Wanted: Viable Advise

What would be a good, sound, rational, logical, commonsensical, levelheaded, wise, prudent, and fair consequence for not wearing your retainer?

Please don't say, "Pay back the orthodonist bill," because there is nothing but lint (and love texts) in her pockets.

Suggestions, in all shapes and sizes, are welcome.

On Your Marks, Get Set....

My half marathon training has begun again.

So that means pitch black morning runs, frozen sweat, and coming home covered in frost.

But it sure beats the treadmill.

I'm convinced that those who go to hell are forced to do their time on that dreaded machine.

Seriously.

It's hard to tell from this picture, but the hazy looking stuff on my back is bona fide, January-in-Utah frost.

Sitting in the Corner With My Dunce Cap -or- My Husband is a Cruel, Heartless Man

I am an educated woman.

I tote around 5 years at BYU - a Bachelor's Degree and a dual certification in Special Education (my major of choice) - in my handbag of life's accomplishments.

(The 5 years is due to that extra certification and for the fact that I had WAY too much fun my Freshman year and had to retake a couple of classes. )

In short, I shouldn't be a dummy. I have a diploma.

Yet, I really think I am.

I've confessed before that Jeff has realized that my brain function and power have slowly diminished over the years. Rather than being sympathetic and coddling me in such a way as to allow me to think that I'm still a brainiac, he has taken full advantage of the mushy gray matter sloshing around in my head.

(Please don't think ill of him. I am an easy target nowadays.)

Case in point: A couple of months ago, Jeff, Kennedy and I were sitting in the front room doing what most American families do for entertainment in these modern times - playing on our iPhones. I was texting a friend while Kennedy was listening to music and Jeff was fiddling around with his apps.

(Fiddling around with his apps kinda sounds funny, huh?)

My friend and I were chatting, via text messaging, about what we each had made for dinner, when she mentioned that she had something new on her phone. This is how the conversation continued:

Randee: Hey! I can see u!!!! There's a new app that makes your phone a camera! Got it for Ry and Renee to talk....but I see you! LOVE YOUR FRONT ROOM....I may have to steal that red chair of yours!!!

(I was sitting in my new red chair.)

Randee: I can see you! Hi!!!!

Me: You can see me now? You're freaking me out!!!!!!!!!!

At this point, I told Kennedy and Jeff what was going on. I was really weirded out. I started looking out the windows and wondering if she was somewhere spying at me.

Randee: Seriously! IT'S CRAZY!!! Do u have that app? Hello!!!

(We like to exercise our freedom of over usage of punctuation while texting.)

Me: What the crap? Get outta my house!!! How is this working?

I then proceeded to start waving at my keypad not knowing how the camera, which was on the back of the phone, was catching my image. Apple has really outdone themselves this time, I mused.

Randee: Stop rubbing your nose! You're on camera!!!!

(I was rubbing my nose!)

Me: How?

Randee: I'm not sure...kind of crazy...this is spooky!!

It was at this point that Kennedy started to giggle.

And I noticed that Jeff was really focused on whatever he was doing on his phone.

My cranium finally decided to spark and momentarily function.

Me: My husband is a dumb arse!

Randee: Ha ha!!!! Ha ha!!! Ha ha!!!!!!!!!!!!

Jeff had texted Randee while I was texting her and suggested that it would be great fun to play a trick on me. He fed her the information about what to say to make it the most convincing, and I took the bait.

Hook.

Line.

Sinker.

In my defense, I have seen reports on TV about certain spy apps that crazy boyfriends and stalkers use that would react very much like the scenario above. Granted, the camera would have to be on the same side of the phone as the person using it (for them to be seen) but I wasn't thinking about details like that.

(We numb skulls rarely do.)

Another case in point: Saturday night I was up late watching TV. Everyone else had gone to bed but I was too tired to heave myself off the couch and yawn through my nightly routine. I was watching the Food Network. I was deep into one of Bobby Flay's challenges when the channel suddenly changed to some jewelry auction program. I looked at the remote and wondered if I had somehow bumped it, although I knew this was highly unlikely because I was too spent to even shift my pinky toe. I picked up the remote and switched it back to Bobby. 2 minutes later, the channel switched back again. Annoyed with the idea of having to watch the cheeseball-of-a-salesman sell butterfly pendants encrusted in gaudy colored crystals, I pushed the recall button and switched back to my program. 3 minutes later the same thing happened.

