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Sometimes I feel like I'm playing house.

Just playing house and patiently waiting for the real grown ups to show up.

Looking for someone to leave me a To Do list and a schedule for the rest of my life.

And when I stop and realize that this is real and that I'm mistakenly the one in charge, 

I get a lump in my throat.

When is somebody going to realize that I have no idea what I'm doing?

That I'm just pretending to be mature enough to raise a teenager.

That I'm really not sure that I'm tough enough to raise 3 sons.

That I'm definitely not patient enough to watch myself do this.

{That I'm still afraid of the dark.}

When and how did I get here?

My driver's license assures me that I'm old enough.

My weakened bladder reaffirms daily that, yes indeed, I did give birth to 4 children.  

My mammoth mountain of laundry reminds me that this is no joke.

And when, in just a fraction of a second and out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of myself (both naughty and nice) in my children, it suddenly comes crashing down on me that I am a real, genuine, bona fide parent.

{Gulp!}

Sometimes, when I see a piece of me in them it's exhilarating.  

And sometimes, well, it makes me cringe.  

Sure, I love to take some of the credit for their friendliness, their outgoing natures, their drive and determination.  

But, unfortunately, I also need to take some responsibility for their quick tempers, their impatience with each other, and their loud voices that sometimes bite.

Yeah, that's me too.

{Rats!}

Each morning, I put on my game face, act like I know what I'm doing, and continue playing house.  

And I pray daily that someday I'll get it right.

A New Look for Spring

Cleaning out the closets, shaking out the rugs, freshening up the dusty blog.

Happy Spring!

Impressing the 10 Year Old

Today, the gray matter in my head didn't let me down.

Taiden's class played a game in which they were asked what words like "oink", "sizzle", and "whoosh" are called.  He couldn't believe that his teacher would ask such a hard question. 

I knew the answer.

"Onomatopoeia," I said casually.  

Today I was smarter than a 5th grader.

{Whew!}

How a Mackintosh Became a Gregson - Part 2: The Canadian Roommate

{Just tuning in?  Be sure to read Part 1 first.}

After Christmas break of my Freshman year, I headed back down to the Y and was greeted by a new roommate.  Her name was Marianne Dixey.  She was a Canadian.  She was fun and easy going and looked like she could be related to Michelle Pfeiffer.  She was also very adventurous - I didn't realize that people actually bought those Clairol hair coloring kits.  She did.  She wanted her hair to be red.  She let us watch.  It was awesome. 

Several weeks into our friendship, some of her fellow Canucks stopped by to say "Eh".  She introduced us and I immediately recognized one of them.  He was the guy with the Syracuse University jacket that I had seen at the football games.  His name was Brent.  Now I had a name to go with the funny persona and hilarious demeanor.

Donning my black hat, Brent was holding onto any glimmer of hope that the Boy George look would resurface in the 90's.

Brent and I became fast friends.  He was a great guy.  The thing I liked most about him was his ability to make me laugh to the point of tears.  He had a repertoire of characters and voices that he could pull out in an instant and he was a walking comedic spectacle.  He was slightly off kilter and deviated from the norm and I loved it.  We were best buds.

Things were never dull when Brent was around.  Sometimes he pulled pranks and jokes on us that were real zingers.  One instance that I vividly recall was when he had one of his roommates call, posing as our Bishop, to say that he needed to meet with us at the Standard's Office because he knew that we had had a guy in our apartment after hours (which was true).  I remember feeling like the blood had been drained out of my body.  Breaking curfew with a guy in your apartment, while living on campus, is a BIG no-no at BYU.  We all immediately went into panic mode because we weren't sure what the consequences would be.  We were all sick about it until we received another phone call, this time from a snickering Brent, informing us that he got us good. At this point, I probably said a few choice words that definitely would have scarred my yearly ecclesiastical endorsement, but it was true - he got us good.  

