tried the trick of wrapping the string around the finger. It wasn't even close to working. I guess it works on real rings...just not the steel kind. People from the earlier congregation start filling the parking lot as they were leaving. They looked over casually wondering what all these people were doing standing in the back of a van. It was July. It was hot. All of the sudden, you can hear the sirens. They are screaming from down the street and they are traveling fast. Could they possibly be for our Sophia? Why yes. They were.

First, the firetruck arrived. In LeGrand's words, "Three big old firemen" all decked out in their flame resistant uniforms went to work. They assessed the situation and found a perfectly happy and shy little girl confined to a life in the backseat of a mini-van via seatbelt confusion. The confusion being theirs. They called the fire chief. He had to come and see for himself. Shortly after he arrived and checked things out for himself he said he had been the fire chief for thirty years and had never seen anything like this. Well there's really no other way to celebrate America on the weekend of Independence Day, is there? The irony - no freedom to be found without the jaws of life.

Well, before they went as drastic as the jaws of life they decided that they would consult with their buddies, the paramedics. The paramedics offered nothing, except for some real eye candy for the people leaving church. We had a lot of gawkers. Not to blame them. How could they not wonder what was going on?A little girl in the back of a van. Emergency workers each taking turns checking out the situation. An array of emergency vehicles, inlcuding, but not limited to: a firetruck (with lights and sirens), an ambulance, a couple of police cars, and the truck of the fire chief.

Oh yeah, after putting all their heads together, what did they come up with? They were gonna have to cut her out. That was all they could do. They cut her out of the seatbelt and gave us their best advice, "Head on over to the emergency room to see if they can figure out some way to remove the metal from her hand". "Oh, and tell your other kids not to play with the seat-belts in the future." "Why thank you. Thank you so much."

LG, Sophia, my father in law(Duane), and I head on over to the emergency room. We get to start it all over again. At the front desk. "Hi." "hi." "How can we help you?" We all look totally fine and we are dressed to the nines compared to the rest of the room because our Sunday worshop was apparently happening on their floor of the hospital. LeGrand starts to explain, "This is our daughter Sophia, she got her finger stuck in the seatbelt." Blank stare. Me: "let me show you." I held up her hand to the receptionist who immediately dropped her jaw in astonishment.

This exact scenario happened at least 20 more times while visiting the hospital. We finally just started throwing her hand into the faces of the medical gawkers. Everyone wanted to see what a finger looked like on a little girl who stuck it in a seatbelt. Nurses, doctors, janitors, desk workers, x-ray technicians. You name it. None of the emergency room docs knew what to do either. They tried the string trick, ice, but gave up shortly before the second round of A&D ointment.

It all ended with a visit from the orthopedic surgeon who declared, "we are going to have to do surgery with our diamond saw." Are you kidding me?

As he started to explain that he was pretty steady with the saw, but there were still all kind of tragic possibilities including the loss of a finger, I quickly reminded him that LG was in law school and he better not screw up. He didn't appreciate that. I started crying and begging him to not cut her finger off. He assured me that if he did cut it off, he would be able to most possibly successfully reattach it.

That was the longest hour of my life. The surgeon did a great job. I never did tell him that LeGrand wouldn't have sued him even if he cut her whole hand off. I was so relieved that she was all in one piece.

Today, Sophia is really proud of two things. One- she was in a movie and two - she has a beautiful and modern ring that is an original. (I haven't had the heart to tell her that has probably happened to someone else out there in this big world) The ring is cut into two pieces in her box of keepsakes and she is free to try it on whenever she feels a hankering. We figured that would be the surest way of keeping her away from the same exact seatbelts in our current van.

I wish I could have been at the Honda Dealership when my father in law was explaining the situation. He had to pull out a picture of WHY the fire department had actually cut the seatbelt out of the van. "She got her finger stuck in the seatbelt" just wasn't cutting it.

Our hats go off to Honda who has a lifetime free replacement for their seatbelts. Maybe one of these days they will call to let our children safety test their vans. I am sure there are other possible disastrous scenarios that their engineers haven't thought of. Adding a blonde child to their team could only help their safety regulations. I know four children that could give them a run for their money, as long as they won't lose any fingers.

Uranus and UP

Here is Abigail trying to make Caroline smile.

I know I've blessed my children's lives eternally by gifting them my sense of humor. I know they are happy about it. I know because I hear their laughter on a consistent basis.

I am not so sure that their posterity will be so grateful, but if my theory that laughter is genetic is true, then I am sure they will be.

This evening, I pulled out one of Abigail's graded papers from her backpack.

As I read, my funny bone was struck like a beautiful chord.

I had to call LG at work to beam with pride.

Me: "LG, you gotta listen to this."

LG: After my third attempt "Alice, I can't understand a word you are saying, you gotta quit laughing."

Me: "Abigail brought this paper home. She turned it in this way. I can't stop laughing. At the top it is entitled Uranus. (oh c'mon, tell me some of you immature types are already laughing - LG was still silent) It then reads. 'The planet I was assigned was Uranus, now, don't laugh, Uranus actually has some interesting facts.'"

LG: "Alice, it's not funny, she is just saying it is an interesting planet." (Yeah, of course he would think that. She gets the scientific side from him)

I was out to prove that she gets a little DNA from me too. I hollered out to Abigail. "Why did you say not to laugh in this paper Abigail. Was it because it's a small planet?

Abigail: trying to be serious "No, mom, it's just because the name sounds funny."

Me: "Why does it sound funny Abigail. I know you are too smart for that. Do you know what an anus is?"

LG on the other line is denying that she would know any such thing. At which point Abigail busts out in laughter. "Yeah, mom, an anus is the hole in your bum."

That's my girl!

The conversation finished by me using every ounce of self control to stop laughing and discussing LG's further plans for the evening. He said, "If basketball is lame, maybe I will stop by Redbox on the way home."

Me: "Yeah, that would be fun. Instead of Redbox, we could just watch U - P (spelling out the name of the movie so the kids wouldn't catch on to a future Christmas gift.)