"What is the deal?" I huffed under my breath.

I switched it back.

It switched back again.

Recall button.

Jewelry channel.

Bobby.

Bedazzled Monarch.

The remote wrestling continued for about 15 minutes. The moment the sparkling jewelry appeared on the screen, I pursed my lips, slammed my finger on the remote, and flipped it back. My TV viewing time was not going to be taken advantage of. I was determined to win this human vs. possessed technology war and I was not going down without a fight.

GAME ON!

I questioned the cause. Is there a problem with the remote? Is the cable exposed to the elements outside and is something shorting out? Am I not meant to see if Bobby wins this Throwdown? Or am I somehow being inspired to buy that butterfly pendant....perhaps for my mother-in-law's upcoming birthday?

I toggled back and forth for quite a while, until my eyes were too heavy to focus on Bobby or that blasted jewelry. I headed to bed.

(Little did I know I was sleeping with the enemy.)

The next morning, Jeff casually asked me if I was having problems with the remote the previous night. Relieved that I was not the only person being tortured by the crazed channel changer, I told him all about my experience and how we had to get it figured out.

"Did it keep switching to the jewelry program?"

"YESSSSSS!"

And then....

Oh wait.....

"How did you know?"

While I was downstairs cursing and gritting my teeth, he was wide awake upstairs having a delightful time at my expense.

Using his iPhone and an app that he downloaded that allows him to use his phone as a remote control, HE was the one switching the channels.

Thanks, honey.

***Moral of the story: I am an idiot and my husband needs to stop fiddling around with his apps.

Who Flipped the Switch?

2.5 years have finally caught up with this one.

Don't let the baby face fool ya.

He is 100% mischief.

He'll secretly sneak any electronic device he can find and plunk himself down in this cozy bucket to play a game or two before he is caught. Mom's iPhone has never been more sticky or covered in greedy toddler fingerprints.

Being the youngest, he is spoiled rotten. He gets away with far too much. Why? Because he has 5 family members who love him to the core and are at his constant disposal, and because mom and dad are worn out and find it easier to give in than to hold out.

I know. We're creating a monster.

But aren't all youngest children monsters in some way or another?

(I speak from experience. I'm #3 of 3.)

Long gone are the days when we could consistently get an adorable picture of our baby boy. Now, the camera captures faces that only a mother could love.

His favorite phrase is, "No Mom." He says it very matter of factly and with a tone of confidence that he knows what he wants and is not afraid to share his mindset with me.

His name is Shaw.

And he is our resident rascal.

These Are a Few of My Favorite Things...

...pictured right here in this snapshot.

Kennedy, Me, Chante (niece), Carene (Sister-in-Law), Jamie (newly added niece)

You know you're in good company when the conversation flows effortlessly, laughing is in abundance, smiles abound, hugs are frequent, and you can all snuggle up on your daughter's bed and talk until the cows come home.

I love these gals so much.

Whenever we get together (which I wish was more often...they live in Idaho) we get on YouTube and show each other the latest video "gems" that we've come across. After watching several music videos, we decided that we were creative and talented enough to come up with our own.

Here's the end result.

WARNING:

* This is what happens when you stay up until 2:00 a.m.

* I am VERY, VERY Caucasian.

* This song is long....watch only as much as you can stomach.

* This will most assuredly dash any respectable assumptions you may have previously made about me.

* At the moment, we're looking for an agent so there might very well be more of these to come.

* All of my VERY, VERY Caucasian dance moves are Trademarked. There will be a penalty if you try and steal any of them.

(And that penalty will be you looking as ridiculous as myself.)

Today I'm Trying on the Number 39 For Size...

...and these last 15 minutes that I've been awake and alert, it seems to be a good fit.

I'm really going to make these last 365 days in my 30's count for something.

Something that I can proudly carry into my 40's.

********

Wanna learn more about this day? Read here.

The Inevitable

I'd like to know who or what has catapulted my 11 year old son into this new arena of life.

An arena where 11 year old girls call him on the phone around the clock. They call, then hang up. Then call, then hang up. On the occasion that they do actually say something, he tells us that it is random, and scattered, and usually not connected to anything that an 11 year old boy would really have any interest in.

{But by the grin on his face, I don't think he's minding these one sided conversations.}

I'm sure part of Taiden's intrigue to the young ladies, is his quiet mystique and the puzzling charm of being a young man of few words.