I also remember baking a boxed lemon cake (those were my pre-"homemade is better" days), letting it cool while I headed to the library to study, and returning to an almost empty cake pan.  I was furious.  "WHO ATE MY CAKE?", I barked.  They told me Brent had stopped by and had helped himself to some.  "SOME?" I fumed.  "HE ATE THE WHOLE STINKIN' THING!"  

{Let me mention here that I really like lemon cake.  Even from a box.}

I called Brent to chew him out and let him know what I thought of his uninvited, overindulgence in consuming my Betty Crocker masterpiece.  He told me to look in the cupboard where he had carefully cut and plated the cake and hidden for safe keeping.  It was all there, minus the pieces that were the bait for his joke that had remained in the pan.

I returned the favor by decorating his backpack and books with a potpourri of feminine hygiene products.  Bookmarks were replaced with "thin reminders" that I was getting the last laugh. "Tassels" (of sorts) were hung from the pack's zippers to dangle for all the world to see and to show Brent, that what comes around goes around.  His backpack was stuffed and stuck with enough feminine contraband that I'm sure it smelled powdery fresh for days.

I think his practical jokes were more infrequent after that.

I'm sure you're wondering if there was any romance brewing at this point.  The answer to that question is no.  We were just really close friends.  I loved him like a zany, slightly odd, goofball of a brother.  Through the roommate grapevine, I was given information that his feelings ran more deeply, but it was never discussed between the two of us so it was never awkward.  

Freshman year ended.  I said teary good-byes to my roommates and friends and headed home to Bountiful to work for the summer.  Marianne and Brent headed back to Alberta.  I kept in touch with Brent and found out that he received his mission call to Geneva, Switzerland.  His farewell would be in August.  I begged and pleaded with my parents to let me go to Canada to bid him adieu.  I told them it would be good for international relations.

They decided that I could go.  And they would escort me.

To be continued...

6 Hours in A Darkroom

Yesterday, I spent all day on my Alma Mater's campus.

I was only slightly bugged, when I pulled into the visitor parking area, that they did not question - not even for a second - whether I was a student or a visitor. They just handed me my little slip of sticky paper with a large "V" on it to put in my windshield.  This paper meant that I was very much a visitor and too old to be there taking my general ed. classes.  Granted, it was 15 years ago that I graduated from BYU with my bachelors, but still....  Couldn't the parking lot security guy at least pretended he thought I might possibly be at least a graduating Senior finishing up her courses and trying to sneak into the visitor parking lot for free parking?

{Fat chance, ma'am.}

I loved being back on campus.  It was rejuvenating and refreshing and had such a spark of novelty that the daily grind usually doesn't offer.  I would love to go back to school.  But this time I would go back just for the sheer fun of learning.  Absorbing knowledge and information just for the excitement of it.  I don't think I fully appreciated the learning process when I was there all those years ago.   I'd love to retake World Civilization, Humanities, and American Heritage - classes that I just endured so I could get through my generals and closer to my major.  I would appreciate them so much more today.  Heavens, I'd even love doing the research papers, projects, and taking tests at the infamous testing center!

Yesterday, while a large "V" was stuck to my windshield, I headed to the Harold B. Lee library for a Discovery of Photography workshop.  The workshop was under the direction of the Curator of Photographic Archives at BYU and it was incredible.  We learned about "printing out" and "developing out" and spent most of the day in a darkroom.  We learned about how photos were developed in the early days of photography and experimented with developing our own Salt Prints and used Glass Negatives and photographic paper to develop more pictures.  It was a blast.  I even got to wear a lab coat, wear a special badge to get into the special collections area, and got silver nitrate on my hands (even while wearing gloves).  IT WAS AWESOME!

The first photo I developed was a Salt Print.  First I treated the paper with a salt solution and let it dry.  Then I treated it was a silver nitrate solution and let it dry.  Then, using an old negative from the archives and an antique glass developing box, I went outside and watched the paper react to the sunlight and develop this picture.  I then washed it in a solution to stop the processing and then washed it in water to clear out the chemicals that can cause yellowing with time.  I chose this picture to develop because I'm a mom and I love kids and, well, check out that little dog! 

