tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32986946399464257392024-03-21T21:29:03.323-07:00Utterly InexperiencedAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15471887566634140494noreply@blogger.comBlogger36125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3298694639946425739.post-9139881437803639652015-11-11T20:34:00.001-08:002015-12-07T08:38:04.562-08:00My Mormon StoryIn light of my recent admission on Facebook that I am no longer a member of the Mormon/LDS church, I've decided to pop back onto my blog for a minute to share my story. My really, really, really long story. Hopefully you have nothing better to do on a cold November night, because it's a novel if you decide that you want to read it. But it comes from my heart. The bottom of my heart. I share it because I consider myself an honest person, and my friends and family deserve to know how I got to this place. I wrote this a little over a month ago with plans to work up the courage to share it by the end of the year. It didn't happen in quite the way I expected but I have now met that goal. Thank you for your patience with me as I navigate my new beliefs while holding on to what has made me who I am.<br />
<br />
<br />
October 1, 2015<br />
<br />
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I have started writing this in my
head so many times that it seems strange to finally be putting it on paper
(virtually speaking). But I knew that at some point I would, because truth
means everything to me, and I don’t want to hide my personal truth from the
people I care about the most.</div>
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<br /></div>
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First, let me tell you what I loved
about being raised a Mormon. There are so many happy moments when I look back
at it now (sprinkled with a few very boring lessons and playing the piano when
I didn’t want to of course!). I loved
the sense of inclusion. I loved the relationships I formed with teachers and
strong role models. I loved many of the Primary songs (especially “We’ll Bring
the World His Truth” and “I Love to See the Temple”). I loved the Young Women’s
program and the responsibilities I had. I loved conference and hearing old guys
talking about loving our families and being good people. I loved seminary. I
loved having good, pure friends who supported each other and still do. I loved
having a soft place to land and a system that guided me when my parents’
marriage ended and left me feeling very lost. I loved the order, the community,
the service, the faith, and the people.</div>
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<br /></div>
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By the time I was engaged and
preparing to go through the temple, I felt 100% ready. I had dedicated myself
to the church early on in my teen years and had made it through high school and
into college at BYU-Idaho without drinking, trying drugs, getting frisky with
boys in the backseat, and, believe it or not, without using cuss words! I
already had the habits of reading the scriptures and praying every day. I
embraced everything about the church, the Book of Mormon, and the temple. I
considered it a compliment when people called me a “Molly Mormon.” I was ready
to go to the temple and make even greater commitments to my Heavenly Father. I
was so excited throughout the endowment process, knowing I was making special
promises to the church, God, and my soon-to-be husband. I soaked it all up,
believing that this act of receiving such sacred ordinances and marrying there
in the temple were the greatest, most life-altering decisions I would ever make.</div>
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I didn’t know that roughly seven
years later, I would be making another decision that would surpass it all.</div>
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<br /></div>
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My husband Aaron has always been a
well-rounded individual. He was always much more likely to try to see things
from the perspectives of others than I was. A critical thinking lesson in a
class at BYU-Idaho made him even more considerate and likely to sympathize when
someone expressed a thought or feeling. So when he started to ask questions
about the church and its doctrines, I knew it was because he was honestly
trying to define his beliefs so that he could give sincere and truthful answers
to others. He would ask me the questions, and I would give him the answers as
they were taught to both of us growing up in the church. But in the end I would
often find myself shrugging my shoulders and saying, “There are lots of things
we don’t know. God will reveal more when people are ready for it.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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For a long time, that was enough
for me. Whatever I didn’t understand was placed on my proverbial “shelf” and I
continued with my church attending, homemaking, and stay-at-home mothering. But
I could tell that Aaron was struggling. He slowly began asking questions that I
couldn’t answer at all and it was causing a bit of a rift between us. He was
thinking a lot, reading the scriptures a lot, and praying a lot, but his
questions remained. I was confused. This was not the person I thought I had
married. How could someone trying to prove his faith right be losing it
instead? So I prayed for him too. I prayed for help to understand his
questions, to find some answers for him, to know how to encourage him. I had
faith that he would find satisfactory answers in his studies in time.</div>
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<br /></div>
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One night,
not long after Aaron’s intense search for answers had begun, I was fighting
some anxiety over a health problem and I asked for a Priesthood blessing. He
hesitated. I could tell he didn’t want to. After a while he could see that it
was the only thing that was going to help me feel better and he obliged. This
happened on a couple of other occasions and finally he told me, “I just don’t
know if it really does anything.” </div>
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<br /></div>
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I was incredibly hurt by that
statement. It opened my eyes to how much he was really beginning to doubt, and
not just one or two things about church doctrine, but the entire religion. I
was scared and I was beginning to wonder how someone so faithful could be
struggling so much. It wasn’t happening the way I had always heard of it
happening. Aaron was a good person. He wasn’t offended or prideful or lazy. He
was spending huge amounts of time trying to connect with God and follow the
guidance of the Spirit.</div>
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<br /></div>
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It just didn’t make sense.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Seeing this, I too, began to
question certain aspects of my faith. I couldn’t find a balance between the
love and understanding I wanted to show my husband and the love I was supposed
to have for a god I could not see or hear. I couldn’t understand why God did
not seem to be giving me any sort of direction despite my frequent, fervent
prayers. I continued to beg for His help. I attended church with our children.
I committed myself to extra scripture study. I visited the temple. I fasted. I
talked to my parents and Aaron’s, all of whom encouraged me to be strong. I
kept doing what I was supposed to do and I continued to hope that everything
would be set right eventually. I just had to keep the faith.</div>
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In 2013 after a summer of working a
job that often required him to miss church, Aaron asked if it would be okay if
he didn’t attend anymore. He told me that our relationship was the most important
thing to him and that if I wanted, he would keep going. But it was obvious that
he was not happy there anymore. I wanted to support him in whatever way I could
but at the same time I was crushed. I could no longer follow the storyline I’d
created as a little girl of a perfect, righteous marriage with Aaron. I was
praying harder than I had ever prayed before to make this work. I was pouring
my heart out to Heavenly Father all day long. I didn’t know what I was supposed
to do. I imagined many scenarios, and all of them ended with one or both of us
being completely dissatisfied in our marriage. I wondered if it would end in
divorce because it didn’t seem possible that we would ever be able to agree on
how to approach life and raise our family if we didn’t hold the same beliefs.</div>
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<br /></div>
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It felt as though my worst
nightmares were coming true. My life seemed to be falling apart in a way I had
never expected. </div>
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<br /></div>
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But there was one truth that seemed
to pull at me, to keep me engaged in the struggle: I loved Aaron. I loved him
so much I couldn’t stand the thought of being without him. I could feel it
inside, deeper even than my faith. He was everything to me. And he was so <i>good.</i>
A good husband, a good father, a good person. Whatever ideas I had about
“apostate” Mormons, he was the exact opposite. If he was so “tricked” by Satan,
was it wrong that I still felt so good about him? If he was so good, was it
right to be questioning my relationship with him? Did our entire history
together come down to this one issue and end because we could not agree?</div>
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<br /></div>
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No. Not for me.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I knew who he was. He was not the
kind of man who would casually walk away from his beliefs, his family, or the
god he had served. I knew that the things he had been telling me, the questions
he had asked and the answers he was finding, must have some truth to them.</div>
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<br /></div>
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So I started to ask <i>him</i>
questions. I asked him how he had come to his conclusions, what he had read,
whom he had talked to. I began to realize that the resources he had found were
not “anti-Mormon” as I had feared, but simply historians, educators, and good,
honest people who were just telling their own stories. And I was finally ready
to listen.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I’m going to pause here and say one
thing – I am not here to tell you everything I have learned about the history
and origins of the LDS church. I am not here to change your mind or alter your
faith. I’m just telling my story. But I will tell you that despite what you may
have been told, not everything outside of the Sunday school manuals is false or
anti-Mormon information. There are a lot of things – a whole lot – that are
just facts. Honest to goodness facts. There are books, letters, journals, and a
hundred other resources that back them up. The church itself has even become
more candid about its past. If you haven’t read the church essays on LDS.org
regarding black members and the Priesthood, Joseph Smith’s polygamy, and the
seer stone, you should. The church is making an effort to be more open and it
is in the interest of every member to know these things. </div>
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<br /></div>
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But back to the story.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I felt that I had doubted my doubts
for a very long time. It didn’t seem to be working. I would latch onto a story,
a scripture, an experience, or a feeling, only to have it overshadowed by the
lack of communication I felt from Heavenly Father. I was still struggling with
why He seemed to be unavailable to me when I needed Him the most, especially if
He really expected me to remain faithful at this critical, pivotal moment. I
had been through the oft-quoted Mormon method of pray, read scriptures, fast,
visit the temple, go to church, be faithful, and on and on and on, with
absolutely nothing to show for it. My faith was taking a hit and I felt a
strong urge to start figuring things out. <i>Really</i> figuring them out. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I started by watching part of a
historical documentary that discussed the origins of the Book of Abraham. When
it was over, I was dumbfounded. I was sure there must be some mistake. I simply
couldn’t believe that the Book of Abraham was God-given scripture if I was to
accept the evidence presented in the documentary, and it seemed incredibly
solid and unbiased. And if I couldn’t believe the Book of Abraham was what
Joseph Smith had claimed, I had to wonder what else might be amiss during his
time as prophet. I immediately wanted to know more about Joseph Smith. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I turned to a man who had been an
early morning seminary teacher and had put some videos online to try to help
Mormons who had doctrinal questions. He talked about Joseph Smith’s process in
writing the Book of Abraham and confirmed what the documentary had said. He
also mentioned that Joseph Smith had been married to many more women than just
his first wife, Emma (again, please read the church’s essays on this topic). I
was so confused. I, a lifelong Mormon, didn’t even know that. I thought that
polygamy had started with Brigham Young. It certainly had never come up in any
Sunday school lesson that I could remember. So what else was there that I
didn’t know? </div>
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<br /></div>
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A lot of things, as it turned out.</div>
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<br /></div>
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And that was the problem. It was
not just <i>one </i>thing. I could have gotten over it if it was. The problem
was that one thing led to another, led to another, led to another. Over the
course of a few weeks I learned more. Despite starting out with a real desire
to prove everything about the LDS church right, I found that the evidence was
stacking against me. And much of the evidence could be found in the church’s
own records, like the <i>Journal of Discourses, </i>old conference addresses,<i>
</i>and books sold in the church’s own store, Deseret Book. I watched the PBS
documentary about Mormons and although I had watched it when it first aired I
couldn’t believe all the things I had glossed over. The sketchy translation
process of the Book of Mormon. Historical issues with the Book of Mormon and its
writers. The Mountain Meadows Massacre. Brigham Young’s radical ideas. There
was so much to take in and it just kept coming. I was seeing everything in a
new light and the fog of my denial was rapidly disappearing.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Aaron helped me through it all. He
had already been through this. Sometimes I felt like everything I had known was
crumbling before me. My entire brain was being reorganized and my thoughts
redefined. I couldn’t sleep because I was thinking so much. And praying! So
much praying. Day and night and in-between diaper changes and mealtimes. <i>Father,
please help me to make sense of all this! Point me in the right direction! I
need you now more than ever before!</i><br />
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It didn’t
take long before I realized that I would never be the same again. My entire
worldview had shifted. I no longer felt that I could choose belief. There was
no light that was leading me to discover the church’s truth. I was finding no
peace there. I continued to attend church, but I could no longer look at the
lessons and teachings with the same eyes. Everything that was said became a
question for me. <i>Is that really true?</i> And, of course, there were things
that were true. The good people of the church teach love, kindness, family,
perseverance, and many more wonderful values. I could not fault those things.