{Cause when you don't say much, you keep 'em guessing.}

He's chill and cool.

He's handsome.

He's mastered the art of using hair gel.

He's a user of multiple Axe products.

He's informed us that he's started a morning routine of 20 push ups and 20 sit ups.

Whatever has caused this increase in attention, I don't think it's going to be going away any time soon.

{So please understand that our phone line will be intermittently available for your calls.}

Peace, Be Still

A very simplified Christmas season has made its way to the Gregson home.

Simplified to the extent that only the tree, the mantel and the front door are being decorated.

This year I've decided to cast aside the fervor and perfection of Christmases past. I've laid to rest my tendencies to overdo and overspend and overrun our lives with too much stuff in too little time.

With these attempts, I hope that our family can truly feel the spirit of the season.

A simplified, Christ-centered season.

When Turkey Day Goes Awry

Norman Rockwell has set us all up for failure.


Just look at this picture. The perfect roasted turkey served from the platter for all the guests to "ooooooooh" and "aaaaahhhhhh" over. The perfectly set table with white linens, matching silverware (I've analyzed this picture under a microscope; they match, trust me), and the look of excitement and Thanksgiving enjoyment from loving family gathered for the special occassion.

There's even Uncle Bob down there in the corner. He's the fun uncle that all the kids love and the one who will arm wrestle anyone for the wishbone.

Now when I volunteered to host this year's Thanksgiving at our newly expanded home, I didn't have my expectations set as high as this idyllic picture from back in 1943. I had just hoped that I could make it through my inaugural attempt at cooking a 20 lb. bird with success, that my stuffing would be moist, and that the day would be uneventful and relaxing.

No sweat, right?

Let's start with the star of the day: The Turkey. A 20 lb. turkey is a nice sized chunk of poultry. Ye olde internet has about 5 million suggestions on how to handle such a bird and they all gave different directions. I was left scratching my head. The folks at the turkey farm where we got ours said 15 minutes for every pound of unstuffed turkey. I figured that would be around 5 hours. Other sources suggested it would only be 3 - 3.5 hours. Some said high heat while others insisted on low. Bake in a bag. Open pan roast. Tent with tinfoil. Lather in butter. Smear with olive oil. So many suggestions. So many hints.

SO MUCH PRESSURE!!!!

I opted to allow myself at least 5 hours like the turkey farm suggested. I decided to start at 325 degrees and then up the temp towards the end to get that golden brown. If Grandma in the crisp and clean white apron can do it (up above), why can't I?

I should probably mention here that shortly after everyone arrived, the kitchen faucet broke. There was water spraying everywhere. Jeff was under the sink trying to fix it while Kennedy and my brother-in-law were in her bathroom hand washing dishes. He couldn't get it fixed so the remainder of the day (and even this morning) I have no water in my kitchen.

Awesome.

Where were we? Oh, yes - the turkey was cooking. People were mingling and there were many bodies in my kitchen. Too many bodies in my kitchen. I started to perspire. I have learned something about myself over the years. I love to cook and am fairly decent at it. I love to feed people and am fairly decent at that too. But stay out of my dang kitchen, folks! It makes me crazy! Especially on a day when I'm trying to cook the one thing that has caused stress and strife for billions of homemakers over the years. We've all heard stories of over cooked and under cooked turkeys being laid out for guests and the difficulty in knowing whether to wait for the blasted red turkey timer button to pop out ("do you think it is broken?"). It's no wonder that when the hostess finally sits down to eat she has no appetite - she has just run a culinary marathon and is too exhausted to enjoy the fruits of her labors.

So I'm nervous because everything else is cooked and ready to go except for that stupid carcass in the oven. My projected 5 hour cooking window has come and gone and the turkey is far from done. I'm really trying to hint to my guests to make their way into the family room to watch some TV, or to visit, or to do anything other than watch me frantically watch that red turkey button. I'm not sure how much longer we can wait. My holiday creamed corn is thickening more and more on the stove top and is threatening to turn to porridge rather than the prize winning delicacy it truly is. I worry that my stuffing can only handle so much heat before it starts to dry out, and when do I put in mom's sweet potato casserole (with those adorable mini marshmallows) so that it lightly browns to perfection?