The next two photos I developed were of my ancestors.  The couple on the right are my great, great grandparents.  On the left are 2 girls.  The girl on the right is my great grandma's youngest sister with her friend.  These were made with the glass negatives from the George Edward Anderson archival collection.  He took thousands of photos from the Utah Valley area and southward.  There are several glass negatives of my ancestral family members, so I was excited that the curator was willing to pull these negatives out of the "freezer" for me so that I could develop them. Using this method, we used photographic paper (that uses gelatin as the binder - this is the method used today for our photos), exposed the glass negative, then watched the picture appear by using chemical reactions in 6 different trays of solution.

I plan on framing all 3 pictures and using them in my home.

The day was topped off with a guided tour through the archives and special collections area. We saw first editions of Oliver Twist by Dickens and books that were hundreds of years old (side note - the oldest tablet writing they have is 4,000 years old).  We saw the personal writings and works of the prophets and other church leaders.  We saw Jimmy Stewart's personal reeled film collection, along with his personal papers and some possessions (his accordion) that he donated to BYU/the church when he died.  We went into the "freezer" where they store the 1.5 million photographic negatives that they have.  There was so much history - both religious based and secular.  It made my day.  It was such a unique and wonderful experience.

And it's only the start.

Anyone want to go and learn with me?

Split Personality

As I've been scouring the interweb (love that word....kickin' it old skool today) for inspirations in design and color for our upcoming remodel and addition, I've come across a lot of clever and artistic people out there.  Incredibly talented people who make interior decorating and DIY projects look easy enough that even simpletons like myself think they can do it.  These designers can assemble a room with just the right mix of old and new, classic designs mixed with punches of contemporary elements and pops of color.  Long gone are the days of everything being matchy-matchy. Hallelujah!! ("My mauve couch needs to match my floral mauve curtains that are just a shade darker than my mauve carpet."  BLAH!) My eye is really drawn to rooms that are unique and unusual yet classic and beautiful; rooms that don't scream, "I've been decorated by a Mormon housewife!"

{Let it be known that I have absolutely nothing against Mormon housewives.  I, myself, am one. However, as Mormon housewives, our homes do not all need to look the same.  We can be individuals and don't have to rely solely on Super Saturdays to give us things to be put into our dwellings.}

I think I'm going through a home decorating identity crisis right now.  I'm still drawn to the vintage and historic because my home is just that - vintage and historic. Yet, a part of me wants to branch out of that realm and experience a more contemporary vibe.  I'm sure there's a way to mix the two, but I've just got to figure out how to do it without making it look like IKEA and The Cracker Barrel had an ugly bast@#$ child.  (No offense to either business.  I love you both.) 

Basically, I want to live in a quaint, old British bookstore (with dark woods and heavy tapestries) and a New York loft (with an airy feeling and a large Chevron stripe rug) at the same time.  

See?  A decorating identity crisis, people!  

(And true to {my} form, I'm already worrying about this stuff and there's not even a hole dug yet.  Talk about putting the cart before the horse.  There's not even a danged cart nor a darn horse in my present view!!)

It's amazing I don't have ulcers.

(Deep breath.  Moving on.)

I came across this 1940's inspired paper that I've fallen madly in love with.  

I knew I wanted to use it somewhere, somehow.  I told Jeff what I had in mind. He hesitated. He doubted.  He wasn't convinced.  But for less than $20, we had a mini-makeover in our front room.  I don't pride myself in being cleverly crafty (I choose mixing bowls and saute pans over glue guns and paint brushes) but I do think I came up with something unique and pretty cool.

This may not have been in a quaint, old British bookstore but, perhaps, in a charming old mercantile?

Greatest Snow (and Kids) on Earth

A family that skis together, stays together.

Blessings Through Adversity

We never know where life's journey will take us.

