Snorta

My youngest daughter's favorite game is called "Snorta".  This is one of my favorite things about her.  She loves Snorta and she always picks it when it's her turn to choose.  I love this so much about her because Snorta is the game that she ALWAYS loses and she loses big time.  But the whole time she's being shut-down by her family, she's smiling and laughing and enjoying every minute. 

Years ago, when we started playing games as a family, to assuage the tender feelings of my tots that lost, I coined the platitude "Whomever has the most fun, wins."  If you look at it that way, she has never lost a game.

Four Haircuts

This handsome kid is my little brother. This picture was taken at the St. Peters Ward picnic in 1988. You will notice that he is sporting the typical teenage "why are you taking my picture"look. He was such a cutie, even when he glowered.

He is also sporting the typical skater haircut of the 80's.  He spent A LOT of time either on a skateboard, or adjusting/building/manipulating a skateboard...and he was really good at it.  And as his big sister, my contribution to this illustrious skating career was relatively small and mainly cosmetic. I cut his hair. 

I'm not sure whose idea this was.  Did he ask me? Or did I make the suggestion?  I don't know. All I know is that I was 18 years old, had never cut anyones hair in my life, and I probably used fiskars. But I gave him the classic skater look he wanted at the time and had a lot of fun doing it!

That lead to me cutting his friends hair too.  Once again, fun on my part, but apparently, horrific as far as his mother was concerned. Sorry Mrs. Delano.
This is where the whole haircutting thing should have stopped.  But I'm afraid that by this time, we had created a monster.  With fiskars in hand and WAY too much adolescent confidance, I decided I was a beautician.  Obviously the whole beauty school thing was optional and just not for me.   

This is where Mr. Beautiful comes in (insert cringe.)

I'm talking about Mr. Everything On My Shallow List; good-looking, great at volleyball, returned missionary, sings and plays keyboard flawlessly, likes my favorite bands, perfectly whitty and drives the coolest car.  Dreamy.

Oh yeah, and he had a skater haircut, which is probably why when he asked at volleyball one night where a good barber was, my best friend who knew I liked him piped up: "Rosie cuts hair!" 

Oh my gosh.  I suddenly had a "date" with this guy...to cut his hair.  Fortunately, for everyone involved, he got to my house at the appointed time, but before I did.  Just enough time for my mom to probably fall over laughing when he announced why he's there and to warn him to stay away from me and scissors.  When I got there he graciously announced he'd rather go to a movie than get a haircut (my mom probably gave him money for the show AND for a real haircut somewhere else).  We watched Beaches and he held my hand when I cried.

Eventually I would find myself at BYU, living off campus without a car.  Hmmm....how would I get to the grocery store?  I know, I could trade haircuts for rides!  Enter poor unsuspecting victim number four.  This time however, there is no mom to save him.  It's just me, him and my dull fiskars. 

I don't know, I really don't know.  It had to be at least an hour, maybe more, of methodical/perplexed snips here and there. He did not wear a skater cut (pretty much a bowl cut).  He had one of those real haircuts that required tens upon thousands of little hairs all needing to line up and look...normal.  I was lost and I think he knew it, for as soon as my phone rang and I put down the scissors to get it, he practically jumped up out of the chair, made up some excuse and ran out the door.  Poor guy.

I don't cut hair anymore.

Happy Valentines Day to me...because of you.

This morning I emerged from our basement after a three and a half hour organizing binge that started out as a quick trip downstairs to put something away, ONE something, mind you...just one.  I knew time was passing and that thirty seconds had turned into thirty minutes and then to an hour, but I had no idea it was almost lunch time (good thing I slept in my clothes last night...long story).   My morning had slowly escaped from me, or rather, been kidnapped from me by my penchant for organization; but I couldn't stop myself.  I am that way.  So much so, that  when our new Bishop asked my family what my talents were, they said organizing.  I was slightly disappointed.  I was hoping for writing or designing, but they said organizing.  That is a good talent, it really is, but it's hard to hear that what you consider of yourself to be a slight mental imbalance, is largely known by others to be your primary talent.  "Hey...I'm crazy and I'm really good at it!"

Mark has prodded me to turn my "talent" into a profit by becoming a professional organizer.  But I don't think that would work.  The main driving force behind my "gift" is the ability to throw stuff away.  It tends to make people angry when you try to throw out what looks to you like garbage, only to find out, it's actually not garbage, it's their junk. Junk isn't garbage. People like junk.  They carry it around for YEARS and hurt people who try to mess with it.