LG responds to my fits of laughter with, "What are you talking about Alice?" I reply while trying to breathe instead of laugh, "I said we could watch YOU PEE." LG was still clueless. I had to explain that I was spelling the movie title at which point he gave me a sad sounding chuckle.

C'mon people. Tell me you laughed.

dad = goat

So this morning as we were getting the girls ready for school, all of the girls were telling their dad about their trips to see our friend's baby goats. Thanks to Grammy for the field trip. The girls just loved these baby goats. And thanks to Steve and Stori for their fun petting zoo.

Here is the goat with Bella. Isn't she cute? I was talking about the goat. This baby goat's name is Carameletta. Isn't that a cute name? Again, I am talking about the goat. The other two babies are Dotty and Pedro. (Pedro's the boy)

So, back to the name of the post. This morning the girls were telling LG all about the goats:

"We had to chase the babies dad. We caught Dotty. The baby one is called Dotty
because she has a lot of dots. The dad has a long beard. The dad is
harry-er. The mom goat looks like she is mad at you and being protective,
but she doesn't really care. The dad goat is bigger than the mom goat. They
were all so cute dad. They were so fun. The dad goat has bigger horns."

LG in response to the girls: (yes his wit is really keen in the mornings) "So, I think I got it all, tell me if I am right: the dad is fatter, harrier, and hornier?" Yep I guess that dad really does = goat.

I just rolled on the floor laughing. What a great way to start the day.

I think that Gina's hubby's humor is also a little twisted. Gina informed her hubby that I suggested he win a good hubby award, he said, "What does a man do to win the chubby award?"

Right on Target

So, I had a short stint as a cashier at Target this year. Wow, was that enjoyable! If you ever need to be motivated to go back to college, just go and take a $7/hr job that deals with the public and retail during the holidays.

I have no idea why, but I have always had this dream of being a cashier ever since I was a little girl. I always loved to play grocery while growing up. I think I dreamed of being a cashier because it combines things that I love: meeting different people, working at a fast pace, pounding on a keyboard, and organizing (you can't put the bacon in with the Tampax now, can you?) It only took two shifts for me to totally outlive my dream of being a cashier. Well, as LeGrand says, "It's a good thing you got that cashier stint out of your system because I am on the virge of making the big bucks." Time shall tell. When LG is a millionaire, I don't think he will want a Target cashier for his trophy wife.

Well, anyhow, it is late and I am tired and I want to get to the funny part of my story. There were many things that happened funny at Target. I may remember all of them someday. There were also many unfunny things that happened to me at Target, like the day I left a customer in my checkout line with a quart of spilled chocolate milk. What person did I find to help me on my third day...the only person not working...the HR lady....what did she do....She exclaimed, "You left a spill, didn't you watch that training video?" Oh, yeah, I vaguely remember that video that said to never leave a spill...but, if no one else is willing to help, how in the world will it ever get cleaned up unless you walk away and get some cleaning stuff? And, I had asked the customer to stay there and watch it. It was her own darn fault for handing the bottle to that darn toddler to chuck it down on the ground at least 5 times.

Well, you know I became the expert Target cashier because on my next to last shift when a woman urinated all over my checkout line, I didn't move a muscle. I stood there like a statue and flipped my blinking light until my team lead came and took care of the situation (Yes, he took care of it alright - he told me, he would watch the spill while I ran to clean it up...yes, the joy of being management- another reason to go to college or work at Target for 10 years straight after getting your GED - And, he was quite helpful - he said, "You may want to get some Lysol off the shelf for this one")

So, the short funny story. One evening, a woman came through. She was purchasing a bunch of "for kids only" stuff, including mylicon drops and detangling spray. Now, you know my goal in working at Target was to make sure everyone left with a smile. (not because Target told me to, just because I like to make people smile.) Now, if any guest left with a laugh, then I would be able to come home feeling really underpaid. (there is no feeling that can compare to being underpaid)

So, I strike up a conversation with this woman as I check her out. "Have you used this stuff before", I ask as I chuck her mylicon drops in the bag. "I have three daughters and have never tried it." She says, "Oh yeah, if you have three daughters you have to have it. You epecially need it with curly hair. You would not believe how much it helps."

I say, "Really, curly hair, I have never heard that before. I have only heard that there is a link between babies with hair and a pregnant mother's heartburn." At which points she starts cracking up. I say, "I can't believe that, children with curly hair have more gas than those with straight. That would explain why I have never needed those mylicon gas drops, all my girls have pretty straight hair. Who knew." I keep going with, "Well, they did get some gas when they were really little; I wonder if that is when their hair was curlier." She just laughs even harder, at which point she takes the bottle of Detangling Spray out of the bag. She says, "I thought you were asking me if I have used this stuff before, not the Mylicon drops."

I am sure that my face turned a brighter shade of red then my beautiful Target polo. At which point, I started cracking up. I had no reason to be embarassed, she was loving this funny conversation. As a few other people around us started laughing too, my shirt immediately flushed back to it's normal color, which is roughly the same shade of my Target khaki pants. Now, don't you think that they should have given me a raise to at least $7.50/an hr. I made at least 6 people laugh that night, not to mention the skill of making my skin the same colors as my uniform.

This is the way we do it in the south

So, I am addicted to reading the comments on my blog. The other day I was frustrated because none of my blogging friends have updated and no one is giving me the desperate attention I shouldn't need. LG informed me that I have fallen away from what I do best, telling funny stories. "No one wants to read about your kids", he said. He then informed me that I ruined my reading audience because back in the beginning I was getting at least 20 hits a day, and that now, if we could remember how to get to my tracker it would be just the same 5 friends. Oh well, I guess I'll never be famous. Isn't this blogging thing so egotistical? Who really wants to read anything that I have to write about except other bloggers who are just as desperate as I am for some comment action. I mean really, be honest with yourself, don't we all blog for the comments?

So, on with my desperate attempt to entertain my readers with a story that doesn't have to do with my children. Which may backfire because all of my readers may be in the future when my children get older and decide to do genealogy by reading their mom's blog. And, then they will just want to hear their stories, and instead they will find this one. Man, us mom's, sometimes we just can't win.