Life doesn't provide a road map for the unforeseen forks in the road, the hairpin turns that catch us off guard, or bumpy terrain that sometime rattle us. These unexpected detours can happen at any time - unfortunately, without any warning signs or flashing hazard lights. 

I found out yesterday that a dear friend of mine, Britni, has cancer.  She and I worked together in the Young Women's program in our ward a couple of years ago.  She represents everything that is good in this world. She is kind and generous - I don't think she has a mean bone in her body. She is happy and cheerful and a mother to 2 darling children.  She has a firm testimony of the gospel and of our Savior, Jesus Christ.  She's a loving friend and an amazing example of what goodness is.

Why is it that bad things can happen to good people?

I often wish that there was a direct correlation between the fruits of our labors - the kind of lives that we live - and the blessings or challenges that we receive (in the here and now). We do something good - a blessing is deposited.  We make unrighteous choices - a withdrawal is made.  In other words, if you're good your life will only be good.  If you're bad, then life may not be without a few flat tires.  If this were the case, we'd always have a pretty clear accounting of where we stand and there would be no surprises.  We'd simply have to look at our life's ledger to see where our balance stands in this earthly existence.

But, of course, our Father in Heaven is much wiser than that.  He understands that some of the greatest lessons learned - the lessons that take us from being good people to even better people - most often come through our trials and challenges.  Think about it.  Most of the truly great and inspirational people that have lived, or are living, on this earth have one thing in common - they have learned to overcome.  Their characters have been molded by challenges and they have come through the refiner's fire as better people.  Truly inspiring and influential people don't make their mark on the world by living easy and carefree lives.  Rather, they have overcome obstacles that most of us would pray we would never have to deal with.  They have battled failures and disappointment and ridicule from others. They suffered from loss and anguish and ailments of the body, mind or spirit.  But, in the end, these great ones - our heroes, our historical protagonists, our role models - have risen above adversity and sustained a level of faith throughout it all.  That's what makes them great. That's what sets them apart.  That's what elevates them above the mediocracy of the masses.

Luckily, my friend's prognosis is a good one.  She will go in for major surgery in a couple of weeks and then go through chemotherapy treatments.  The doctor's feel the success rate for beating this disease is very, very high.  In this, there is peace and hope.  This challenge will exercise her faith and teach her in ways she hadn't expected.   She will recover and live the beautiful life she was meant to live.  She will be the incredible wife and mother she has set out to be.  She will continue to be one of the greatest examples to me of what a true lady is and what charity looks like.  She will overcome.

And, to me, she will be one among the greats.

If You Don't, Please Do

Buckle Up.

Mid-Life Crisis

*Post note:  This was originally written on February 21 but I got distracted and  forgot to push the publish post button.  Mommy ADD.  Mercy me.

This morning, Jeff really showed his age.  He flippantly took out our new, highly posh and swanky, buck ninety-nine umbrella from IKEA, looked at Britt with a flash of audacity in his eyes, and....pop!.... opened it up in the front room.  He twirled it over his shoulder with a smile and told Brittan, "Did you know it's bad luck to open an umbrella inside?"  

I've drawn an imaginary 10 foot radius around him and have stayed outside those boundaries all day.  He's crazy to tempt fate and tease a superstition that has been confirmed and validated for centuries.  {There's got to be documentation somewhere.}  I'm not sure what the price is to pay for such reckless abandon, but I'm not going down with him.  If he wants to challenge some unseen force out there, he's gonna have to put his own neck on the line.

'Cause my neck doesn't want any part of it. 

Is he so careless in his older age that he can easily mock and take things of this nature so lightly? Should I be concerned?  Should I intervene?  Is he rebelling because he's just 4 months away from a new decade of life?  Does he feel like he's been careful and cautious for long enough and it is, by golly gee wilikers, high time to be free and foolhardy?

Some men show signs of midlife by driving sports cars, getting hair plugs, and buying themselves a tan.

My husband just chooses to juggle black cats and do the limbo under ladders.