But as for me and my house...less is more and always will be. Except for stuffed animals. They are stronger than me and I have discovered that resistance is futile.  I have discovered this the hard way.  Call me crazy, but for every stuffed animal I've ever thrown away, I swear six more have come back to replace it.  Two by two these cuddly culprits will someday march onto a giant stuffed ark, and float away to a plush paradise and I will be left behind with nothing to loathe but the mosquitos and politicians.  This is not only my fate, but I believe the only way I'll EVER get rid of them.
Now it is two o'clock and I have not done my budget like I was supposed to do today.  But my basement is cleaner and my blog is longer.  Truly there's just one thing left to do...find out what time Ellen is on.

The New Digs (photos for Mom)

As You Enter...

To Your Left...Mark's Study



To Your Right...Formal Living Room and Ping Pong Arena



Once Upstairs...

The Loft...





The Master Bedroom...

 



Master Bath...

Emily's Room...

Other Part of Emily's Room...

Rachel's Room...

More of Rachel's Room...

Phoebe's Room...(best view, but smallest room)







Back Downstairs...

 





Best Room of All...Rosemary's Studio

Family Room...




 

Snowing Sideways

It snows horizontally here in Illinois.  Unless, of course, you are horizontal yourself.  Then...you guessed it, it's vertical.  But no matter how you slice it, anytime you find yourself in a situation that requires you to combine geometry and meteorology the resulting result will always be the same...stay home.  Don't go outside, don't even think about going outside!  Just stay home and be warm.  We have already arranged for other people to go outside and be cold; like the mail carrier and the dead, so we just don't need anymore cold people.  Stay home, and be a bum...like me (if only I could grow a five o'clock shadow...then my slothfulness would be complete)  

But if you must go out, please, change out of your sweatspants or jammie pants!  This appears to be a real epidemic here in Chicagoland.  It's everywhere. I saw a grown man just the other day with batman jammie pants on at the hardware store.  He was buying an electrical outlet.  He not only drove himself to the Home Depot, but would soon return home to finesse the high risk task of working with electricity, so I must assume he was somewhat capable of dressing himself.

On another note, Mark's job has improved.  Someone in upper management noticed a severe lack of grins and chortles in the office and started asking questions like: "we make games for a living, shouldn't we be having more fun?"  Changes are being implemented and we feel that our prayers have been answered.  Praises, as always, to Heavenly Father.

I Would Like to Buy a Vowel

Good news! I've identified the source of all dread! Wait...that's actually bad news, isn't it? Ok, well maybe it's not good news and maybe it's not the source of all dread but it is definitely the source of the dreadfully doomed feelings I was experiencing pre-move to Illinois (see "Merry Christmas" post, December 25th).

Turns out...Mark works for a dangerously caustic person. I won't mention his name, but what I will say is that it's only one vowel away from being "Satan".

Oh, the blogs I could blog about this guy!!! He is a real psychopath. Psychopathy (/saɪˈkɒpəθi/) is a personality disorder characterized primarily by a lack of empathy and remorse, shallow emotions, egocentricity, and deception. Let's just say... he's a real kitten-kicker.

I'm gonna go ahead and spin the wheel and say, if "Satan" were Pat Sajak, as soon as he could tell you were going to solve the puzzle, he would change the puzzle, and THEN if that wasn't bad enough, THEN he would openly belittle you in front of any audience available for not being able to solve it.

This is who (or what) my dear husband has to work with, not just eight hours a day, but 11-12 hours a day!!! Yeah, I know. Get the heck outta dodge. Easier said than done when you've just dramatically uprooted your entire family, signed on a new mortgage, and have a resume that you kinda care about.

My poor, poor husband. How I weep for him. How he weeps for himself. How I can barely stand to watch him suffer through this abuse, capital A B U S E.

Why we have to go through yet another excruciating trial so soon...I don't know. That is a question for another game show. But what I do know is that I can absolutely trust God and His plan for us.
"Nevertheless...thou knowest the greatness of God; and he shall consecrate thine afflictions for thy gain." 2 Nephi 2:2 He has never failed us and someday, we will see the purpose in this as we have seen in all the other adversities we've been called to pass through.

New Year, New Home, New Post

Nine days ago I gave my two oldest children goodbye hugs. They were long, tender goodbye hugs and I may have cried a tear or two, but I don't remember. Ok...I cried my eyes OUT. I think Nick even leaked a little. Then we climbed into Grandpa's truck and amidst a few more sobs here and there, made our way to Salt Lake City international airport to leave Utah soil for the last time in a long time.