A few years ago, when I was very new to the South and was trying to learn all the new vocabulary I had an interesting experience at WalMart. Of course it happened at Wal-Mart because Tennesseans don't shop anywhere else. This story has to do with the picture above in a round about way...see if you can figure it out. I got the picture above from, I know you won't believe it, the international towing museum, which is amazingly located down south a bit in Chattanooga,TN.

I was checking out in the regular line, as opposed to the infamous Self Check Out, which is where I normally check out. I may have shied away from Self Check Out a little after the above mentioned linked experience, and come to think of it, it was shortly after the funny check out story and I was checking out late at night (which explains why I wasn't in my favorite closed self check out line.)

So, this night, a gruff looking man pulled his buggy up behind mine (we use the word buggy instead of shopping cart in the South) On a side note, I learned very quickly to holler (not yell) at my children to get in the buggy. No onlookers understood my discipline when I told my kids to get in the cart. I like to think of my audience you know. So, on with the story, as the cashier checked out my mountains of groceries, this gruff man asked her politely if she would keep an eye on his buggy. He explained, "I'm a wrecker driver and I just got a page." He took off and the cashier pulled his buggy of merchandise out of the line.

I was perplexed. "What's a wrecker driver?", I asked the cashier, with as close as I can get to a Southern accent. I knew I would sound as if I was from a foreign country. The cashier looked at me as if I was from a foreign country. I explained further, "If you can't tell already, I am not from the South." (not hard for most people to notice since calling a shopping cart a buggy is as close as I get to a southern drawl) "So what that you aren't from the south, are you stupid?", her glare seemed to scream at me. So, I asked again,"What's a wrecker driver, I really don't know what that is."

As she must have noticed the tear forming in my eye from frustration, she answered nonchalantly, "It's a person who drives a wrecker, honey."

I probably should have stopped there, but just couldn't end the insanity until I got my answers. "What's a wrecker?"

"Well, you know, honey, it's the thing that people call when they've been in an accident or their car broke down."

"Ohhhhhhhhh, a TOW TRUCK!", I responded feeling so enlightened.

She then replied, "What's a tow truck?" I saved her the humiliation and explained, "It's what the rest of this country calls a wrecker driver."

Well surely this WalMart cashier must have been the more misinformed person because even the best of the best wrecker drivers call their museum the "International TOWING Museum", not the "International Wrecker Museum." I took pride in myself tonight for knowing more than the old WalMart checker about wreckers. Surely she doesn't know about the wrecker museum or this website that I found tonight while searching for a picture of a wrecker to post.

Do you think I can pass as a true Southerner yet? I guess I'll have the ultimate test when my car breaks down. If I look under the T's in the yellow book before I look up the W's than I will have failed. But, if I go straight to the "wrecker section", well, then let's just say that then y'all will know that I am at least one southern vocabulary word closer.

Self Check OUT

I have searched high and low on the internet for a picture of self check-out in action. This picture was with an article found here.

I wanted a point of reference as I tell you one of my most HILARIOUS embarassing life experiences. This is a good one, I promise, you want to keep reading.


O.k., much has been said about self-check out. Everyone has their own opinion about whether or not self check out is a good thing for society. My opinion of self checkout should have changed after my experience yesterday, but I have to admit that I will still be a frequent user of self check-out. I LOVE it.

I am addicted to self check-out. In fact, I HATE it when the workers who oversee the self checkout kiosks try to get too involved with my check out process. There is this one elderly employee at Wal-Mart that will stand by my side the whole time giving me tips, telling me how to unload my shopping cart, and what the codes are on the produce, and so forth. I want to shout at her, "Would you let me be? I am in the self checkout because I don't want to deal with people like you!" I guess she just doesn't understand that I am completely capable of scanning bar codes and swiping my own debit card. What she really doesn't get is the sheer joy I feel when "pretending" that I am the cashier(a job I always wanted to have as a child). "AND I REALLY WANT TO DO IT BY MYSELF...o.k. grandma!"

Well, there is my take on self checkout. Now let me tell you of my experience at Wal-Mart yesterday. [Don't you think I should start to tally how many times I write about Wal-Mart.] I guess it is a funny place. Let me tell you what, you would have been laughing hysterically if you were anywhere near me at Wal-Mart yesterday. I literally CHECKED MYSELF OUT!

Well, a friend offered to take my children for me so that I could do some heavy duty shopping. Bless her heart, there is NOTHING more painful than doing heavy duty shopping with three children under 6, unless you want to add more children to the scenario. I was in a HUGE hurry. Abigail started first grade today, and yesterday from 3-4 p.m. was the "meet the teacher" day. I dropped the kids off at one and vowed to be back by two; this would give me just enough time to get the groceries home, clean Abigail up, and drop Phia and Bella off at the other babysitter. I knew I would have to hurry. One hour is just not enough time to do heavy duty "I have nothing in the house" shopping.

So, of course, I found the time to be 2:05 and I hadn't even had a chance to navigate through the frozen food aisles. I made a mental note to do the frozen stuff later and hurried my way to the self-checkout, knowing that I had to make it real fast if I was going to get to the school by 3. O.k., so here is the crazy part:

I was unloading one shopping cart, checking items out, and loading them all into an empty shopping cart on the other side. I was crusing! I got my six gallons of milk scanned and set in the bottom portion of shopping cart #2. I then, proceeded on to my 12 pack of diet caffeine free dr. pepper. As I came back up (still, in a rushed mode, remember) I went to quickly grab the next item from my original shopping cart. Except my aim was WAY off. I slammed the top front part of my head against the corner of the scanning device. I heard a loud POP sound, and couldn't believe that I had slammed my head that hard in front of all those people. How embarassing. Little did I know that the slamming noise was the least of my worries.