{To each their own.} 

  

Baby Tattoo

The eldest likes to tag the youngest's epidermis.

The message is always the same.

I love my sis!

A constant competition between K and T and B.

Who is Shaw's favorite?

His mood and preference changes daily.  It keeps the kids jockeying for position.

He's a finicky toddler.

My Husband is Ghetto

Perhaps you remember my husband, Jeff, and his propensity at being a minimalist.  In case you've forgotten, you can read all about it here.

He's all about using it up, making it do, buying it cheaper, and making it last.

I love him.  I really, really do.  He's a good man.  An excellent father.  A patient husband.  An all around great guy.  He's also very cheap.  As in tightfisted, frugal, penny-pinching.  Spending money is not his favorite thing to do.  In fact, it's one of his least favorite things to do.

Normal people, when it is apparent that their youngest child has grown out of his pajamas, would go out and buy a replacement pair.  A pair that fits comfortably and looks cute and snugly.

Not my husband.

When getting Shaw dressed for bed last night, he realized that our little sprout has grown out of his footed PJ's.  Jeff, priding himself in being the next generation MacGyver, resolved the problem with a pair of scissors.

Ghetto Exhibit A

Ghetto Exhibit B

Now Shaw can actually stand up straight while wearing these Carter brand beauties, rather than being hunched over because they're too small.  His feet slip in and out of these opened toed heel warmers.  These babies are good for another 6 - 8 months or so.  Heck, when summer comes, it may turn into a tank top and capris length pajama set.

Anything to save a dime.

Dark Circles and Bags: All in the Name of Trying to Be a Cool Parent

While Saturday's exhaustion seeped into my bones and I'm still feeling sluggish today, the party was a success and Kennedy and her friends had a blast.  

The great thing about 13 and 14 year old young ladies, is that they really need no entertaining - they carry with them their own creativity and energy that sustains them for hours on end.  This picture shows this synergy in action. Across the street from our house, there is an old abandoned creepy shed that contains all sorts of strange things - old school desks, tools, rolled up rugs, milk jugs, crates, and the like.  This shed is one of our kids' favorite places to go - after dark - with a group of friends.  It's like something straight out of the movies - Who dares to walk up close to it?  Who dares to walk up to the doorway?  Who dares to go inside?!?! Kennedy and her friends raided our coat closet for the proper attire and then pillaged my kitchen drawers for weapons. Yes, a ghost is toast when it comes to a whisk and potato masher.  Casper didn't stand a chance against these girls.

Oh, and I thought I'd let you see the finished cake that the girls made.  

Yes, Barbie is holding a basketball.  The birthday girl was on the basketball team so this was in honor of her.

Yes, the cake looks like it's been chewed up, spit back onto the cake platter, and then frosted with homemade chunky vanilla frosting.  No, this is not the case. But this - the girls learned - is what happens when the cake pans are not properly greased before baking.  It's tough to frost and decorate a mound of broken cake pieces.  

{Truth be told, they wouldn't have changed a thing.  It was one of the highlights of the party.}

***

The boys of our clan had a great day of skiing and came home rosy cheeked and a little worn out too.  They stopped by Salon a la Randee for much needed haircuts (she said she felt like she was shearing sheep) and then came home to chill for the night. 

Here's a clip of Taiden and Britt.  T-man is at the beginning of the shot on his snowboard and Brittan is the speed demon coming behind him.  Keep in mind that Brittan has only had 3 ski lessons and has NO FEAR of acceleration.  Next weekend, I'm taking them up to Powder Mountain for the day - I'm going to be a nervous wreck.  Between watching them wiggle around on the chairlifts (which Jeff lets them go on BY THEMSELVES!) and zipping down the mountain side with no brakes....