But it was the reliance on the Book of Mormon, the hero-like status of Joseph
Smith, and several other topics that eventually caused me to avoid Sunday
School altogether. It was too much. It felt wrong to sit and listen to members
testify of all these things when I knew they didn’t have all of the
information. </div>
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Several
things happened in the year of 2014 that led up to my leaving the church
entirely. On Sundays I taught a class of seven and eight-year olds and I loved
it. I loved them. But I could not testify of everything that was written in the
manual. When it asked for the teacher to bear testimony of the truth of the
Book of Mormon or the prophet, I skipped over it. And even as I attended the
baptisms of each of those children I had grown to care about so much, I knew,
at some point, that I would have to let it all go.</div>
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It wasn’t
easy. I was going to church in the same building I’d grown up in, with many of
the same people. People I had known my entire life were there. Many of them knew
my husband was no longer active and I felt like they had me on some kind of
spiritual suicide watch that made them extra nice. The missionaries and members
of the Elder’s Quorum had been making occasional visits to our home and were
trying to keep us going. I knew they were doing it because in some ways they
really did care. And I appreciated that. But in the end I could no longer
convince myself that the positive things about staying in the church outweighed
the negative. And that was when I could no longer look them in the eyes and
tell them I still wanted it to be true.</div>
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I had a baby at the end of the year
and I planned my exit around it. After the typical amount of maternity leave
from church, I simply didn’t return. </div>
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<br /></div>
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It wasn’t
as cut and dry as it sounds. People visited us in our home, I went back to be
released from my calling, and a few people asked if we would be blessing our
baby. The answer, without question, was no. It had taken me a long time to come
to these conclusions but I knew I didn’t want anyone “sympathy blessing” our
baby because they knew Aaron wasn’t going to. And when you no longer believe in
the Priesthood authority, it doesn’t make much sense anyway.</div>
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</div>
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Since then
I have not gone back to church. Two of my children still ask to attend on
occasion (who doesn’t love nursery?), so I take them. But I don’t stay. I
happily attend baby blessings and missionary farewells because I love and
support the people involved, but not because it touches my heart to be there. I
still love the people of the church. I still love some of the things it
teaches. I still read the Ensign and listen to Conference talks because those
things have been a huge part of my life and I always hope to find little
nuggets of wisdom that I can hold onto. But because I cannot believe that the
church is “true,” I have found it too dishonest to continue participating in
its customs. </div>
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I have a
feeling that after reading this far you are very likely saying to yourself,
“She just didn’t do enough. She should have prayed more. Waited longer for an
answer from God. Gone to the temple more. Read her scriptures longer and paid
more tithing! Was she serving others? Was she listening to the Spirit?” I
imagine you are trying to find the <i>one thing</i> I did or didn’t do that got
me to where I am now. I suppose you think Satan must have wormed his way in
with one tiny doubt and made it grow bigger and bigger. You might even think,
when you look at me, that “the light is gone from my eyes.” I have a feeling
you are thinking those things because those are the same things I used to think
about people who left the church. I have a feeling you are thinking those
things because they are all things people have said about me, sometimes <i>to</i>
me. And they are painful. They hurt. They hurt because people who know me,
people who love me and have trusted me their entire lives and know what kind of
person I have been, are saying them. They say unkind things about my husband,
whom they often blame for starting me on this path, and I feel like the church
continues giving them fuel to be insensitive toward us both. Somehow they seem
to think that this change has made us entirely different people and that makes
it okay to say those things. Obviously we are now lacking godliness, guidance,
blessings, and perhaps lacking some sanity.</div>
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It’s not
true.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Parts of me
have had to change with the awareness I’ve gained, definitely. When you no
longer see certain things as absolute sin, no longer think of the prophet’s
words as indisputable, no longer believe that the world is getting worse and
worse until it spontaneously combusts and Jesus comes to save the good kids…
you change. Your opinions change. </div>
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If you are friends with me on
Facebook, you have seen some of my opinions change. I speak out more about
women’s equality, gay rights, and I will absolutely point out something
intolerant, insensitive, bigoted, or racist. I see the world through new eyes.