Jeff's working on the faucet. I'm putting on an ungraceful cooking show for my audience of guests who are STILL IN MY KITCHEN, and my internal fight or flight response kicks in. I just want to throw in the towel and head to Cafe Rio (by myself) for a little R & R. I have no qualms about eating a sweet pork salad on Thanksgiving. It's a day for thanks giving. I'm thankful for sweet pork in salad form. It works for me.

Long story getting even longer, the tension between Jeff and I is rising. He's been fiddling with that dang faucet (that I told him to either fix or replace months earlier), we're now almost to the 6 hour turkey cooking time and the turkey is only semi cooked, people are starving, I'm trying to keep everything warm, and I'm fighting back the sting of tears from the pressure cooker situation. Who volunteered me to do this?

I did.

Jeff whips out the turkey and just starts carving. The top layers of turkey are cooked (barely?), so he just whittles away what he thinks we can serve without making our guests violently ill. I hurry and stick my mom's sweet potato casserole in the oven close to the broiler so that it can quickly brown up. Everything is set on the table and I grab tin foil and cover it all so that it doesn't lose heat too fast. I'm sweating, and still thinking about sweet pork, and trying to get everyone comfortable and seated.

And then I smell something.

A funny burnt smell? A smell reminiscent of camping trips and cook outs? I sniff the air and wonder why I'm suddenly craving s'mores. I open my oven. I see an inferno of flames jetting out from under the broiler.

THE MARSHMALLOWS!

In my frenzy, I had forgotten that marshmallows, when cooked, puff up. Those adorable little things puffed up so much that they touched the flame of the broiler and caught fire. There was a fire in my oven! This is a first for me so what did I do? I closed the oven door. I don't know if I thought that by closing the door it would somehow deprive the flames of oxygen and they would extinguish themselves, but it seemed like the right thing to do. Jeff opened the oven door again and I started to try and blow out the flames. The guests, all patiently waiting at the table and enjoying the Thanksgiving Day Spectacular that was being performed in my kitchen, found this all quite amusing. They laughed. And laughed. They pointed fingers. And laughed.

I, however, was most definitely not laughing.

The sweet potato casserole was doused. A lovely blanket of smoke had settled on our blessed occasion. The temperature of the food was plummeting, the borderline-cooked turkey was sadly plattered and set on the table, and Kennedy was asked to bless the food.

But the difference between an ordinary Thanksgiving and a memorable, EXTRAordinary Thanksgiving is when the fire alarm goes off during the prayer.

Awesome.

With echoes of laughing in my ears (oh, rest assured, they were laughing AT me, not with me) and a very thin barrier between me and a very ugly crying scene, I sat down to eat my dinner.

And, staying true to tradition with millions of other housewives, I didn't eat very much.

I was worn out.

{sigh}

*************

Post note:

As a thank you for reading my very lengthy tale of Thanksgiving Travesty, I offer you this photo showing what happens to marshmallows when they are set aflame. I can finally see the comedy of yesterday's mishaps.

So, go ahead and laugh.

My guests all did.

;0

Bearing Children is Horrible For Your Self Esteem

The votes have been tallied.

The verdict is in.

As of today, 2 out of 4 (that's 50% for you non-mathematicians) of my children say that I am not cool and I am extremely embarrassing.

(!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

You may recall that I have dealt with this devastating blow before. You can read about the horrific details here. I guess I had just hoped that it was a fleeting moment of moody judgement on my daughter's part or that she had just eaten something for lunch that didn't settle well with her.

But now the problem has grown and it is spreading like a vicious virus - attacking the mom adoring mind of yet another one of my offspring.

2 down and 2 to go.

I try and convince my eldest kids that I am fun. I like to laugh and have a good time. I have friends who like me and think that I am the bomb.com. (See I even know the trendy phrases that all the cool peeps are using these days.) I can tease, and socialize, and be spontaneous with the best of them. I'm not that old or that out of it and I really do know what it is like to be in their shoes.

But, alas, they won't budge on their high standards.

I am simply not cool.

In public, I tend to say a friendly "hello" to Taiden's peers and that seals the deal in the my-mother-is-a-huge-embarrassment-please-don't-associate-me-with-her department.

(Since when is saying "hi" such a crime?!)

When shopping for brassieres with my one and only girl, I like to make it entertaining by waving the undergarment in the air just to see her reaction. It's amazing how fast she will scatter and hide in the clothes racks.

(Since when is spontaneity such a forbidden thing?!)