YAWN

I'm not sure if it's the rising at 6:10 a.m. this morning to run 8.2 miles, or the 5 hours of cleaning that I did with a friend immediately after that (I did manage to slip in a shower and some protein), or the supervision that I gave to Kennedy and her friends as they attempted to make a layered cake for a surprise birthday party for her BFF, or the cleaning of the cake pans after the aforementioned girls failed to use nonstick spray, or the caramel corn that I whipped together, or the cleaning up that I did, or the fact that Jeff and the boys were off skiing so I was a one woman show around here, or the knowledge that our house will contain 6 hyper and giddy girls from 7:00 p.m. until who knows when, or the fact that, before my head can hit the pillow,  I still have to make a dessert and do dinner prep for my mom-in-laws birthday dinner that we'll be hosting here tomorrow, but...

I AM TIRED!

I can't remember the last time I was this physically exhausted.

One thing is for certain.  I will be honoring the 4th commandment tomorrow. To the fullest.

Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy.

{No arguments from me.}

Kid Lesson #5,743

Jobs are much more tolerable when you put some creativity into it.

Now how can I use this way of thinking to help make laundry a delightful part of my daily routine?  

{I'm sure Britt will help me think of something.}

Memories in a Mixing Bowl

Yesterday, Jeff made cookies.  Not a typical behavior for that husband of mine, but he was itching for something sweet.  On lazy Sabbath afternoons, our sweet teeth usually make a house call.   And it would be rude to shut the door on them, I imagine.

Jeff had one thing on his mind.  He made a beeline to the cupboard containing a lonely box of dates.  Dates that had been bought back in December but that never got used during our marathon baking weekend.  Sadly, they have sat silently next to the jello and pudding boxes waiting for someone to take notice. Jeff did notice and to him dates are meant for one thing and one thing only.  

His Grandma's Oatmeal Date Filled Cookies.

As he creamed and mixed, mashed and stirred, the ingredients came together as they should. He rolled out the dough, cut out circles, and baked them to near perfection - next time he says they'll be slightly thinner.  The filling was dark and rich - just as it should be.  He was proud of his efforts.  He was pleased that his cookies were near replicas of what he remembered from his childhood.  But during that time spent in the kitchen one thing happened that he didn't anticipate.

It made him miss his grandma.

Grandma with Brittan - Summer 2002

Recipes have incredible powers to round up memories.

A lovely friend once gave to me

A most delightful recipe.

Each time its used, I feel I spend

A precious moment with my friend.

Each and every time I use a recipe someone gives me, I think of them.  It's a brief, fleeting, almost subconscious recognition, but it is there nonetheless. Every time I make seasoned tacos I think of my sister-in-law, Carene.  When I make Turkey Tortilla Soup I think of a cousin's wife, Leslie.  When I make Pres. Nixon's chicken, I think of Chris - a friend. Buttermilk Ranch from Sandi. Banana Chocolate Chip cookies from my mom and grandma.  Mustard Ring from Ann.  Fresh Salsa from a sister-in-law, Jen (I miss you).  BBQ Spare Ribs from Aunt Wanda. These recipes are synonymous with these people.  I can't help but have their images flicker through my mind as I mix the ingredients to their culinary gems.  It's quick and momentary, but it's very much there.

Wonderful recipes.

Wonderful people.

  

Someone in the Advertising Department Deserves a Raise

These commercials have started airing lately and I laugh every time I see them.  

This gal doesn't need celebrity endorsements to catch her attention.

Just clever writing and plenty of tongue in cheek.

Check them out here and here.

Shuffling Towards the Gold

This week, our family has really enjoyed watching the Olympics together.  The guys have leaned more towards anything involving moguls, snowboards, speed and aerials.  The gals of the household have loved the figure skating.

In honor of the Olympics, I've searched the video archives for this never before seen clip of our own homegrown pair of skaters.

Synchronization at its finest.

(And not a sequined bodysuit in sight.)

:D

How a Mackintosh Became a Gregson - Part 1: Going Away to College

Since it's Valentine's Day, I thought I would share with you the start of a love story.  About a blonde girl from Bountiful and a crazy Canuck from up north.