But where you might consider that a bad thing, to me it feels so right. <i>I
feel good.</i> I feel good when I say that gay marriage doesn’t bother me. I
feel good when I say that women can and should do anything a man can do. I feel
good when I say that it doesn’t bother me at all if someone has tattoos, drinks
coffee, goes shopping on Sundays, or even has sex outside of marriage. I feel
good being able to look at those people with absolute acceptance.<i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>I feel good.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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And I guess that’s what has been the most perplexing
part of my transition out of Mormonism. Practically nothing they told me about
being “apostate” has proven true. I don’t feel darkness around me. I don’t feel
Satan’s influence washing over me or demons leading me further and further away
from the iron rod. I don’t feel lost. It’s to the contrary, really. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Now, I can picture some of you
saying something like this: “She just doesn’t recognize it. It’s there but
she’s blind to it because she’s so far gone.” I used to say things like that
about people who left the church. I would never say that now. When a person
tells me how she (or he) feels, I believe her, because I know that she is the
only one who truly knows. Anything else is my projection, the way I think they
should feel based on my own paradigms. And that doesn’t do much to make someone
feel loved or understood. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Please believe me when I tell you
how I feel. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">
Ironically, I feel more Christ-like than I have ever
felt in my entire life. I honestly feel at peace. I have a positive outlook on
the world. I am open to serving and loving all kinds of people. I feel more
understanding, more kind, more willing to forgive. I am far less judgmental. I
also feel very confident in who I am as a person, a mother, and a wife. I feel
like I can listen to various opinions, study topics, and make my good choices
based on facts rather than what someone else tells me I should do. I am open to
<i>anything</i> and <i>anyone </i>so long as I can draw my own conclusions from
the facts. None of those nagging questions or fears I used to have about life
and church are bothering me anymore. The pressure I used to feel to be a
certain kind of mother and a certain kind of woman are gone. I can be myself
and I have many great plans for my life. I can make it whatever I want it to be
without worrying that I am following the right formula. I believe in the
goodness of others. I am dedicated to my husband and my family and I love them
completely. I have gratitude. I have joy. I am content.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I know that there will be hardship
in my life. I know that there will be happiness. I know that I will have ups
and downs. But the beautiful thing about it all is that <i>that is life.</i> I
don’t have to try to explain why some people get cancer and some people win the
lottery. That is life. And it is wonderful, and terrible, and exciting and sad
and so many other things. And I accept that. I accept it, and I love it. It is
extraordinarily simple.</div>
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<br /></div>
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If you get nothing else out of my
story, please remember this: The ideas you may have about “apostate” Mormons,
ex-Mormons, and Mormons with doubts are very often wrong<i>.</i> Really, truly
wrong. There <i>are</i> a few people who left because someone said something
that offended them, people who left because they never felt included, people
who left because the Word of Wisdom was too much for them to follow, people who
left because it was a lot of work and they are lazy, or whatever other reasons
people come up with. Yes, there are those people. But I am not one of them. I
have never even encountered one of them. I have met with and heard the stories
of dozens and dozens of former Mormons and they are all the same kinds of
wonderful, sincere, thoughtful, loving people you sit next to in church every
week. You know why that is? It’s because they <i>are</i> those people. They no
longer have the same beliefs, but they are still the same good people.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Leaving the church has not changed
who <i>I</i> am. <i>I</i> am the same person, with the same love for my family
and friends and community. My opinions have changed but my core is the same. I
don’t believe the church is true anymore. But it hasn’t turned me into a
Satan-worshiping lunatic and <i>it never will.</i> I think for myself, but that
doesn’t mean I’m going to only make stupid decisions. It doesn’t mean my life
will be any harder or that my kids will grow up to be murderers. I am a decent
person with a decent head on my shoulders and I will stand up for myself
because I believe that I have made a good choice for me, for my family, and for
my life. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I hope you can see that.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I hope that you will still be my
friend. I hope that you will focus on what we have always had rather than on
what I lack now. I hope that you won’t be afraid to share your stories, your
experiences, and your successes in the church with me. Because even though I
don’t believe in the church, I love you. And the church is a part of you. And
it’s a part of me. And I embrace that about us both. I am not “anti-Mormon.” I
will never deny the good things the church has brought to my life, including my
good friends, moral courage, strong family values, and much, much more. I will
not try to lead you astray. I will not weigh you down with information about
the church or force my beliefs on you. I know it’s hard for you to understand
now and I know you may never fully understand why I left. But remember that I
have been in your shoes and I used to think the same things you think about
people like me. I understand <i>you.</i> It’s okay if we don’t agree. It
doesn’t hurt me if you don’t share my opinions. What hurts me is if you don’t
feel we can still be friends, because despite our differences, that’s not how I
feel at all. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Please feel
free to contact me personally if you have questions. I’m happy to answer
Facebook messages, emails, texts, and phone calls. Please share your thoughts
and feelings and Ensign articles and spiritual experiences and anything else
you have to offer. I will never reject you when you are being kind and sincere.
And if you have your own questions or doubts I am here to support you in every
way I can. I know what it’s like to feel very alone in all this, and I don’t
want you to feel that way. You’re not crazy. You’re not less. You are normal.
You are brave. You are going to be okay. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thank you
for reading. Thank you for your love and kindness and support, especially those
of you who have not or will not let this affect our relationship. It means more
to me than you know. You are exactly the kind of people I need in my life. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Seriously – thank you.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzQCKcRCe6FNXHCYJihMNxGBOU_nhpv3brzr5QqNLJ-dz61c5__TiHuCl4TgIcukoA7RWya8wQ2urAbDkcoOtItBtAo9BaRpbJAwqVfa-qqTikRAlIQ5uN470yQ1i2XBhpMHeP_uA-FJu-/s1600/IMG_0537.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzQCKcRCe6FNXHCYJihMNxGBOU_nhpv3brzr5QqNLJ-dz61c5__TiHuCl4TgIcukoA7RWya8wQ2urAbDkcoOtItBtAo9BaRpbJAwqVfa-qqTikRAlIQ5uN470yQ1i2XBhpMHeP_uA-FJu-/s400/IMG_0537.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dressing up as Katniss for Halloween, smiling, and loving life. Still Kayla.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /><!--[endif]--><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Addendum: A few people have expressed their concerns that although I have left the church, I continue to speak against it at times (and why do I care if I don't believe?). The church has been my life. My family, friends, and most of the people I know are still a part of the church. I know many people who are like me, but who are still trying to be a part of the church. I know that there are people in the church who have questions, but are scared of what will happen if they ask them. I will advocate for those people indefinitely. I will advocate for the people in the church who struggle to raise their own voices. I will ask questions of the believers that will make them reconsider their treatment and thoughts about minorities in the church and about people, like me, who have made the choice to leave. My experience in the church and leaving the church have made me more aware of how many people need more love, more answers, and more support. I'm here to do that for them when they need it most.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15471887566634140494noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3298694639946425739.post-24819109271147792792014-09-05T22:18:00.000-07:002014-09-05T22:18:37.705-07:00Coffee is Just a Beverage -- Raising Open-Minded Children<div class="MsoNormal">
Since having children, I have learned a great many things.
I’ve talked about a few of them here as I have tried to make sense of <a href="http://utterlyinexperienced.blogspot.com/2012_09_01_archive.html" target="_blank">myfailures as a parent</a>, my moments of <a href="http://utterlyinexperienced.blogspot.com/2013/10/the-times-that-try-mothers-souls.html" target="_blank">complete exasperation</a>, and
the times when <a href="http://utterlyinexperienced.blogspot.com/2014/04/i-know-why-you-pinch-your-kid-in.html" target="_blank">nothing seems to make sense</a>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But there is one thing I feel I might be doing right.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t want to sit here and toot my own horn. Mostly, I
write this for myself so that I can put my thoughts down and keep examining
things in order to choose a path I feel is best for me and for my kids, and I
sort of just hope that someone else out there finds some of my thoughts useful
too.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>And I could be totally wrong.</i> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But that’s kind of the beauty of parenting, I suppose –
screw it all up one day, start over the next.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So… I mentioned coffee.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Growing up, I was convinced that coffee was “bad.” Bad to
drink, bad to taste, bad to smell, bad for your body, bad to enjoy, bad to
think about enjoying – just <i>bad.</i> And drinking
coffee, well, that made someone a bad person. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What I didn’t realize was that <i>a lot of people drink coffee</i>. And – newsflash – they are not all
bad. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And, guess what? Come to find out, <a href="http://www.mayoclinic.org/healthy-living/nutrition-and-healthy-eating/expert-answers/coffee-and-health/faq-20058339" target="_blank">coffee itself isn’t “bad”either</a>, unless you want to drink excessive amounts of it – but then, an excessive amount of anything isn't usually good for you, even
broccoli. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But my paradigm for so long was “coffee is bad, therefore
coffee drinkers are bad.” I would <i>stare</i>
at people in restaurants because they let the waitress pour coffee into their
cups and in my heart I was just embarrassed for them. And my friends who tested
out cappuccinos and mocha ice cream and even (for a very
naïve year or two of my life) my friends who put coffee creamers in their hot chocolate? HOLY
COW they were off the rails.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Judgy judgy judgment.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But as things tend to happen, I grew up. I found out that <i>everyone</i> in this world has more worth
than I had given them credit for. My ideas shifted. I now value the ability we
all have to collect new knowledge and make decisions based on our discoveries. I
find a tremendous amount of peace in being able to decide what’s
right for me through my own study of the world.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that’s why I don’t tell my kids that coffee is bad.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I don’t let them find fault with people who drink it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I don’t tell them not to drink it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I give them the facts, the ideas, the beliefs, and I will show
them the way I have found to be best… but they get to choose. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I find them to be far more accepting, empathetic, and
non-judgmental little people than I have ever been. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And when they see someone’s coffee cup filled in a
restaurant, they don’t stare. They don’t think that person is bad. They don’t
feel sorry that that person is ruining their life by drinking the coffee.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because coffee is just a beverage.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://media-cache-ec0.pinimg.com/originals/b2/97/01/b2970156fa91532343e6ec89e0da1892.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://media-cache-ec0.pinimg.com/originals/b2/97/01/b2970156fa91532343e6ec89e0da1892.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15471887566634140494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3298694639946425739.post-12876700563825211632014-06-02T20:52:00.001-07:002014-06-03T18:24:34.965-07:00Your Parents and You -- 5 Stages of Utter Nonsense<div class="MsoNormal">
I'm getting older my friends. And I’m noticing something. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Something besides the darkening of the hair on my upper lip
and the way I can no longer sleep on the ground while camping and still wake up
refreshed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m noticing that I am both mesmerized and befuddled by one thing. Well, two things. Er, people. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>My parents.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They know so many things. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They don’t know much. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They are so experienced.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They are so inexperienced.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They are full of advice.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They need advice.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They do things right.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They do things wrong.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Do you get the picture? Do you know what I’m talking about?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As a kid I had seen my parents as heroes who could beat down
robbers in the night, lift cars off of my mangled body in the event that I was
struck down in the street, and surely knew everything about everything. <b>Stage 1
– Ignorant Adoration</b>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I was a teenager, I experienced a sudden shift in the
way I saw my parents, a shift into <b>Stage 2 – Exaggerated Realization</b>. You know