I try and tell them why I am cool. I give them examples of my ultimate coolness at present, but they ain't buying it.

I present exhibits A - D.

I can still water ski even though I'm 103, suffer from the occasional bout of severe gaseousness, and really enjoy classical music.

I'm not afraid to wear a fruit basket on my head and be mistaken for Carmen Miranda on Halloween. (I was the Chaquita Banana Lady, yo.)

Only someone with an excess of coolness could pull off wearing a shower cap on Grizzly River Run. (And look so good doing it.)

See? See? Isn't that all the proof they need?!

They just can't see past my reputation as mom.

So I'm stuck here for awhile.

I Like Who I Am, But...

...today I really wish I was her.

She rocks the quirky, Chucks wearin', bike ridin', wing donnin', daydreamin' beauty thing like none other.

Kennedy and I have been listening to this song the entire weekend and have decided that a red balloon way up in the clouds is, perhaps, the perfect place to be.

"There are those who think that I'm strange, they would box me up and tell me to change, but you hold me close and softly say that you wouldn't have me any other way..."

(If I could wear butterfly wings and get away with it, I WOULD!)

Curse You, Candied Popcorn (Which I Was Eating On Saturday), That Broke My #2 Molar Right in Half......

...But bless you nitrous oxide for making it all worthwhile.

Three cheers for an alcohol and drug free youth which enables me to completely appreciate the mind altering effects of laughing gas.

Thanks to Randee for watching my Shaw-zam for 3.5 hours while I was in the dental chair.

(Inhaling deeply.)

Happy Birthday to Our Resident Cartoon Character

My Brittan Boy is 9 years old today.

He is devilishly handsome and continues to carry that mischievous twinkle in the corner of his eye.

He is smart.

He is intense.

He is passionate about life and living it.

He is a thinker.

He is a natural athlete.

He is complex and multifaceted.

He teaches me daily.

He is a magnified mirror image of myself.

He is generous.

He is quick to forgive.

He's a sugar fiend.

He is a hugger.

He is ours, and we feel so blessed.

Love to you, Brittan!

The Otherworldly

When this blog was in its infancy (its very much in the 3T stage now), I briefly shared an experience that is, quite possibly, the most eerie that I have ever personally encountered.

In honor of Halloween, I will share it again.

And tell another spooky tale that is real and haunting.

Happy Halloween, folks!

***********

My Freshman year of college, my roommate and I left Happy Valley for the weekend and headed up to Bountiful to my parent's house. She and I were ready for a break from the stress and the homework and our dirty apartment. A couple of our guy friends also came up. We were all excited for a change of scenery.

Plans were set to watch a movie in the basement. Since we were all in a rebellious sort of mood and because getting scared always makes for a good time, we decided to watch The Exorcist. None of us had ever seen it and, because we were good kids just looking to spread our Freshman wings of freedom, we lapped up the chance to watch a show that was still deemed taboo and off limits.

(Plus, my parents were gone so there was no adult common sense to stop us.)

The cassette was popped into the VCR and we anxiously waited for the story to unfold. It wasn't long into the movie when the air in the room started to not feel right and we knew (what we already knew deep down inside) that this was not a show we should be watching. I ran upstairs for something. When I came back down and turned the corner to where my friends were, I heard a deep, menacing voice. I froze. I looked at my friends and they were frozen too.

"Did you hear that?"

Nods all around.

While I was upstairs, they had turned the movie off. They had pushed the STOP PLAY button, shut the TV completely off and, as I was coming around that corner, we had all heard the same voice.

"TURN IT BACK ON."

I still remember the chills that ran the length of my body. It was very real. The voice was distinct and clear. We all heard the exact same message and we all lost all of the color in our faces.

And that, my friends, is why The Exorcist is still taboo and off limits.

And why Satan will never be invited into my midst again.

*********

The father of a boy that I dated in high school was responsible for cleaning and maintaining several chapels in Centerville. That was his full time job. As the occasion would arise, he'd have to work after hours in the evening. One particular night, he was finishing up his work, turning off all of the lights, and double checking to make sure the locks were all secure. As he passed by the chapel, he started to hear the organ play. The music was intense and elaborate. He figured it was some of the youth goofing off. The chapel lights were all off. He wanted to catch the pranksters so, without turning any hallway lights on, he opened the chapel doors quietly and slipped in. The emotional music continued to play. He felt his way to the light switches and flipped on the lights - ready to scare whatever hooligans were pumping the organ pipes. The lights went on. The music stopped.