I stood upright and brought my hand to my head, just hoping that I wouldn't find blood. I am unsure of what happened first, me feeling blood trickle down my face, or looking at my hand full of blood. I got dizzy and sat down on the "bagging" section of the self checkout. Thankfully there were no groceries there, leaving me a perfect little recovery bench. I am also thankful that the weighing device didn't shout out "weight not found" or "get off the scale". I sat there, put my head down, and held pressure on my bleeding head. How mortifying! There was blood all over my hair and face, the floor, my hand, and arm.

An older Tennessee native (who was missing most of her teeth) was walking by with her grandchildren right as all of this conspired. Normally, she would not be the kind of person that I might associate with, but yesterday before she left, I gave her a huge hug and told her, "Thank the Lord for Mothers!" She stepped right into action, grabbed a travel size kleenex off of the shelf and started handing them over. At one point she held them on my head for me. What a woman. She didn't know me or my blood history at all. In fact during the confusion I did promise her that my blood was clean. I probably stressed her out, as I am the kind of paranoid person that worries about blood diseases and so forth and she probably hadn't even thought of it.

Finally, the Wal-Mart workers became aware of what was going on. The first one on the scene questioned my new older friend, "What happened?" I shouted out, "She beat me up!" You gotta make light of the situation, right? How else does a person survive such an embarassment? Everyone had a good laugh and more and more Wal-Mart workers came out of the woodwork. (Why is that when you need a worker you can never find one? And, if you ever need customer service, you have to stand in a line for at least 15 minutes?.......Because ALL Wal-Mart workers feel the need to respond to a little emergency like a lady bleeding all over their floor in self checkout) One of the workers commented to the other, "She is bleeding like a stuck pig." I don't know if she was looking at the scale that I was sitting on or if she was trying to make any reference to my weight, but golly, do you think that was what I needed to hear at this horrific moment? Like everyone couldn't see the blood for themselves!

So, I started to regain consciousness, and threw out a request to my Wal-Mart fan club...."Can someone please get the Wipees from my purse?" (a good mom always has the wipees within arms reach) I started wiping off my head and hands and at this moment, the nicest worker, who happened to look a little like my husband, said, "Oh, here, sweetie, let me clean up your eyes." I closed them so that he could take care of me, unlike the rest of the staff who just stood around staring in awe. Someone did bring me some ice which was really nice. Then, the short little manager (you know he is a manager because he wears a red vest) asked me if he could take a statement. The nice guy that looked like my husband proceeded to check out the rest of my cart (or buggy as they call it here in TN). I stood up and proclaimed to the crowd of 8 that I would not sue Wal-Mart. It was totally my own clumsy fault. The short man said it was protocol to have me sign something.

I said, "Can you make it quick? I have to go and meet my daughter's teacher right now." This brought a roar of laughter. I guess I looked pretty awful and holding that bag of ice on my head didn't help the situation. I then got a stroke of genius. I said to the crowd, "Come to think of it, maybe I could get Wal-Mart to pay my husband's way through LAW school." Everyone laughed and the short serious manager replied with a worried tone, "Your husband isn't really in law school, is he?" I loved to get his goat and said, "Yes he is, and maybe I should call him before I sign anything." He tried to play it off like he wasn't worried, but what he was probably thinking about was the little sign that they keep in the break room that will now proclaim 0 days since an accident on the sales floor. I laughed and told him I was kidding, and reasurred him that I wasn't going to sue. He informed me that I had only 24 hours to let Wal-Mart know if I was in need of anything.

I then tried to awkwardly push my VERY heavy shopping cart out of the store while holding a bag of ice on my head. I smiled to myself because I was on my way, and maybe would even make it to meet the teacher on time. And, I had to laugh at myself. How many people on the internet have a self checkout story that even compares to mine? I survived checking MYSELF out at Wal-Mart. (and I am not talking about in the dressing room mirror) I can never show my face there again, but hey, I survived.

The Potluck

Learn one VITAL sign in ASL: Eat food!

As opposed to Eat poo ("U-no-poo" was one of my favorite parts of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince by J.K. Rowling)Wouldn't I love to be like J.K. Rowling someday!

Well, this entry is dedicated to one vital facet of Mormon life.....the potluck dinner. I must say that before moving to Tennessee, I really liked potlucks. But, too many bad experiences in my congregation here have quite turned me off. At our Christmas party last year, we ran out of food.....a Christmas party with not enough food???????
And sometimes after church on Sundays we have what is called a "linger longer" where all people bring food items of their choice and after our 3 hours of meetings we dine together. Or, we are supposed to dine together.

Last year I made a vow to never attend a linger longer again. On this particular Sunday, I left disgusted with potluck dinners. I had taken 3 dozen homemade rolls and two very yummy and large salads. When it came time to eat I found myself at the back of a very long line. I gathered 3 empty plates for my children and was astounded when all that was left of the spread was some yucky mac-n-cheese- and a 3 quarter empty rice-cooker with cold hard rice. My kids were starving and the people ahead of us had been VERY RUDE and gotten themselves very large servings and sometimes even TWO plates. I couldn't believe my eyes! I told LG that I would never attend a linger longer again.

Yesterday, after church, LeGrand came home and said, "Alice, you aren't going to like this, but...." I had no idea what he was going to say....only the worst was going through my mind.....(IDEAS: the Bishop wants us to donate a $1,000, I have been called on a mission to Zimbabwe, I want a divorce)

I braced myself, and inquired. He said,"I think that we should go to the Linger Longer next week." I lovingly questioned him and he put forth some powerful arguements and I agreed that I would go, but that I would stash enough lunch for the kids in the diaper bag, just in case.

As LG walked back to our bedroom to change out of his suit, I hollered, "LG, you aren't going to like this, but, I think we should have another baby." (No, I am not announcing anything)

LG, turned quick on his heels, met me in the kitchen, made eye contact and said, "O.k. Alice, we don't have to go to the linger longer." Isn't he funny?

P.S. I think he talked me out of Baby #4 for now.