the one. The one where you suddenly realize your parents don’t know everything
and logically conclude that they must therefore know nothing?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I couldn’t believe I had never noticed how ridiculous my
parents were. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How dare they impose such trite laws upon me as curfew? It’s
not like I was going to get into any trouble after 10pm on a school night. And
sitting me down with my boyfriend to <i>discuss</i>
the idea that we ought to be wary of pettin’ and sofa settin’ while trying not to actually <i>say </i>words like petting? Big, obnoxious eye
roll.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then I found my true love, got married, and decided to
start a family. <b>Enter Stage 3 – Ignorant Expectation.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I am going to do
everything so much better than they did.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I am going to spend
all my days singing nursery rhymes and jumping on trampolines with my adoring
angel children.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>My kids are going to
be so well-behaved and so smart and it will all be because of me.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But somewhere along the line, probably around the time my
oldest son turned two, I suddenly realized something.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I know nothing.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My parents know so much.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I am so dumb.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My parents are so smart.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I cannot raise this
psychotic child.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe I will give him to my parents.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Stage 4 – Ego Crushing Disbelief.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And now, four years and two more kids later, I am in Stage
5.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What’s Stage 5? I’m not really sure what to call it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Live and Learn? Acceptance? Enlightenment?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All I know is that I am now seeing things a bit more clearly
(hopefully). I don’t think my parents have all the answers, but I’m glad for
their advice. I see some flaws, but I adore their strengths. I realize that I
can still come to them when I have a problem. I can still talk to them and ask
questions and dump my kids on their doorstep when I just can’t take it anymore.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can appreciate that we are different from each other.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can appreciate them as individuals, as real people…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And yes, as <i>my
parents. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I can appreciate that they are still pretty darn
forgiving of my awkwardness. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like that moment in a conversation with a parent when I use
a word like <i>vagina </i>or <i>masturbation</i>, and they duck their heads,
their eyes get wide, and they look at me like, “You <i>know</i> what that <i>is</i>????” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I love you Mom and Dad. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<o:p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt3diDDF-d6e0mW__LlPo67B_T9emGltvGY90JoYzw74y4ohgtZQ3RmSscQhQIlkzC096ali5vIvZMNMVxO74HuLp2KIJzUmDTiU_IuRha8YL45izFOPwxqECmU3eA0Spb1Qp5PFYrlaEx/s1600/parents1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt3diDDF-d6e0mW__LlPo67B_T9emGltvGY90JoYzw74y4ohgtZQ3RmSscQhQIlkzC096ali5vIvZMNMVxO74HuLp2KIJzUmDTiU_IuRha8YL45izFOPwxqECmU3eA0Spb1Qp5PFYrlaEx/s1600/parents1.jpg" height="443" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My parents -- tolerating the surprisingly radiant glow of my awkwardness since 1987.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15471887566634140494noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3298694639946425739.post-74446579835056721262014-04-08T08:17:00.000-07:002014-04-08T08:17:45.451-07:00How's Your Body Image Today? Wait, Don't Answer That. <div class="MsoNormal">
I have spent 26 years in my body. Aside from the first nine
and very confident years of my life, do you want to know how much time I’ve
spent actually <i>liking</i> that body?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe 400 days all together.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the age of 9 or 10 I hit a chubby phase and I just didn’t
know how to get out of it. When other girls my age were <i>losing </i>their baby fat and looked like little string-beans, I was <i>gaining.</i> My confidence quickly declined.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To console myself, I ate.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember eating handfuls of sugar from the baking
cupboard, just because there were no other sweets in the house. I envied my
younger brother, who seemed to be able to do the same thing and not gain an
ounce. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To console myself, I stayed in my room and read books while
he went out and played basketball.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My weight went down in high school because I was going out
with friends all the time instead of staying at home where the cookies were,
but after that it was once again a struggle. Being a stay-at-home-mom and
getting through three pregnancies have made it even more so. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I can’t pin all of the poor self-image on weight issues.
I always knew I’d have those because, well, there just aren’t a lot of Skinny
Minnies in my family tree. On days when weight isn’t a concern, it’s other
things. Stretch marks. The way my eyes kind of go down on the ends instead of
up. My “man hands.” My nose. The mole on my neck that my kids sometimes find
and pinch. Saggy boobs. Thighs that touch. My sometimes painfully-obvious
mustache.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are so many nit-picky little things I see when I look
in the mirror. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m sure you can probably relate. You may even be thinking, <i>I don’t know why she thinks she’s got so
much to complain about, look at </i>ME.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know what you mean. Because I look at other people, maybe
even you, and think the <i>exact same thing.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But something in me has changed. It is growing slowly and I
hope it continues. It started the day I learned that I would be bringing a
little girl into the world.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the time since then, I have been thinking more about what
I tell myself about my body. Because I want things to be different for her. I
don’t want her to struggle with her body image the way I have struggled with
mine. I want her to look in the mirror and see those sparkly blue eyes, sassy
curls, and perfect pearly skin and know she is beautiful. Even more than that,
I want her to look in the mirror and see past the outside. I want her to smile
at her reflection because she has laughter and confidence and peace inside. I
want her to believe me when I say to her the same thing she always says to me –
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I love your heart.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://upworthy-production.s3.amazonaws.com/nugget/5155c47744d8620002004579/attachments/521488_352383438215277_603233704_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://upworthy-production.s3.amazonaws.com/nugget/5155c47744d8620002004579/attachments/521488_352383438215277_603233704_n.jpg" width="635" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not going to lie to you and tell you that my “issues”
magically disappeared overnight because I wanted to change things for my
daughter. I have good days and bad days. I still want to cry every time I see
numbers on the scale going up instead of down. But now, when I take a moment to
reconsider, I am able to see how screwed up that is, <i>and at least that’s a start.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I guess something we should be asking ourselves is, “<i>Who</i> is telling me I’m not good enough?”
Is it “the media?” Men? Celebrities? Models? Society? No. I’ll tell you who it
is.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s you.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We are all stuck in this horrible habit of telling ourselves
we’re not good enough. And until we can start to look past all that, there is little
hope for future generations of women. For our daughters and granddaughters. For
their daughters and granddaughters. The cycle will continue until we stop
expecting so much from each other, but more importantly, stop expecting so much
from ourselves. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And it’s hard. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But here’s what I think – if we start doing more to be
honest and loving to our own bodies and the bodies of those around us, <i>no matter what they look like</i>, we can do
it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>We can do it, </i>because
it matters. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
It matters because we will never learn to live with love and
happiness if we can’t accept and appreciate our differences, no matter how big
or small they seem. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/d6/6e/55/d66e55637132814bdfa97cfaf238b6d9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/d6/6e/55/d66e55637132814bdfa97cfaf238b6d9.jpg" height="640" width="302" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From the smartest woman I know.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15471887566634140494noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3298694639946425739.post-70631311234090304622014-04-01T08:45:00.002-07:002014-04-01T08:45:48.875-07:00I Know Why You Pinch Your Kid in the Grocery Store<div class="MsoNormal">
Mothering, I have found, is one of the broadest and most
difficult areas of study a woman can take up. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the moment you think you have found a solution for one
“mommy-problem,” another one arises. What works for one child doesn’t work for
another. What works for another child may only work for a single day. Or a
single hour. Or thirty seconds. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The role of a mother has to be so flexible that it can bend
over backwards, touch its toes to its shoulders, change a diaper with one hand and
simultaneously prepare dinner with the other. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Honestly, I sometimes feel like I will break.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I know this is nothing new. The internet is chock full
of the sarcastic rants, emotional stories, and heartfelt suggestions of mothers
in all walks of life these days. I am a quiet voice in a noisy crowd when it
comes to this blog. But I am a voice that wants to reiterate something to you:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hear you.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know how you feel.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I understand that in the moment you pinched your child in the grocery store you were feeling angry, tired, and a little out of control
(or a lot). But, for just a moment, you didn’t really care.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And guess what? I think that’s okay. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve been there. Soooooo many times. And it is hard to admit
how imperfect I really am.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because we are so overloaded by pictures of perfection on
social media that we feel that there must be something we aren’t doing right. And
we contribute to that dishonest media flood, hoping, perhaps, that we will
“fake it until we make it,” all the while wondering: Why are all those other moms
playing and cooking and crafting with their children when I can hardly manage
to serve mine breakfast without feeling overwhelmed? Why does this mom or that
mom seem to be able to juggle homeschooling, sewing little dresses, running
twenty miles, and making a fabulous meal all in one day when all I want to do
is lie on the floor and stare at the ceiling?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m going to make a little bit of a suggestion here, mostly
to myself, but also kind of for you if you’re nodding your head as you read
this.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stop checking your Facebook feed every few hours.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stop scrolling through Instagram every night before bed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stop searching Pinterest for crafts you can do with your
kids and following links only to find yourself sucked in by another “perfect
mom” blog.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stop reading the blogs of relentlessly optimistic people who
turn every misery into a “there’s a reason for this.” Sometimes maybe there
really <i>isn’t</i> a reason. And it is 100%
<i>okay</i> if you want to wallow in your
pain, your sadness, your misfortune.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stop trying to be something you’re not.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because you may not be the mom who has the patience to
homeschool.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And you may not be the mom who has the skill to sew little
dresses.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And you’re <i>certainly</i>
not the mom who likes to run twenty miles per day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And fabulous meals only happen maybe once a month. Maybe.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgw79zAyd295jzGgtFZbOlNLZX_cGc3lIg2DqyHZB48Sguo-VzcxfN0uGVC9PwiS9H2AekxDIMQJcoJvBqBGVHAFdW4Piyz4BwGcjNlTyCBtxLRuJSOEFhdxzMdVFlXNMGRnIxWPlQdegJ/s1600/CIMG0044.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgw79zAyd295jzGgtFZbOlNLZX_cGc3lIg2DqyHZB48Sguo-VzcxfN0uGVC9PwiS9H2AekxDIMQJcoJvBqBGVHAFdW4Piyz4BwGcjNlTyCBtxLRuJSOEFhdxzMdVFlXNMGRnIxWPlQdegJ/s1600/CIMG0044.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPHtc0NFjwXRptWaOzQEzVGm_yqi7UuIJVoNdnEFYSRju2XREwJ1WSIOEM-XNg_4TCx9rnP0GwZy3fmeVNPLBnEwfJRMBKmNUmCP5gUNEvwg_e3pWbt_1SrNI193mlpiMo6UfIapTtlV-h/s1600/DSC_0066.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPHtc0NFjwXRptWaOzQEzVGm_yqi7UuIJVoNdnEFYSRju2XREwJ1WSIOEM-XNg_4TCx9rnP0GwZy3fmeVNPLBnEwfJRMBKmNUmCP5gUNEvwg_e3pWbt_1SrNI193mlpiMo6UfIapTtlV-h/s1600/DSC_0066.JPG" height="427" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJydzX4FDYAi3u4CrgAiNatyQ4QlH8q3dsXsfSJC5qF0b0TG2FiDFwp6oZTpyXI0qeRgrbTdZxs6ShjJz-bQpnCMf10j7JfoIK53D4DGH9YddGjBIAGZhhLfsF4Njt8IHwNfyI9AgRiqqC/s1600/MomNKids.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJydzX4FDYAi3u4CrgAiNatyQ4QlH8q3dsXsfSJC5qF0b0TG2FiDFwp6oZTpyXI0qeRgrbTdZxs6ShjJz-bQpnCMf10j7JfoIK53D4DGH9YddGjBIAGZhhLfsF4Njt8IHwNfyI9AgRiqqC/s1600/MomNKids.jpg" height="425" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">Smiling through chaos since 2008.</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But you <i>are</i> a
mother. A mother who loves her children. A mother who loves to read and do all
the voices. A mother who loves to dance in the living room and sing really loud.