{But since I have a propensity to be long winded and since I want to not leave out any details, this may take awhile - as in, several posts.}

picture source

It was the fall of 1990.  I headed down to BYU for my Freshman year with high hopes of transforming into an adult overnight.  Being on my own was an exhilarating thought but what I didn't really comprehend was that being on my own at this point really meant only waking myself up each morning, getting to my classes on time, studying on my own, and somehow getting nourishment into my system.  See, my parents paid for everything. EVERYTHING. Housing, food, clothing, tuition, books and supplies, trips to the candy counter at the bookstore.  I thought I was big and mature and experiencing life in a world of academia , but I was just playing grown up at college on my mom and dad's dime.  I thought it was fun to write checks for the first time in my life, but didn't make the connection that most people have to earn the money that goes into their accounts.  True, I did go home on the occasional weekend and work at our family owned video store (can I hear a shout out for Adventureland Video?) but financial stressers would not be a part of my regime for the time being.  Yes, I was a privileged kid off at college ready to experience every detail that higher education had to offer and, because I didn't have to hold down a job, I had the time to do it.  

Boy did I have fun that Freshman year.

Go ahead and say it.  Go ahead.  (Whisper - " She looks so young!")

Yes, I was young.  18 years old. 

That was 20 years ago friends.

With only classes to (occasionally) attend, homework to (usually) do, FHE brothers to (always) flirt with, and roommates to (continually) entertain, it was a rip roarin' (mostly) squeaky clean party for those first 8 months of university life.  My roommates and I stayed up entirely too late every night and talked, and laughed, and did parodies of SNL skits.  We got a hold of my parent's video camera and made our own horror movies (complete with ketchup-blood in the shower), commercials on feminine hygiene products, and had plenty of get togethers with those cute FHE brothers.  Times were fun and for once in my life I completely let loose and threw caution to the wind.

That's why I got a 2.4 my first semester.

I had been a student with impeccable grades up until that point.  A high school graduate who toted high honors and a cumulative 3.85 GPA.  The mistake I made - initially - with my whole BYU experience was thinking that I could make it to 8:30 a.m. classes.  Heavens, I had started high school at 7:30 a.m. so having classes an hour later would be a luxury, right?  But alas - my good intentions for rising early in the morning to be a studious student were debunked by my need to watch and analyze and dissect every new episode of 90210.   Or create the next masterpiece theater home video with my roommates.  Or prank call those cute FHE brothers. Or bake brownies at 2:00 in the morning in effort to keep up with those Freshman 15.

This girl needs more than 5 hours of sleep a night to succeed in college.

Don't ask because I have no answers.  I guess we were playing dress up.  Apparently, I was the horse riding pirate streetwalker, Jen was the Amish woman, and Michelle was doing a deodorant ad.

So succeed in school I didn't, but live life to the Freshman fullest I did.  With fall came the football season and my roommates and I bought season tickets.  Our group of seats moved from one section to another with each home game, but we generally moved around the stadium with the same group of people sitting around us.  In front of us, there was usually a group of Freshman guys who were quite entertaining to watch.  They were completely absorbed in the games and were not shy about verbalizing their sideline expertise.  There was one guy who stood out from the rest.  Yes, stood out because he was the loudest and most obnoxious and most vocal amongst his friends.  I remember he wore a Syracuse University jacket.  

In a sea of BYU blue, he wore a Syracuse University jacket.

It was several months later that I finally learned his name.

And no, his name was not Jeff.

***

To be continued...

I Love You

I have hijacked Kristen's blog to make a global announcement.  Thanks to Kristen's international audience I can say "I declare my love to you for the world to hear".  I remember the day like it was yesterday when I met that beautiful blonde bombshell on my lawn in Canada.  Yes, it was love at first sight, and I've been learning for the past years why I fell instantly in love.

They say a picture says a thousand words, so I created a video.  I hope this shows all the love and beauty we have shared together.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Love,

Jeffrey Jay