Poor Bambi

The Classic: Bambi 

On Monday, I took the kids to Sam's Club. I ever so slyly put the newly released Bambi in the bottom of the buggy (that is what they call a shopping cart in TN). I even turned it upside down, so that if the kids did see it, tbey wouldn't know what it was. (I wanted to give it to them for Easter from the Easter Bunny)

I succeeded at hiding it from them for about 15 minutes. As soon as we stopped at the snack bar, it was over. Abigail, caught eye of it, picked it up, and announced to her sisters: "Look you guys, mom is getting us Bambi."

About an hour later, after I had managed to put several other things in the buggy too (including Abigail and Sophia), I started to feel guilty about the money I was going to spend. I put several things back, including Bambi. The girls were sorely diasappointed, but I told them that we would come back and get it when dad was with us.

As we were going to check out, Abigail and Sophia glued themselves to the TV monitor that was playing Bambi. (Aren't those Sam's Club people smart?) It was at this point that all of my guilt subsided. (I knew that I would have to buy Bambi, if I ever wanted to get out of the store) I told Abigail to get Bambi off the shelf again, and after the girls cheered for a second or two, we were off.

Buying a new movie is HEAVEN to a mother. When we got home, the baby went down for a nap and Abigail and Sophia proceeded to glue themselves to our TV. I was able to get some cleaning and other household duties accomplished without any interruption.

Well, later, as we sat down for dinner, I asked Sophia what she thought about the movie. I fully expected some kind of reaction. I was totally traumatized by the show when I was little and Sophia is my most sensitive child. I was totally taken off guard when I heard her response.

Sophia said,"I like Bambi." I happily said,"Good, what was your favorite part?" I thought that she would say Thumper or Flower the Skunk. No, this is what my twisted child said,"My favorite part was when Bambi's mom died." What in the world?!?! In a worried tone, hoping that she could redeem herself somehow, I asked her frantically, "Why was that your favorite part?" She said,"I just like it because I don't want Bambi to have a mom."

Who knows? Maybe my-three-year old was going for the reaction or maybe she needs some serious therapy. Maybe Sophia should grow up to be a hunter and join the Bambi Killers Club. I could only conclude one thing from the conversation, Disney has a conspiracy against mothers. First, they force us into buying their movies with their very skilled marketing. Second, mothers are allowed a false sense of relief when the kids happily sit and watch a Disney movie for hours on end. Then they pump anti-mother doctrine into our kids...think about it:

Disney killed Bambi's mom. Cinderella's step-mom is EVIL, and who knows what happened to her real mom. Belle doesn't have a mom. Mulan wants to be like her dad. The only conversations between Ariel and her parents were with her dad. Sleeping Beauty's mother poisons her with an apple. Tarzan's mom got eaten by a tiger. Nemo's mom.... well, you get the picture. Poor Bambi. Poor Mother of Bambi!!

Cialis

For erectile disfunction....Cialis!?!?!? 


A while back LG and I were watching TV. We had tuned out during the commercials. All of the sudden we hear, "For erectile dysfunction, See Alice."


Come to find out it was really "Cialis", the new viagra. We weren't sure who should be more offended, ME or LG!

John Denver

John Denver is the man! 

When I found out that LG shared my love of John Denver, I KNEW he was the man for me. I thought that I had an unusual upbringing because my parents were always exposing us to JD's music. Come to find out, my upbringing was pretty normal. LG was growing up 2,000 miles away and he had just as much exposure to the King of country-folk music.

While I lived in Alaska, mom and dad would put us to sleep with John Denver. They would play him as loud as he would go on their little portable battery operated tape player.

I still love John Denver. LG and I carry on tradition and listen to him while we take road trips with our girls. We teach them to sing the lyrics to his songs, which are quite uplifting. Here is one of my favorites:

Perhaps love - 1980

Perhaps love is like a resting place,
A shelter from the storm,
It exists to give you comfort,
It is there to keep you warm,
And in those times of trouble
When you are most alone,
The memory of love will bring you home...

Well, I was grief-stricken, like many others, when Denver died in a plane crash, October 12, 1997. I was mostly bummed because I never got to see him in concert.

At the time, I was taking a course in college, Public Speaking. Each student was to give a speech on a self-chosen topic. I did a bang-up job with mine on the life of John Denver. Did you know that his birth name was Henry John Deutschendorf Jr.?

Well, during my speech, I touched on Denver's act of adopting two children with his first wife, Annie. In explanation of the adoptions, instead of saying, "They thought that John was sterile." I said, "They thought that John was impotent."

Hello, they THOUGHT that John Denver was IMPOTENT...isn't that something that someone either knows or they don't?

I still got an A on the speech. No one even snickered when I said it. I didn't even realize what I had said until I was doing my mental speech replay later on during the day. I was mortified at what I had done. Luckily, most of the students in the class were really naive 18 year old Mormon girls. But, surely my hot young male professor from Michigan realized what I had done. I couldn't believe it when I got my grade. Either the teacher was really impressed that I was the only student who accompanied my speech with a Power Point presentation, or he was so entertained that he decided to let my mistake slide.

My Dad

"Here I come to save the day!"

This story will be a shining example of how my siblings and I viewed my dad when we were kids. He was and still is Superman.

My dad worked construction until I was about nine at which point he changed his career path to building maintenance. One of our favorite things to do when we were young was to go with dad on Saturdays while he "checked out" different construction sites.

Our house used to be the most east in Carlsbad. Behind us were miles and miles of dirt hills. Those hills are now ALL developed and you can drive the actual paved roads into Vista instead of taking the long way around on the H-78, like we did.

One Saturday, my dad decided to take my sister, Shannon, (18 months older than me) and I out four-wheeling in those hills. He wanted to go beyond the construction sites that we had been exploring. This adventure was much more fun than it should have been considering we were in the family station wagon. Well, Carlsbad had gotten some rare moisture previously and the hills were somewhat muddy.

Lo and behold, we got stuck! My dad decided to play out Superman. He told my sister and I to "stay put", and he "would be back to get us out of the mud". Great plan in theory, but Shannon and I were terrified. We were in the hills with nothing in sight. We knew that these hills were full of mice, rattlesnakes, and the coyotes that always ate our cats.