And nobody sat at the organ.

True story.

*****************

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Why Personally Writing 10, 476 Letters to Corporate Headquarters Pays Off...

I'm not sure if it's the Southern California girl coming out in me, but nothing compares.

Now, 4.2 miles from my home.

Hallelujah.

(Bless those onions.)

Protect Your Dental Floss...

...for there may be, lurking in the corners, a 2 year old who loves the minty freshness.

He'll pull it, lick it, then string it through the house.

(And sing a happy song all the while.)

A Space of His Own

Taiden couldn't be more enthused about his new room. He has an urban/industrial/skater vibe going on with a splash of BYU.

He's enjoying his independence in putting it all together and deciding the perfect spot for each and every thing.

(And, boy oh boy, are there a lot of things.)

The results are worthy of any 11 year old's approval.

This Elder (who doubles as a missionary bank) appears cheerful in his pursuit of converting those who have joined The Dark Side.

I wonder if The Church has ever considered Incognito Tracting?

Underdeveloped Tastebuds

Hard work should be rewarded.

Ideally, the hard work should be intrinsically motivated - the satisfaction of doing a good job and knowing it was done well being the prize - without any external carrots dangling above.

But when dealing with kids, I've learned this concept is sometimes a foreign one.

Two of my piano students (uh-hum, my only piano students) were challenged, by me, to learn to read all of the notes on the staff. You can't learn to read a book if you don't know your letters. Same is true in piano. Not knowing how to read the music staff makes for a difficult time playing Tchaikovsky.

I promised these two students (uh-hum, my only piano students) that we would go out for ice cream once they learned their notes. I did inform them that, as a former school teacher and currently the meanest piano teacher in the continental U.S., I was going to be tough when deciding whether or not they had, indeed, reached their goal. They had to rip through those flash cards as though their mellifluous lives depended on it.

I'm pleased to say that this week that goal was reached. Thanks to Elephants Get Big Dirty Feet, F.A.C.E., Good Boys Deserve Fudge Always, and All Cows Eat Grass, these two sweet girls accompanied me today to get some premium dairy indulgence.

The minute we walked in the door, the smell of waffle cones and gourmet cookies welcomed us. The ice cream case was lined with a wide range of flavors. A separate case contained Italian Gelato and Sorbets. Free samples were offered.

I sampled Chocolate Hazelnut. Fresh Coconut. Amaretto. Passion Fruit. Strawberry Lemonade Sorbet.

(Hey, there were no posted signs confining the number of samples to be consumed. My over analyzing is not limited to major life decisions, folks.)

I told the girls - sisters actually - that they could have whatever they wanted. Waffle cones, waffle cups, old fashioned sundaes, mix-ins, cookie sundaes, shakes, floats. Their hard work was much appreciated and their reward, if they so chose, could be grand enough to induce a sugar coma.

The younger of the two stepped up first. She had eyed the almost-fluorescent-pink-and-yellow ice cream affectionately named Cotton Candy.

"That's the one I want," she smiled.

I inquired about a waffle cone.

"I don't like waffles." More smiling.

Rather than point out the difference between a breakfast waffle and the ones on display in the shop (which are technically just a glorified ice cream cone), I just decided to be mute.

"Any toppings?" I encouraged.

"Um......................I want Nerds."

My gag reflex tickled slightly at this moment because I am a texture person. Food textures mean a lot to me and if the wrong combination is presented in my mouth - no matter how delicious the flavors - I can't partake.

I grinned at our ice cream artisan standing behind the counter patiently waiting for our order.

"I want caramel sauce too," she quietly added.

"Whipped cream and a cherry?"

"Yes, please."

Her older sister ordered the identical sundae - Cotton Candy ice cream, Nerds, whipped cream and a cherry - only she opted for raspberry sauce rather than caramel.

I ordered the Strawberry Lemonade Sorbet.

Their young palates thoroughly enjoyed their creations. They ate every last bite and didn't once notice the melancholy melty colors of the moistened Nerds.

(I wonder if Tchaikovsky ever ate Cotton Candy flavored ice cream?)

POST NOTE: This motivational tool for learning to read all of the musical notes on the staff will be available to any piano students that I have.

I have a few openings, uh-hum, if you know anyone who might be interested.