A mother who tries to listen, answer questions, and give honest explanations. A
mother who snuggles, kisses, hugs, laughs, cries, and strives to understand. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Fill in your own
blanks.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You are your <i>own</i>
kind of mother. Perfectly imperfect. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
And you’re <i>so</i> good
at it.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15471887566634140494noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3298694639946425739.post-36237243455619755872014-03-28T14:55:00.001-07:002014-03-28T14:55:59.309-07:00How I Became a Feminist<div class="MsoNormal">
There was a time in my life when I thought that “feminists”
were nothing but hedonistic, troubled man-haters who were so absorbed in their
womanhood they couldn’t imagine handing over even the tiniest bit of control to
the opposite sex.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was also a time in my life when I thought buying Girl
Scout cookies and showing support for Girl Scouts was “inappropriate” for
someone of my faith. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s not.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I guess what I’m trying to get at here is that I was wrong.
<i>Really wrong</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Granted, there are extremists in every group, and I’m not
saying I support the opinions and behaviors of <i>all</i> feminists.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
BUT…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have gradually come to find myself listening to,
understanding, and often <i>agreeing with</i>
many of the people I once called “feminist” with a bit of disdain on my lips.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And… <i>gasp…</i> I now
often count myself among them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let me pause for a moment and talk about tradition.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I love tradition. Tradition is Christmas presents and Easter
egg hunts and family reunions and watching people smile awkwardly and stare at
their cake while everyone sings “Happy Birthday” to them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tradition.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But what else is tradition?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
From a woman’s perspective – it has meant a lot of
submission, surrender, and producing heirs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thank goodness this country has changed so much in the past
century. Women have gone from being purely homemakers with little voice to
holding government office and becoming CEOs of top corporations. <i>That</i> is incredible, <st1:country-region w:st="on">America</st1:country-region>. Good
job.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But if we dig a little deeper, it’s sad to see the
inequalities that still exist.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I used to justify those inequalities. I would say things
like: “Men are physically capable of more. We trust them to do what we can’t,”
and “We’re still equals, we just have different roles in life,” and “Men are
more rational. If we had a Presidential Cabinet full of women, our country
would be an emotional wreck.” Yeah, I said that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was raised in a very conservative, traditional home in a
very conservative, traditional community, as a part of a very conservative,
traditional religion. Maybe you can see where those things I used to say might
have come from.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I guess the big question here is this: Is tradition <i>right?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is true that <i>in
general</i>, men are physically stronger. It is true that <i>in general </i>men and women often lean toward specific roles based on
biological makeup. It is true that <i>in
general</i>, they often think rationally and have fewer “emotional” moments (as
long as we’re talking about <i>sadness</i>
and not <i>anger</i>, that is). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But why does that mean that women should take the backseat?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Women are biologically capable of bearing children, but does
that mean they have to? Women are generally more sensitive to the feelings of
others, but does that mean they are incapable of making rational decisions?
Women have become very good at doing laundry and making sandwiches and bringing
cold beverages to men who sit in front of televisions watching sports, but does
that mean they should spend their lives doing nothing else?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAgjLjhNah72OkOfzVgB4OnF4lSRJ6-ZHFjGO0oexOO78sMcYSldWXzHaUAzrfKBrlTLwA_42bq-pRfLUb2KPkPWGg1mwQNg1Qr7yb3TDBMxZuVR09xZhQahQHXR3yPiPVjlg-LqyvJB5v/s1600/DSC_0293bw.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAgjLjhNah72OkOfzVgB4OnF4lSRJ6-ZHFjGO0oexOO78sMcYSldWXzHaUAzrfKBrlTLwA_42bq-pRfLUb2KPkPWGg1mwQNg1Qr7yb3TDBMxZuVR09xZhQahQHXR3yPiPVjlg-LqyvJB5v/s1600/DSC_0293bw.jpg" height="425" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Proudly raising the next generation of girls who stand up for themselves.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, I was certainly wrong about feminists.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
And this cookie season, I proudly bought <st1:place w:st="on">Samoas</st1:place>
and Tagalongs from the Girl Scouts in order to celebrate the liberation from my
confusion.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15471887566634140494noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3298694639946425739.post-51114940956573577232014-03-20T15:37:00.001-07:002014-03-20T15:37:38.543-07:00The What Ifs and the Why Nots<div class="MsoNormal">
So... I hope I didn’t scare you away with my last blog post.
The sentimental, ponderous, self-improvement obsessed side of me sometimes takes over and things can get oh so serious. Of course, after putting
myself out there, I immediately wondered if it was the right thing to do. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Admitting that you don’t always love the life you’ve chosen
is… revealing, to say the least. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea,
either. I love my husband, I love my kids, I love photography and being at home
and sometimes I even like to clean things. I would not trade the life I have
now for a different one. What I guess I’m really trying to say is that I
sometimes find myself wondering what things might have been like if I’d taken things
a bit slower.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was <i>so</i> excited
to get married and start a family. That’s kind of your basic pre-teen LDS female
fantasy, really. Most of us grew up with Mom at home, cooking and cleaning and
crafting and raising the small people – and from what I’ve experienced with
friends and family, most of us wanted to be just like that. And there’s nothing
wrong with it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I believe motherhood is a wonderful, complex, and worthwhile
piece in my puzzle. I will always be proud to have been a mother in this life
and raised children who [hopefully] lived their best lives as well. But after
several years of struggling to find and be the “perfect mother,” I’ve realized
something – I’m not <i>just</i> a mother. Mothering
is not the only thing I was born to do. I am still an <i>individual</i> with interests, hobbies, thoughts, opinions, and
“issues.” Being a mother is part of me—it has changed things about me—but it
isn’t all of me. And it’s okay if I sometimes scale back on the mothering stuff
and spend more time on photography stuff, or writing stuff, or lunch with
friends stuff, or going on rollercoasters with my husband stuff. <i>It’s okay.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In trying to accept and make time for my individuality, I
have thought a lot about what this life would mean if we all believed it were
the <i>only</i> life we would have. Most, or
many, religions believe in an after-life. Some, like Mormonism, believe in
eternal life and eternal progress. And it’s a beautiful concept. We do all the
things in this world that we believe will get us to Heaven and eternal
happiness will be ours, right?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But <b><i>WHAT IF</i></b> this is it?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just consider it for a moment… what would we do differently if
we believed that <i>this</i> <i>life</i> was our <i>only life</i>?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Aside from sky-diving and climbing <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Mt.</st1:placetype> <st1:placename w:st="on">Everest</st1:placename></st1:place>,
is there something we would <i>really </i>like
to do to truly <i>live</i>? Would we see the
world? Would we write books? Become actresses on Broadway? Have a passel of
kids akin to that of the Duggars? Eat cheesecake for dinner?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So what’s <i>really</i>
stopping us? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Is it that belief that this life only leads to another so we
might as well just live quietly and wait for whatever wonderful thing is next?