At one point, I voiced my fear to my "wiser" sister. She reminded me that we had just learned a song in Primary about faith and believing that God would answer prayers. (I recently taught this same song, Faith, to the children at church. When I relayed this story from my childhood to them, I realized just how absolutely absurd it sounded.)

Well, my sister and I decided to sing this song. We thought that if we could sing it loud enough, God would hear that we had faith and somehow He would save us from the Coyotes. It seemed like a lifetime. We decided that we should pray too. We did. We prayed. We sang. We prayed. We sang.

All of the sudden we spot something moving over the horizon. It was over this same muddy hill that my dad had disappeared over minutes if not hours before. As this thing edged its way over the hill, we saw that it was a TRACTOR. It was coming straight towards us in all it's glory. (It was just like the one in the picture above.) As we looked closer, we saw that my dad was driving. He had found it at some construction site, hot wired it, and drove it back through the mud to SAVE THE DAY. (Hopefully enough time has passed that no one can press charges)

My dad easily pushed the wagon out of the mud, using the front scooper, while Shannon and I watched in pure amazement. Not only was our dad really Superman, but just like our primary teachers had told us, "God had heard our prayers." He had answered our pleas with one REALLY COOL ending.

WT

Abigail's "Barbie" blanket 

Here's another confession. Not a proud parenting moment.

When we moved with our three kids to Tennessee, I was plagued with anxiety about how people would view me and my family of 5. I think I was justified, as to the fact that we live on $12,000 of student loans a year + whatever wages my husband can scrape up in his spare time during the school year and summers. [The big fat greedy lawyers do not pay clerks enough. Whenever LG is high and mighty, he is going to fork over some cash to those starving students. Or, maybe he won't, maybe it is some kind of passage of rite: if you can make it through law school alive, then you deserve a decent salary.]

Well, embarassingly enough, I was heard to encourage my children not to do certain things in fear of fitting into the "poor" role. I would give them good advice like: wear your shoes, brush your teeth, comb your hair, don't say bad words, be nice to your friends.....all good pieces of motherly advice. Sometimes, I would put a little add-on at the end, "Now, you don't want people to think that we are white-trash."

One night, we were all taking a late drive home. It was a sure thing that all the girls would fall asleep on the hour and a half drive. Abigail had gotten her pants really dirty or wet so that she didn't want to wear them on the long drive. We were caught without a change of clothes and so we told her to just take her pants off and put her blanket (pictured above) over her legs to cover her up. She was satisfied with the solution to the problem.

Well, we ended up needing to take a potty break and a stop for some more baby formula. We stopped in at the local grocer. I wrapped Abigail up and told her to keep herself covered as we ran into the bathroom. Abigail was only about 4 at this time. When she finished her business, she caught me completely off guard when she said matter of factly to me:

"Mom, now, cover me up good, we don't want anyone to think that I am white trash!"

Her name is Pixy

What happens when you don't buy your kids a dog  

This morning, as we were running out to go and help the knee-surgery friend again, Sophia pulled a rock out of her "special" drawer. I think it is a 3-yr-old thing to like rocks because every time we go out to play, she comes back in with a pocket of them. (I can faintly remember Abigail doing the same thing at this age) Well, all of the rocks are special to her and I usually can get them either back outside or in the garbage without her noticing. So, I was slightly surprised when she pulled out this rock, which is brown, has the face size of 2 quarters, and the thickness of her little finger.

I am trying to rush both Phia and Bella out the door, and to my even bigger surprise, Sophia says,"Mom, I am going to take my pet rock, O.k.?" I said, "Sure, of course you can bring your pet rock" (hmm....i didn't know she had one, but, whatever, she probably learned about pet rocks on Sesame Street, and off we went. Well, I was very entertained the whole morning as we ran arround town; I learned more and more about this pet rock. As we were getting out of the van, Sophia says,"Mom, I can't forget my pet rock, Pixy." I said, "Pixy, what is that?" "That is my rock's name, Mom",was her reply. I said,"Did you name her?" She said, "Yes" I said,"Where did you get her name?" "I just made it up",was the response from my all-knowing 3-year-old.

Well, she took the rock out to let it rock in the rocker at the dr's office. She held it in her lap, talked to it, showed it off to my friend's kid and her sister, Bella. We later went to pick up Abigail from school and we all ran to Wal-Mart to pick up some stuff for my friend. While I was trying desperately to reign my kids in and find the specific baby food on my freind's list, Abigail and Sophia decided to fight over the rock. I reminded them to be nice and to stay by the grocery cart, and I also confiscated the rock. Sophia cried, but I told her that the rock needed a nap, and she could play with Pixy when she got home. This sufficed.

So, we get home, and the rock comes out. It is nice out today and the girls wanted to play outside. The next thing I know, Sophia is wailing. I mean absolutely freaking out, as if someone had died. I run over to where they were digging to see what the problem was. I ran as if someone had cut a finger off. Abigail quickly explained that Sophia had buried her Pet Rock and she now couldn't find it. I didn't want to not validate Phia's feelings by laughing hysterically at the sight of he "rock" back where it came from in the first place. To her, this rock was buried alive.

So, I sat there for fifteen minutes, with that darn shovel, reassuring my sweet, sweet, sweet, tender-hearted daughter, that I would find Pixy and all would be well, while digging frantically. I kept coming up with different little rocks and I knew they weren't Pixy because they weren't even the same color or size, but after about five minutes, I was worried that I would never find her, and I thought that I could trick Phia into believing that one of the other rocks was her beloved pet. She never fell for it. I offered a prayer of thanks when I finally found her real Pixy. By this time Sophia had wandered to the other side of the yard. You would have thought I was three to hear the excited tone to my voice as I yelled over,"Sophia, I found her, I found her....Here's Pixy." As my 3-yr-old ran over to retrieve her most prized posession, I couldn't help but think,"Supermom to save the day" and I handed it over with a very wide smile that said,"I love your pet-rock too."

The Famous Sarcasm

Steve Young: If you were a single Mormon girl in the early 90's, you wanted to marry him! 

