He May Be Incontinent....

But he can do this...

Take a Guess...

What do dwarfs, prunes, Monte Cristo sandwiches, and ridiculous conversations have in common?

I'll give you 2 hints:

Girls only

It starts with Disney and ends with Land

See you next week!

15 Going on 15

As parents, we are always relieved when our kids make good decisions.

But when the teenage years arrive and then press forward with a steady force, we are REALLY relieved when our kids make good decisions.

And one of the biggest decisions is the kind of company they keep.

Kennedy has always been blessed to have a good strong circle of friends. Good kids who make good decisions and live good lives. Kids who build each other up, look after one another, and encourage each other along.

(Oh, and they have a whole lot of fun in the process.)

For her 15th birthday this year, she wanted to have a party with her closest pals. 15 guests showed up and the decibels soared skyward. Between, playing Hit the Deck and the Dice Game, the windows rattled with laughing, teasing, friendly competition and teenage energy. I think the boys were as loud as the girls. As I looked around the room, camera in hand, I took great solace in the fact that these All-American kids believed in and acted with the same high standards.

Thumbs up to all the great parents out there.

Click to enlarge

Allow me to let you in on a little secret. If you want a really creative, unusual, and memorable way to serve ice cream sundaes, try this:

SERVE THEM IN VINYL RAIN GUTTERS!

If someone's hot fudge is encroaching upon someone else's sundae, do as Dallin did...build a marshmallow fluff wall and cover it with gummy bears. It makes a perfect barrier.

I Know, I Know, I Know...

Dear Blog,

You hate me now, huh?

I guess the word on the street is that I've given you up for another blog. That sleek, polished, hotshot blog over at Elite Craft Homes. The one that is paying me for my words and domesticated advice and whatever else wants to spill out of my fingertips.

(...ahhhh, please don't cry.....)

You see, dear blog of mine, you will always be my first. My numero uno. My baby. You are the one who allowed me to find my voice in writing again and didn't judge me when I fumbled and follied. You sat up with me, usually late at night, and patiently waited for me to record my personal thoughts, maddening frustrations, humorous quips, and embarrassing moments.

You let me tell about this.

Oh, and don't forget about that.

Dear me, did I really publish a post that talked about my sistas in a less than flattering light?

And then there was the whining.

Oh, cherished Bloggeroni, I don't want to try and make excuses. Excuses fall flat when there is heartbreak involved (I know you're an inanimate object, but I like to think that you have a heart). It started with the house construction. I became more distant because my life was a dust and noise filled circus that clouded my judgement and I neglected you. Then came the holidays. Busy weeks packed with festivities that left little time for blogging with you. Then came January. Who wants to do anything that time of year? Blah! I said hello to Seasonal Affective Disorder..the sun was hidden and so was my desire to write. Our trip was in February. Can I blame it on the fact that I ate a million pounds of macadamia nuts that somehow stunted my abilities to write meaningful prose?

Then March was silent.

April was hushed.

On the bright side, Bloggerista, there have been a handful of people looking out for you. Readers out there who have worried, and questioned, and even threatened bodily harm to me if I didn't get back together with you.

So here I am.

I can't promise daily visitations. I can't guarantee worthwhile narratives that will do anything but take up too much of your time. I can't pledge that I won't occasionally bring up the droopy sistas or embarrass myself beyond recognition.

What I can promise is that I will be here. At least a couple of times a week. I'm not sure what will end up on the screen for all the world to see. Let's just hope and pray that it doesn't award me an unflattering reputation or land me on the 10 o'clock news .

Treasured Bloggety Blog Blog, I am back.

(And let's hope the readers come back too.)

Love and affection,

Kristen

Today For Show and Tell, I'd Like to Share...

....a few mismatched anecdotes.

1. I have discovered a cure for worldwide anger and hostility. A method of ridding the earth of filthy speech bubbles dangling above most people's heads. I think this is truly the answer for a kinder and gentler mankind. I present to you Shakespearean Slander.