Is it a lack of funds? Heaps of responsibility? The horrifying thought of wider
hips?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Or is it just… us?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidDv6Rk-d1AlwvmZMGfU9rShN_DiHXUnBd4wfd3C4Mt91GlK2GRw8RrulETeVfNBBFIDrvw_8aDNpxzd4ZXfXveCbjCIxyVWzgTaAosq7ZDf4beVp3zz2jWSZ8ZO5_9bwQGLZE-oPTzkVZ/s1600/Whatif1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidDv6Rk-d1AlwvmZMGfU9rShN_DiHXUnBd4wfd3C4Mt91GlK2GRw8RrulETeVfNBBFIDrvw_8aDNpxzd4ZXfXveCbjCIxyVWzgTaAosq7ZDf4beVp3zz2jWSZ8ZO5_9bwQGLZE-oPTzkVZ/s1600/Whatif1.jpg" height="427" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cozumel, just after sunrise. Awesome.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Why not </i>climb
mountains and eat cheesecake and write books? <i>Why not</i> follow our more spectacular dreams?<i> Why not </i>become the people we wanted to be at age six? <i>Why not </i>enjoy and celebrate every moment
with loud voices and exuberant hearts? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Why not</i> live this
life as if it were the only one?</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15471887566634140494noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3298694639946425739.post-90350467384303633012014-03-17T11:31:00.000-07:002014-03-17T11:31:42.138-07:00Shifting Gears and Finding Truth<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve been thinking a lot about this blog, and about my life
in general. I like to make you guys laugh. I know most of you can relate to
many of the things I rant about here, and I hope it makes you feel a little
more at peace with who you are and what you’re doing at this point in time,
because <i>that is so important</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But as I’m putting things out there for you to read I also
wonder what else I could be doing to make life a bit lighter – for me, for you,
for mommies and wifey people and just women in general. Because of the things I
was taught and the convictions I adopted as a child, I knew from an early age
that all I wanted in life was to marry, have babies, and stay home doing
crafts, cooking, and cleaning.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, now I’m here, approximately 7 years later and
wondering… Where am I going in this life and why does the peace I thought I
would feel by this time still seem kind of distant? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some of you might know what I’m talking about, others may
not. I envy those of you who feel useful, love what you are doing, and are totally
content where you are. The truth, for me, is that wifehood and motherhood are a
lot harder than I expected. Like, a LOT harder. Really, <i>life </i>is harder than I thought it would be. That isn’t to say that
I’m not happy in many ways, many times of the day, and really, I don’t have a
lot to complain about when it comes to comparing my “hardships” to those of
others. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But everyone has their struggles. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And our struggles are not always the same – but I think we
can find some common ground in our journeys through this life. Whether we are
SAHM/SAHWs, working moms, working wives, or just all-out <i>women</i> in the world, I stick to the belief that we are here to help
each other live the best lives we are each capable of living. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, with that being said, I want to take a new perspective,
at least for a little while. I hope you’ll keep reading my blog, although you
may not laugh as often when you come for a visit, and maybe you’ll even cry
sometimes. I’m sure I will. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I want to talk to you from my heart, because this is the
kind of writing I can <i>feel</i>.
Admittedly, sometimes what comes from my heart really <i>is</i> as goofy and snarky as what you’ve read so far, because I really
am goofy and snarky (along with many other things). But my plan for the next few months is this:
to embark on a little journey of self-acceptance, family love, marital joy, and
finding my truth.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I’m hoping… maybe you’ll join me?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.evelynkalinosky.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/10/641943a28897b4485032e10ab2006b4c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://www.evelynkalinosky.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/10/641943a28897b4485032e10ab2006b4c.jpg" height="400" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">yeslioness.com</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Whew. Glad I got that off my chest. Heavy stuff, that. I
hope this all makes sense. Come back again for the first official installment
documenting the discovery of the mushier parts of my brain. Love ya!</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15471887566634140494noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3298694639946425739.post-49427482288107544932014-03-02T16:14:00.002-08:002014-03-03T07:10:11.306-08:00One time, we went on a Caribbean cruise. <div class="MsoNormal">
We just got back from a lovely trip.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A <st1:place w:st="on">Caribbean</st1:place> cruise. A <st1:place w:st="on"><i>Caribbean</i></st1:place><i> </i>cruise.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And yesterday, it snowed here.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can’t stop thinking about palm trees and blue ocean and
every kind of mocktail under the sun. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh, the <i>sun</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s right – thanks to my dad’s super-generous Christmas
gift to his family we packed up our two older kids and joined 10 other family
members, hopped a plane to Houston, and spent 7 days seeing three countries,
swimming in the ocean, and stuffing our faces with food better than any I’ve had
in my entire life. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was <i>amazing</i>. I
didn’t have to cook dinner or make my own bed for a whole week. And judging by
the looks of my house right now, I have obviously not yet recovered.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I’ll be reminiscing today. But I want you to come away
with some practical tips as well, because that’s how I try to run this blog. A
little laughter, a little fun, and a little bit of sorta-kinda-decent advice
from someone who learns everything the hard way. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Admire:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCcvNlsUfbtit_oeMf_nJexRRxxq_XnseQbv-hNxu_kUdsf4XFDerVTKWxUNvWzzF-0BLITqISKk2bCCcu0ZAHSlwObo80IigDDB7DRZ7q_-ZH9v8MQUFUFnUdJzVwhM-JIr4KkXSZkut_/s1600/Cruise5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCcvNlsUfbtit_oeMf_nJexRRxxq_XnseQbv-hNxu_kUdsf4XFDerVTKWxUNvWzzF-0BLITqISKk2bCCcu0ZAHSlwObo80IigDDB7DRZ7q_-ZH9v8MQUFUFnUdJzVwhM-JIr4KkXSZkut_/s1600/Cruise5.jpg" height="267" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Leavin' on a jetplane.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5b2oWw7w3LZBNnygdo7nt2SF7IOjBB_VReyMEl-bDvA9ZCZw-7Xb2ob0D5dJPxGcSZnGESnB0Dr16cNYRjl3i6wPipV5hbwRwtEOVrzG9GO4z9vVfKYKG3a20lo0ag3K27GnnsitHDkJy/s1600/Cruise54.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5b2oWw7w3LZBNnygdo7nt2SF7IOjBB_VReyMEl-bDvA9ZCZw-7Xb2ob0D5dJPxGcSZnGESnB0Dr16cNYRjl3i6wPipV5hbwRwtEOVrzG9GO4z9vVfKYKG3a20lo0ag3K27GnnsitHDkJy/s1600/Cruise54.jpg" height="267" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cozumel, Mexico port.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbLwATkMxEXuBdpERQ64bR1wE0dvUk4qNHwgcRVzqynOtmljMqzPl9_aqmafTUw1r5P6-WdM4C4Kv3jx1Xv5_0YcM4Vz1njqCWO_08EdtEuOY87kVjzsfEQa3i1L7gYSOpw28543aHmd8s/s1600/Cruise65.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbLwATkMxEXuBdpERQ64bR1wE0dvUk4qNHwgcRVzqynOtmljMqzPl9_aqmafTUw1r5P6-WdM4C4Kv3jx1Xv5_0YcM4Vz1njqCWO_08EdtEuOY87kVjzsfEQa3i1L7gYSOpw28543aHmd8s/s1600/Cruise65.jpg" height="267" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The whole fam-damily (minus Dad, who was the photog) <br />
with me, Aaron, and Big E and Sis top left.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUv1I9Ou4LO-FIbfT9_kDr1iOokOA2Oy3ew_0PIJjD5LN4TsWMnb9lPuQm5aLS9ZjnNt0C7rlQfxF3UyoCM5GVlKdbn9H6pdMWQHztTVs5dUncoE17ZiE5nwfY0ZDbkVhyphenhyphen4LGmvxs5b1Te/s1600/Cruise108.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUv1I9Ou4LO-FIbfT9_kDr1iOokOA2Oy3ew_0PIJjD5LN4TsWMnb9lPuQm5aLS9ZjnNt0C7rlQfxF3UyoCM5GVlKdbn9H6pdMWQHztTVs5dUncoE17ZiE5nwfY0ZDbkVhyphenhyphen4LGmvxs5b1Te/s1600/Cruise108.jpg" height="400" width="267" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beeeeeeeaaaaach.<br />