When I was a freshman at Utah Valley State College, back in 1991, I worked at a Malt Shoppe in Provo, UT, called Stevenett's. It is now just, The Malt Shoppe, but you will still see the same faces, just years younger, cruising the place on Friday and Saturday nights.

Well, this one Saturday night when I was working, a really famous visitor decided to grace the place with his existence. I had heard of him and I wanted to marry him just like all of my 5 roommates, but I really had no idea what he looked like.

We were only open until 11PM on Saturdays, because the Sabbath starts at midnight and that would allow all the Mormon workers to get the place clean and home in time. This night, everyone was out on a date or hanging out with friends. The weather was great. It was 12:30 and our line was still out the door. I was frustrated.

So, this guy with outdated muscleman pants, a Jackson Hole baseball cap, and a highschool football T-shirt makes his way to the front of the line. I was working the register and thinking, "Boy, this guy is cute; he just needs some new clothes." He was friendly; he smiled and asked, "what's good?" Remember, I just want to go home and I am sick of these customers. I said, "I don't know, you have been standing in line for at least a half an hour, have you not had a chance to figure it out?" He was taken back a bit. I polished it off with,"I like________, but everyone's tastes are different, and so I can't tell you what you will like."

He sat there looking at the menu, and I questioned, "What is Jackson Hole?" He said,"You have never heard of Jackson Hole." I said,"NO, sorry, I am not a Utah Native." He said, "Where are you from?" I said, "Where are you from?" He said,"I asked you first." I said you probably haven't heard of it. He said,"Try me." I said, "California." He said, "Heard of it." I said,"Carlsbad, bet you haven't heard of that?" He said,"Actually, I have vacationed there a few times. It is a great place." and he continued on to tell me about places he had visited in my town.

I said,"So, where are you from?" He said,"Several places actually, Connecticut, Utah, California." I said,"Oh, you're a military kid." If you haven't figured it out by now, the guy I was giving attitude was Steve Young. He is obviouslly not a military kid, but I am sure he found this rather humorous considering I was either making a really good front that I didn't know who he was, or I was just a total idiot.

He later asked me what I was doing after work (I like to claim that he would have dumped his sister or his date and hung out with me), but I think he was just being nice. I told him I was preparing my talk to give in church the next day. He said,"Oh, that is why you want to go home so bad." I said,"yep." At this point, another guy came and took over the register for me and I went back in the kitchen. The cook said,"You sure were striking the fancy of Steve Young." I said, "Who?" He said, "That was Steve Young." I was mortified.

The next day, my roommate was in charge of a fireside (something that Mormon's do on some Sunday nights...an extra gathering.) After hearing my claim to fame, my roommate decided that I had to give the opening prayer. As I walked up she claimed that Steve said that I looked so familiar and that she told him about the night before. She said that he said,"Oh yeah, she is hilarious!" Who knows if that conversation really took place, but I think if it is true that Steve Young thinks I am hillarious, then you should really continue reading my blog, right?

The Dilemma

Tupperware...no housewife can live without it

For about four days, we have had the rankiest smell protruding from the hallway where our office and bedrooms are located. Of course, it was my job to figure out where in the world it was coming from. I searched and searched to no avail.

Finally, yesterday, I decided to stay home and do nothing but take care of my household duties, not because my house was a sty, but because it was time to tackle the laundry. Well, even after I tidied everything up, emptied the garbages, and cleaned the laundry there was still a REALLY bad smell.

It was time for my built-in mother detective skills. I started my search with the little bed that is constantly made on the floor next to ours. It is made of an egg carton mattress, three or four quilts, and a bunch of pillows. We refuse to let the girls get in the bed with us because we want to get SOME sleep.

Unfortunately, there was nothing in the kids' makeshift bed. I then moved my search on to the other side of the bed and looked underneath. Jackpot....under the bed was a sippy cup turned over sideways and Serafina. (one of the girls favorite stuffed kitties) Now, what you have to understand is that there are different types of sippy cups. The one under our bed was the kind that I use when I give the girls juice. (the sippy part has a constant open hole, making it possible for orange juice pulp to get through) This also makes it possible for ALL of the juice to get through, especially when it is tipped on its side.

IF YOU HAVE A WEAK STOMACH, consider this a warning. So, I push the bed aside and pick up the cup; there was a little curdled OJ inside (how does OJ curdle...who knows?) It SMELLED SO BAD. And, then there was the kitty......can you say the smell of maggots rotting in the sun? Serafina must have soaked up a bunch of the orange juice and she sat there waiting for someone to come and relieve her and the rest of the house from the stench. Who knows how long she had been there. So, I smiled with pleasure, knowing that me, Supermom had saved the day again and I moved quickly to take care of business. I wiped the wood floor with Clorox wipes (thank goodness it wasn't carpet); I then washed the cat with Clorox (thank goodness it was white), and washed the cup with Clorox.

Later, during the day, over the phone, I relayed this story to my sister, Shannon. Shannon asked me why I didn't just throw the cat and the cup away. I explained that the cat was their absolute favorite and they would have died. I had washed it and it was fine. (a little less fluffy, but fine nonetheless) I also told her that I could have thrown the cup out, but, why? If I dealt with the cat then I knew I could deal with the cup. So, Shannon says, "You have to throw the cup away or then it becomes like 'the blue cup' " This brought instantaneous laughter......

So, here's the last part of my story. When we were kids, my mom had a bunch of colored Tupperware cups, much like the ones shown above. I grew up in the 70's and so, of course, we had the colors that are shown above, but we also had primary colors. Well, one day, my brother decided to urinate in the blue one......Who knows? Brothers do the weirdest things. (maybe you males can understand, but we sisters sure didn't) So, we ran and told my mom that he had peed in the cup, hoping that she would remedy the problem. Well, all she did was pour out the urine, rinse out the cup, and wash it with some bleach.