Click to enlarge

Someone cuts you off in traffic. Why not throw out a quip like, "Thou dankish milk-livered pumpion!" The offender could call back to you, "Thou mammering beef-witted canker-blossom!" By the time you both figured out what the heck you were actually being called, tempers would have cooled, animosity would have waned, smiles could be exchanged, and you both would come away a little more cultured. Imagine if you lobbed these insults with a fake English accent? Huzzah! How can you take an insult like, "Thou beslubbering hedge-born apple-john" seriously?

2. Critics in the world might challenge the worth and merit of Facebook. I'll admit that I've wondered about those exact things from time to time. But last week, when my daughter was chatting on FB with a friend from her seminary class and he suggested that they both read their nightly assignment in the scriptures and then tell each other about it through Facebook's messaging, I saw a whole new value placed on this social network phenomenon.

This was his 15 year old entertaining synopsis of the chapter he read.

"so I read in alma 22 when Ammons Bro Aaron is brought before king Lamoni. Aaron like offered to be Lamoni's servent but instead He just taught Lamoni the gospel. Lamoni was like a way good guy everything that Aaron said he believed, that guy had some major faith! He was filled with the spirit so much that he fell over like he was dead. then when his wife came in she got [ticked] and ordered her servants to kill Aaron but they wouldnt cuz they had heard him testifying to Lamoni and knew that he was a man of god. so that just made the queen even more [ticked] off. Aaron saw that it was a bad situation so he raised King Lamoni out of his heavenly stupor. Then Lamoni was like super filled with the spirit so he preached to his wife and all of his servants and they were all converted to the lord. Lamoni sent out a proclaimation that nobody could hurt Aaron and that he could preach freely. Yea so then like all the Lamanites are converted and a people that was once way wicked turned to richousness because of the faith of Aaron. I like this because its sorta shows the chain reaction of missionary work, and how many lives we can change by our good examples."

At the end of their discussion, Kennedy's friend said that he really did feel the spirit. They agreed that they would do this type of studying more often because it would keep them more motivated knowing someone was on-line counting on them.

3. Eating 500 lbs. of macadamia nuts in a week's time is surely a delicious way to pack on the weight. Even if you try and offset that 500 lbs. of manna with hikes, fighting the waves in the ocean, walking, paddle boarding, touring, and praying (we did go to church), you will still come home more paunchy than when you left.

Let's get serious. You really don't want to hear about our glorious vacation. I will spare you the fantastic details. But I've had several people tell me they are waiting for a post about our 7 days of fun. Here are a few pics.

We traveled with our best buds, Jeremy and Randee. We left SLC's 8 degrees to bask in Hawaii's 82 degrees.

Paddle boarding

First stop we made after landing in our tropical paradise? COSTCO!

Note to self: Don't travel with beautiful people. But if you do, don't have your pictures taken with them.

Volcanoes. Randee and I wanted to poke lava with a stick. No such luck. However, we did get a nice steam facial at one of the view points.

Hiking to Akaka Falls

Washing down macadamia nuts with a Mormon-friendly-Pina-Colada.

Yeah, that is my husband doing a cannon ball. Notice no children around? Woot woot!

The precious couple

Something about size mattering....

A highlight of the trip for me. A memory quick to be forgotten for Randee.

Stalker alert! If you are a guy and wear nothing but a red thong on the beach, I WILL casually walk by you and take a picture.

Hot cross brown buns should not be shared with the general population, folks.

Ah, sweet...

Although my beloved Steelers lost the Super Bowl, the defeat was less painful due to the fact that we watched it pool side.

Church in Kona

4. Potty training (and the lack thereof) stinks.

5. If you are a bread-dunked-in-EVOO-and-balsamic-vinegar type of person, you MUST try this product out. I bought it at Smith's. It is a balsamic reduction so it is thicker than your average balsamic vinegar and it is heavenly. Give it a chance, won't you?

All Because One Young Man Opened His Mouth

This gives me chills.

From 1 to 26.

Truly amazing.

Inspiring.

A List

My romanticized mind has a list of places I'd like to see and specific times I'd like to see them.

New York City at Thanksgiving

Vermont in the fall

Washington D.C. on the 4th of July

Boston on St. Patrick's Day

Hawaii during (our) winter

A cozy English cottage (set in the country) during the summer

Salem, Massachusetts in October

Tomorrow Jeff and I leave for one of these places.

ALOHA!

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.