<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW6M1UDVOB5fPz37Fq7kWBk3upgQKTDv0Wj_DhkU5JMVjtSKiegLxyp5u17kn7lAuOLhG84zeoFRB4RvIniT0eHEGFITISTTK5kW8M-Nj4740VbkSDMrgtvC4YORWsA2v85fPdVx-_AUgz/s1600/Cruise125.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW6M1UDVOB5fPz37Fq7kWBk3upgQKTDv0Wj_DhkU5JMVjtSKiegLxyp5u17kn7lAuOLhG84zeoFRB4RvIniT0eHEGFITISTTK5kW8M-Nj4740VbkSDMrgtvC4YORWsA2v85fPdVx-_AUgz/s1600/Cruise125.jpg" height="400" width="267" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Iguana mania in Honduras.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGCzp2ShUbffq8IzZX1kbiGtZAZlzN8GWGgOaU0Pj7Bis3i5vjBAmh9hNPIsgNefxXMqhYPPn28gSPocWPQnkuPmL4qldnnrYr84SAimKrfPnE3cTkrIDLpWFssXd-_EtcICbMMMR-fpRu/s1600/Cruise164.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGCzp2ShUbffq8IzZX1kbiGtZAZlzN8GWGgOaU0Pj7Bis3i5vjBAmh9hNPIsgNefxXMqhYPPn28gSPocWPQnkuPmL4qldnnrYr84SAimKrfPnE3cTkrIDLpWFssXd-_EtcICbMMMR-fpRu/s1600/Cruise164.jpg" height="267" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shopping time!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNHik45aaqBjvWjZD5fKW3z6UISCcKar-XkcrGW0_6A1y3KIvxzGHSPHO1i2Z1c-35sjNQHeac6VM5sPYxBt4cxQeE8-D_SxkQB8DwnS1GG5U029qbiHZYRr5gXIfQpmlcEsBOAmic6-xY/s1600/Cruise165.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNHik45aaqBjvWjZD5fKW3z6UISCcKar-XkcrGW0_6A1y3KIvxzGHSPHO1i2Z1c-35sjNQHeac6VM5sPYxBt4cxQeE8-D_SxkQB8DwnS1GG5U029qbiHZYRr5gXIfQpmlcEsBOAmic6-xY/s1600/Cruise165.jpg" height="400" width="267" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Roatan, Honduras.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVIkKeu9s7Z9GeJVCVptX-00VH05h28aPbycFH8F0WROC8_ViTrLj5xiHTWQrtK8pu200lF8Fw4a5JF2WnF5iP_8AHJ4mKKBq-VWtlQVwEKy0r6gl9BJEF86J270vP0HAimcRuL3kuXziz/s1600/Cruise167.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVIkKeu9s7Z9GeJVCVptX-00VH05h28aPbycFH8F0WROC8_ViTrLj5xiHTWQrtK8pu200lF8Fw4a5JF2WnF5iP_8AHJ4mKKBq-VWtlQVwEKy0r6gl9BJEF86J270vP0HAimcRuL3kuXziz/s1600/Cruise167.jpg" height="400" width="267" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Drinking from a for-real coconut.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2P7Bg2TPOXWlhD9DLXx4XZ8Eix33RQQK2t6290j0zbFkYgWTQlwx7vILWq744pLEq5iercn0gM-E96M3qMwVerlqfdQ_Dr7s3gVW2RaDlTMwTK11OFPcJiuksoZHTVghPTfuQ7rTVtW2y/s1600/Cruise190.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2P7Bg2TPOXWlhD9DLXx4XZ8Eix33RQQK2t6290j0zbFkYgWTQlwx7vILWq744pLEq5iercn0gM-E96M3qMwVerlqfdQ_Dr7s3gVW2RaDlTMwTK11OFPcJiuksoZHTVghPTfuQ7rTVtW2y/s1600/Cruise190.jpg" height="267" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cotton candy on the beach. <br />
The South American flavor didn't bother her one bit.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnQtvS4YhwGLnkjBcwI8WnFB3VQqAoJ2B9P-wMfNsnT_9yD0Vs_ZIGorbZjRLWAwGbPS8adAqv5kW6rog6aMSRxripS7hDzynqlzQ5Nm2CXEfqY7-PEhx003TgVdPbVfNGQdwPFS3of-bm/s1600/Cruise228.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnQtvS4YhwGLnkjBcwI8WnFB3VQqAoJ2B9P-wMfNsnT_9yD0Vs_ZIGorbZjRLWAwGbPS8adAqv5kW6rog6aMSRxripS7hDzynqlzQ5Nm2CXEfqY7-PEhx003TgVdPbVfNGQdwPFS3of-bm/s1600/Cruise228.jpg" height="267" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Riding on the tender boat to Belize.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqqkMRyGkQsSMz28h-OSbh9XpQ1_aQQa8wAwwxR63CwA0Z9bhiN318T_OwGSzAgbEKRAIpiYweMUkS7TDYxt5Cfxh5gc7zeyqLCyXMVYhYqugOFZuBCmWju3tY66rbCB-zhxzVhL8gVI7W/s1600/Cruise247.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqqkMRyGkQsSMz28h-OSbh9XpQ1_aQQa8wAwwxR63CwA0Z9bhiN318T_OwGSzAgbEKRAIpiYweMUkS7TDYxt5Cfxh5gc7zeyqLCyXMVYhYqugOFZuBCmWju3tY66rbCB-zhxzVhL8gVI7W/s1600/Cruise247.jpg" height="267" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mayan ruins (Altun Ha) in Belize.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ok, so now that you’ve seen a little of the awesomeness that
is the western <st1:place w:st="on">Caribbean</st1:place>, here’s your tips.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i>10 Things You’ll Be
Glad You Took On Your <st1:place w:st="on">Caribbean</st1:place> Cruise</i><o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>1. Sunglasses</b> – when you’ve been living on the frozen tundra
withan average of only 9 hours of daylight for most of the winter, the sun is
bright. Really bright.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>2. Five bottles of sunscreen</b> – ok, we didn’t <i>quite</i> go through five, but seriously.
When you are as <i>beautifully</i> pale as I
am (not to mention my even lighter oldest son), <i>burn</i> is the only thing you know about the sun. And <a href="http://utterlyinexperienced.blogspot.com/2012/09/whats-not-ailing-me.html" target="_blank">I’ve mentionedbefore what a hypochondriac I am</a>, so talking about my fear of death by skin
cancer is pretty unnecessary. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>3. Extra swimsuits</b> – one of them is always wet and it’s nice
to have a dry one to alternate with. And, if you’re like my dear hubunk,
climbing into precarious motor boats may just tear your trunks from crotch to knee
and leave you a bit… exposed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>4. Random medications</b> – because sometimes people get pinkeye
the first day of a vacation. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>5. Your own snacks and water</b> – I don’t care what you have to
do to fit them into your checked luggage, you will never regret that you had
fruit snacks and bottled water for yourself (and for the kids who have
meltdowns over such things), especially when a hamburger and fries is at least
$10 in American cash.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>6. Cash in <i>small</i>
bills</b> – you won’t find anyone on an island with change for an American $100
bill, my friends.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>7. Someone who likes to hang out with you</b> – because even if
you have a group of 14 people like we did, you need a special buddy who will wonder
where you went when you get lost from the rest of the group.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>8. Lots of underwear</b> – Changing from swimwear to clothing
and back all day is confusing. For some reason, no one can remember which
underwear is clean and which ones aren’t.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>9. A good camera and video camera</b> – Aaron tried to talk me
out of bringing my big camera. I told him, “Yeah, right!” What kind of
photographer doesn’t take her bulky camera and bulky camera accessories to all
the beaches to get covered in sand and cloud up because of the humidity? I didn’t
regret it for a minute. And the videos Aaron got are priceless.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>10. Your inner party animal</b> – cruise ships are made for
fun-lovers. Granted, many cruises are full of the fun-loving <i>elderly. </i>But you will have endless
amounts of fun if you can karaoke anything from the 50's and 60's, I’ll tell you what. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8RF1eMQMfkpb-wM0GOTvZGhvRpQLpOLhL3lG7Hbg-mqqiLLZv8pc7nzcNY0FPYyXSJ_IgkCRFOmsvmKTV8lswu547NUMi8J9mD28rggru1QrhxHsP6en1zZR3wFxpUAFkXVHvJekLFoEw/s1600/Cruise260.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8RF1eMQMfkpb-wM0GOTvZGhvRpQLpOLhL3lG7Hbg-mqqiLLZv8pc7nzcNY0FPYyXSJ_IgkCRFOmsvmKTV8lswu547NUMi8J9mD28rggru1QrhxHsP6en1zZR3wFxpUAFkXVHvJekLFoEw/s1600/Cruise260.jpg" height="400" width="267" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Daddy and Sis on the tender boat.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i>5 Things You Might
REGRET Taking on Your <st1:place w:st="on">Caribbean</st1:place> Cruise<o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>1. Your small children</b> – there are kid centers on cruise
ships. There are fun things to do. They have their choice of foods and
entertainment practically every day. But nothing can keep them from having
their typical hungry/tired/bored meltdowns at the most inconvenient times, in
the most inconvenient places (such as crowded tourist areas where they shlump
to the ground proclaiming their legs hurt and they can’t walk, or on the floor of
the fancy dining room on the fanciest night, or on board airplanes where they
pee their pants just before you land at a busy airport where you have to walk a
mile to find your luggage and fresh clothing). I was grateful every day we left
the 2-year-old at home.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>2. Your electronics</b> – Wifi costs too much wherever you go
and unless you have international cell service, you’re not calling anybody. So
why bother? Oh, that’s right… we’re all addicted.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>3. A large group</b> – maybe my dad feels differently about
this, because it really was <i>so</i> fun to
all be together. But <i>holy moly</i>
getting everyone on the same page and gathered up every time we went somewhere
was not an easy task. I was usually the crazy-lady straggling 10 yards behind
the others with the 3-year-old who “couldn’t walk.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>4. Your fear of enclosed spaces, open ocean, germs, wild
drivers, and strangers</b> – You will live for a week in a tiny room sans windows,
without being able to see land, surrounded by thousands of people with questionable
hygiene, be driven around on South American roads by South American drivers,
and not know anyone except the people with whom you travel.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>5. Only a 7-day cruise</b> – You will not want to go home. The
only thing dragging me back was the sweet little boy who had spent the whole
week in the homes of relatives wondering what “trip” we could all be on without
him. Did you know there are 6 month cruises that go all over the world??? Yeah.