We Interrupt Our Regularly Scheduled Construction to Take Down The Wall

Welcome to our house, new addition.

We're glad you're finally here.

(And not just over there.)

Our kitchen table anxiously awaits its new positioning in the kitchen.

A new position that will center it more in the new dining area and allow it to breathe rather than being shoved up against a wall or the kitchen counters. Our chairs have been hammered these past several months. It's hard to be gentle and kind to your furniture when it is in your way all of the time. Once the flooring is all done, the table can relax and enjoy its new permanent residence.

Hello, My Name Is Kristen and I've Lost 8 Lbs. on the Construction Diet

{Is it possible to patent a diet?}

Kristen's Construction Program for Weight Loss

1. Buy an itty bitty house - preferably a cozy house with only one family room. No basement or bonus rooms. When purchasing this house, limit your offspring to either one or none.

2. Make certain that your itty bitty house has no garage.

3. Multiply and replenish the earth.

4. Allow your children to grow, take up more space, and accumulate throngs of toys through birthdays, Christmases, and potty training successes.

5. Multiply and replenish the earth some more.

6. Stuff every nook and cranny of your itty bitty house with the necessities of life. Practice shuffling piles of papers from one place to another. Organize one area only to find out that you've caused more clutter in another area. Enjoy and relish this ongoing game. Be creative in your endeavors to keep the recommended amount of food storage - behind entertainment centers, under beds, packed under desk areas in the kitchen (try and hide this behind a cute curtain and count how many times you have to straighten that d#$@ curtain each day). Store a lovely blue water barrel in your front coat closet.

7. Calculate how much square footage you have per person. (Ours was roughly 300 - 316.)

8. Realize that, as much as they love you, your teenager(s) don't want to be with you every minute of everyday and that their friends don't want to either. Notice that when these said teenagers have friends over, everyone else (including yourself) is exiled to their rooms for the afternoon or evening. (This exile is always by choice...not by force. But how much teenage foolery can you handle?) You will question yourself about how you ever decided to buy that itty bitty house with only one family room (and no basement or bonus room). This is normal.

9. Wait 6.5 years and then be blessed with one more multiplying and replenishing. Be faced with the challenge of housing 3 boys in one bedroom. Enjoy 2 years of no sleeping because when the baby cries, he needs to be moved away from his sleeping brothers. Learn to sleep in a diagonal position in your queen sized bed so that that small bundle of sleepless energy doesn't smack you in the forehead all night.

10. Decide a house addition is in order.

11. If you decide to be your own contractor, you can count on at least 2 - 3 times the weight loss of hiring someone to do it for you. Since we opted to hire that out, my weight loss is slightly less but I have kept my full head of hair (no need to rip it out). The choice is yours.

12. Orchestrate in your imaginative mind, what would happen if your sons found some mysterious bones during excavation. Paint an elaborate mental picture that if bones were found, could they possibly be the remains of one of the wives of the polygamist who built the home? Watch too many episodes of CSI to try and figure out how such a situation might be handled.

13. For kicks, have a wind storm blow down some walls.

14. During daily walk throughs, try and keep your toddler out of the sawdust. Then try and keep the sawdust from getting tracked into the existing house.

15. Get some exercise by getting your groove on.

16. Do a few projects yourself. I chose to paint my kitchen cabinets, 2 bedrooms, and 2 bathrooms. I'm hoping to still lose a few more pounds by painting the new pantry and kitchen dining area. Consuming fumes rather than real food is a surefire way to get the weight off. The brain cells that are killed in this process just add to your overall reduction in size.

17. For optimal weight loss benefit, bathroom projects are key.

18. To change unhealthy cravings and addictions to certain foods, take the targeted food into a bathroom in the middle of remodeling.

19. Try to enjoy your above mentioned food amidst the sights and smells of the bathroom makeover. Need a little more intensity? Closely examine the toilet seal on the floor and imagine its years of use.

20. Mmmmmm............

21. Plant yourself on the toilet that now resides in the shower and finish your good eats. If this doesn't ensure the food aversion you're looking for, I don't know what will.

DISCLAIMER:

Results will vary from person to person. While the construction diet did work for me, there were also side effects that included:

Bags under my eyes

Dark circles under my eyes

Irritability

Insomnia

Sudden outbursts of unexplained tears

Headaches

Bad Hair Days

Frequent outbreaks of cereal for dinner

Mood Swings

White trash tendencies