To us kids, there was NO WAY that cup was rid of the pee. Every night, my mom would set the table and all of us kids would await which color cup we would get. We knew better than to ask for the one we wanted because we all wanted the same one. My mom would just go down the table and put one down at the top of each of our plates, one at a time. Every night, you could hear the howl of whichever unfortunate kid got the blue cup. How cruel, huh? It's no wonder I need therapy.

So, if you haven't caught on to the dilemma yet, it is this: When a mom is faced with a DISGUSTING situation, should she clean it up or get rid of any offensive matter? I think that the answer to the dilemma is this: you can clean it, as long as the kids don't see whatever it is while in the gross state. If they do, you better just throw it away to save yourself the therapy bills.

Fortunately for me, yesterday, our girls never saw Serafina in her worst state. No howls of undelight for this MOM.

No Smoke?

Would this sign become obsolete if the world would all convert to smokeless tobacco?

Alright. It is 8:30 am and not much funny has happened yet today. Unless you consider the debate that I just had with my friend's kid about eating Honey Nut Cheerios funny. (I am watching the two older girls of the friend who had baby #3) The kid already ate breakfast before I went and picked her up, but when I gave my daughter, Sophia, some dry cereal in a bowl to snack on while watching cartoons, she wanted some too. So, I gave her the pick from my pantry. She wanted Honey Nut Cheerios. I poured them out into the bowl and handed them to her; for some reason they weren't what she expected. She said, "I don't want that kind." I said,"You just said that you wanted that kind." She said,"No, I didn't." I wanted to say,"Yes, you did", but I refrained from the debate with a two year old, and started back at square one asking her which kind she would really like. She settled on Frosted Mini Wheats. Thank goodness they were aesthetically pleasing when I handed them to her in that Dora the Explorer Bowl. I made a big deal out of the bowl, when I handed it to her, to take the attention off the cereal, of course.

Well, I was just thinking of another one of my brighter moments, and thought that I would share it here. I think it is pretty funny. Shortly after we moved here to Tennessee, I found myself at a semi-professional football game. My brother-in-law Jordan was playing for this team that he called semi-professional, but it seemed like the league was made up of fat old guys that were reliving their high school glory days. Note: (in case he reads this) Jordan wasn't old and he was only a little fat back then.

Well, I found myself in the stands with my husband, kids and in-laws. I was a little shocked that SO many people were smoking in the bleachers. Remember, I am a Western girl. I spent my first 18 years in California and the next 12 in Utah. (both States have clean-air acts) My husband says that in TN many people farm tobacco and a clean air act would never fly. If the amount of people that I see smoking when I am out and about is any kind of indicator, I am sure that my husband is correct. My husband is a native Tennesseean and like anyone else he is extremely defensive of his native land. So, I really wasn't enjoying one of my first TN football experiences because of all the cigarette smoke. If this makes me shallow, sorry, I just do not want my children to die from second hand smoke inhalation.

On with the story, the mother of Jordan's friend was sitting and talking to me. She was so friendly, like most Tennesseean's. There is, for the most part, a breathtaking Southern charm here. During the conversation, I got to complaining about all the smoke and the smokers...me and my big mouth (a few weeks later, at the only other game I could stand to attend, we walked by her when she was smoking...she totally tried to hide it from me.) Well, this woman, started telling me about her son and the football team and her daughter that was getting married. I asked what her son did for work. She had mentioned that he was taking a break from college. She replied with,"He has a great job, and although it isn't a mother's biggest bragging right...he works for a smokeless tobacco company."

O.k., so here is the funny part. It displays not only my naivity, but my blonde side also. I got all excited and said,"How cool...they make smokeless tobacco." She looked astonished and said, "Oh yes, of course." Now, there was an obvious miscommunication going on. All the time, she was talking about Chewing tobacco (that is the ONLY thing that I had ever heard it called). I thought that the amazing tobacco farmers had come up with some kind of cigarette that could be smoked without giving off any smoke. I was AMAZED and wondered why in the world more Tennesseean's wouldn't use SMOKELESS TOBACCO. Yeah, I know, I am SO funny.

Can a good deed erase a REALLY bad one?

Wendy's Fine Dining

Alright. I can't believe that I am even going to write about this. My husband will be so embarassed, but I have to get it off my chest and make a public apology. We all do things that we aren't proud of right? Well, earlier today, I was in a huge hurry. I had all three of my kids and we were heading over to a church friend's house to do some cleaning...she had her third daughter yesterday and when I talked to her this morning she related how sorry she was that she had the baby earlier than expected...her house was a wreck...so I went into charity mode and decided to go and clean her house, buy her a fruit bowl and some balloons and a good smelly candle. I also put a gift together for her including a gift certificate for diapers.

Well, in the middle of all of this, before heading over to her house to tidy up the place, I realized that I needed to feed my kids. We went to one of my favorite "Get America Fat" joints: Wendy's. O.k., so here comes the really bad deed...I went through the drive thru and saw that there were two brand new quarters on the street outside the pick-up window. They looked like state quarters and so, I was so excited. I squeezed out of my car and picked them up....when I got back in my minivan and closed the door, the cashier was sitting there with her hand held out. She said,"Those are ours." I was destraught...I had just gone through all that effort for 50 cents, and now SHE unrightly THINKS that they are hers.

I didn't know what to do and then I made one of those really stupid split second decisions. One that I will regret for a while....I dropped those darn quarters and told her that if they were hers, I would let her pick them up..........HOW RUDE, am I? I can't believe that I did that. I am making a public apology here. I felt bad the instant I acted like a total jerk. I was just on the defense because I felt like I was the rightful owner of those two quarters. I really felt bad too because I hadn't been given my food yet, and who knows what she would do to it now?

I still feel bad, but I did manage to get to my friend's house...I cleaned for at least three hours. I am smiling knowing that she will come home from the hospital to a VERY clean place. Probably cleaner than she is even used to. I tend to be obsessive compulsive when it comes to cleaning....I even scraped the moldy caulk off their shower. I really hope that in God's book the three hours that I spent cleaning selflessly will make up for that really rude decision of dropping those quarters.....you can't even buy anything for 50 cents at Wendy's anyway and apparently it has to be your own 50 cents.