I was anxious to take my girls through security, as we all should be any time we participate in a government sponsored mandate that is completely unconstitutional. The TSA is the gateway drug for the loss of the rest of our liberties people....but that is another blog for another time. Let's just say, I was anxious.

But, as it turned out, the four of us made it through without so much as a beep from the metal detector. Big sigh of relief...until they scanned Emily's backpack. There she had packed the Christmas presents she had opened that morning; one big bottle of lotion plus one big package of pedicure products equals one big liquid no-no for air travel in the US of A.

Deflated, we began to calculate what our options were for this seemingly minor, albeit quite significant to a 13 year old, bump in the road. As my brain was in the middle of scramble mode and I had my dad on the phone to see if he had left the airport yet...the TSA agent came back with Emily's backpack and said that her supervisor thinks it would be ok to let these cosmetics go this time. Phew! And Merry Christmas to us! I still don't know if Emily realizes how lucky she was.

Our journey resumed. And easy it was. Phoebe's guitar case passed as a carry-on. A cute BYU co-ed engaged Rachel in in-flight conversation on the first plane. Frontier Airlines delivered their signature warm chocolate chip cookie as a snack, and no one got air sick. On the second plane, we discovered that when we paid for the upgraded ticket (an extra $25 to get two bags checked) we also got free TV service. And lest we forget...warm cookie number two.

With warm cookies in our tummy and mucho luggage in tow, five hours and two planes later we made our way through Chicago Midway Airport to pick up our rental car. And what to our wondering eyes did appear? Nothing. They over-booked their fleet and our reservation (plus those of the six people in front of me) was unfulfillable. No cars at Hertz at 10:30 PM Christmas night.

We were issued apologies and promises that other rental car companies still had cars available, which may have been true, but other rental car companies were closed and had already gone home. Budget/Avis was still open so I waited in line there for forty minutes with the rest of Hertz's jilted customers. Apparently forty minutes is just long enough to exhaust your fleet because when there was finally just one patron in front of me, he turned around to report to his wife: "They're out of cars."

I scrambled up to the desk. "You're out of cars???" Yes. They were. They had a van left...but I wouldn't want it. "Why wouldn't I want it? Is it unreliable?" No. Works just fine, it's just a twelve seater and would be difficult for someone like me to manage. Guess again Mr. Avis...haven't you ever heard of youth conference? Not only can I 'manage' it, but I can 'manage' it with only three hours of sleep and nine insanely sugar-punched teenage girls in the back all singing "All Star" at the top of their lungs while driving through Utah's canyon country.

So finally, at MIDNIGHT, all of our bags were loaded up and we were on our way home. Home? Yeah...home, kinda. I guess.

That's where we are now. Our new house, that we are slowly but surely making into a home. And with every box I upack, I absolutely cringe at that thought of having to move again, and yet... I know better...

Merry Christmas

The day has finally arrived; the day that will see me celebrate Christmas and then board a plane with three of my children to meet my husband in Illinois; our new home. Now I realize that it's past midnight and that I have been yanked around emotionally quite a bit for the past four months and I realize that I may be hopped up on quite a bit of sugar from tonight's Christmas Eve party...but I just have to say something that's been weighing on my mind a lot lately and has become quite befuddling. What I have to say is that this whole move seems a little doomed to me. I mean, whenever I think about it, a feeling of pending disaster arises. And dread....yes, don't forget the dread.

I've never felt this way about a move before, not to mention, everyone who knows me knows that I am an optimist by nature. So needless to say, this feeling is a little distracting, and if you haven't guessed already...I have chosen to ignore it completely (which may very-well mean that I am also a bull-headed idiot by nature as well). I mean...I am getting on that plane tomorrow ...

So that's all. That's all I have to say. If I can't explain this to myself, I certainly can't explain it to you either, but I did need to just put it out there and get it off my chest. Any closet psychiatrists out there...please feel free to weigh in on this one and leave your insights and comments at will.

As for the rest of you, Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

As for Jimmy Fallon's Thank You notes segments...see for yourself:

Thank you, Good and Plenty candies — or as I like to call you, prescription licorice.

Thank you, wet floor signs, for warning me that if I walk on you, I might start breakdancing.

Thank you, gift cards, for basically saying “I could have just given you this money, but I wanted to have final say over where you spent it.”