Do <i>that.</i><br />
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcIMko2V1y-T4krcQSANQWcbyuB7FdeLF65wriPIMYon7QO5Cakc25ilksQmVaJyP_TSq9n9Utlj5iguPc3sDyTtsez-6_X10B2YNDIEFcjRI1I5jUCkHTUJy5Q-TXP9aH692awggqJRm-/s1600/Cruise216.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcIMko2V1y-T4krcQSANQWcbyuB7FdeLF65wriPIMYon7QO5Cakc25ilksQmVaJyP_TSq9n9Utlj5iguPc3sDyTtsez-6_X10B2YNDIEFcjRI1I5jUCkHTUJy5Q-TXP9aH692awggqJRm-/s1600/Cruise216.jpg" height="267" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marvelous. Ignore the wheelbarrow man's photobomb.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Someday we’ll vacation again… someday. But for now, we’re
easing back into real life (it sucks) with homemade mocktails and pretending
the snow will be gone again soon and sleeping all together in the same bedroom
every night (still adjusting to normal sleep schedules again). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can’t wait for someday to come.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15471887566634140494noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3298694639946425739.post-13774001231378850232014-01-05T19:50:00.002-08:002014-01-05T19:50:29.853-08:00I am me. You are you. And Oprah is a billionaire.<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I'm going to ask
you to do something for me. Go to the nearest mirror. Look into it. Look past
the dark circles, the frizzy hair, the yet-to-be-waxed mustache.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Okay, maybe
that’s just me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">But seriously.
Look past all that. Now look past the labels – whether they’re the ones you
give yourself, or the ones given to you by others. <i>Woman (or man). Mom (or Dad… you get the idea). Homemaker. Mormon. Cook.
Athlete. Tall. Short. Fat. Big-boned. Skinny. Emotional. Bossy. Faithful. Hurt.
Selfish. Courageous. Grieving. Tender. Vulnerable.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Break through <i>every last layer.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Now what do you
see?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I’m going to take
a rare break from my usual writing (aka: snarkasm) and go out on a limb here,
because there are some things… some things that I want to say. Maybe things
that <i>need</i> to be said. And this is the
only way I know how to say them so that <i>someone</i>
will hear. And if it changes something for that one someone, then it will have
been worth saying.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">We are all here,
in this world, inexplicably attached to that reflection we see in the mirror.
There’s no getting around it. We look how we look. We are what we are. We are
born with what we are born with, and nothing more.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">But we have this
incredible capacity to take all of that “stuff” that makes us who we are and
bend it, flex it, stretch it, build it, and otherwise make it even more
incredible than it already is.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">YOU. You have
that power.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I could be a
great many things. I could be a painter, a mountain climber, a stripper, or a whale
watcher. Those things are within my reach. What is not within my reach: being a Beyoncé, a
Miley Cyrus, an Oprah Winfrey, or a <a href="http://www.lds.org/churchhistory/presidents/controllers/potcController.jsp?topic=facts&leader=16" target="_blank">Thomas S. Monson</a>… because I am not those
people. And that’s okay.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I guess what I’m
trying to say is that none of us will ever see someone else’s reflection when
we look in the mirror. It will always be you. But there is so much perfection,
so much wonder and beauty and peace and <i>focus</i>
in that. And it’s a shame that it’s so hard to accept the face, the body, the
heart, and the mind that stare back at us every morning.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">It frustrates me (although I sometimes do it myself) to see people who spend so much of their time <i>waiting. </i>People wait for more money, for smaller hips, for a good
man, or for happiness. Some of them look, half-heartedly, but in all the wrong
places. Others sit around in their pajamas all day with their eyes glazed over
as they stare at the screen of a device that shows them pictures of the things
they wish were theirs. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">And to those people I say:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">GET OFF YOUR BUMS, YOU FOOLS.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Stop complaining
about what you didn’t have, what you don’t have now, what you will never have,
or how
you’ve-been-screwed-over-so-many-times-by-so-many-people-and-how-dare-they-ruin-your-life? That's no way to live.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Get out of the
house. Go places. Experience things. Try new foods. Get a new hobby. Make new
friends. Step out of the miniscule box you have been living in and spread your fabulous
wings.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">But do it with this in mind: what you do and who you choose to associate with are
what you will become. If you want better, you have to <i>act </i>better. You have to
work hard to become your best you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">And some days,
your best you really will need to sit around in pajamas and stare at a screen
all day. I’ve been there. I get it. But don’t let yourself be defined by those
days. Find your purpose. Start becoming the person <i>you</i> want to be. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">You have the
power to find potential within yourself. You have the power to make yourself
who you want to be. You can take the very most basic pieces of who you are and
become your own, personal best.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 18px;">I am not an expert in anything. I am flawed. And I am not the prettiest, the healthiest, the smartest, or most caring or most generous person in the world. But I am <i>me</i>. And I know the me I want to become.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSXiz3exFbJR6LXwzsYxU1K5cdbTOC9ImTsnuKo4RX9LXOig8MfWDuz0_9XOExyt1uqziPXRHhvLv32xpOfv9-2YfNKxjxjsEi_-zRQvSfcDHWYY05v8wsC6l_kn0rGRUdBiUzgDTGStRv/s1600/BeYourBestSelf1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSXiz3exFbJR6LXwzsYxU1K5cdbTOC9ImTsnuKo4RX9LXOig8MfWDuz0_9XOExyt1uqziPXRHhvLv32xpOfv9-2YfNKxjxjsEi_-zRQvSfcDHWYY05v8wsC6l_kn0rGRUdBiUzgDTGStRv/s1600/BeYourBestSelf1.jpg" height="640" width="426" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">You are not your
labels. You are not your marital status, your religion, or your relationships.
You are YOU. Think about it every time you make a decision. The minute you stop
acting based on the labels and start thinking critically for <i>yourself</i> is the minute you start to
truly become your <i>best</i> self. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">And just think –
Oprah has made billions on that idea.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15471887566634140494noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3298694639946425739.post-80936625680332524972013-11-30T20:48:00.000-08:002013-11-30T20:55:47.583-08:00Status Update: I Heart Status Updates<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Let me tell you about something I
love.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Well, first let me say that I will
neither shame nor approve of the following varieties of Facebook posts. In
fact, I have been known to use many of these myself, on more than one occasion.
I often use them simply to let the world know that I am, actually, a human being,
and I do, surprisingly, have a life that everyone should know about.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;"><b>*NOTE: Any and all hints </b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;"><b>of
snarkasm are </b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;"><b>completely unintentional.</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">So why am I sharing my personal
commentary on the wonderful world of Facebook updates? Only so we may all more
fully realize the benefits of carefully considering our words before filling in
that little box at the top of the page. The tiny portion of the web where our riveting
thoughts can provoke enough likes, comments, and shares to keep us inexplicably
addicted to Facebook. For in that tempting, tantalizing space with a
surprisingly large capacity for typed characters we experience…</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The status update. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Status updates common
to the general public are as follows:<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>1. <i>Watching (insert movie
title)! </i>Similar posts include – <i>Partying
at (insert place)! Dinner at (insert place)! Playing at (insert place)!
Spending time with (insert people)!</i></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">That’s so great. Like, really great. I’m just here. At home.
Alone with my Ramen noodles and local television channels.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>2.</b> <b><i>Little (enter name of
child) weighs (enter weight) and is (enter inches) long! Growing up so fast! </i>Also
<i>– Look what (child) can do! Getting so
big! <o:p></o:p></i></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">You had a kid? I had completely forgotten since yesterday’s
status update.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>3. <i>Ugh. So sick.</i> Or<i> Ugh, the kids are sick. <o:p></o:p></i></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Now that I know your health status, I feel much more
connected to you.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>4. <i>Life is so awful right
now I can’t believe this and that and the other. I am miserable.</i></b> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">What would you like me to say right now?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>5. In contradiction to the last one – <i>Life is so great! I can’t believe this and that and the other. I’m so
happy!</i></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">You are so positive. I’m so glad you had the best life ever
at the moment you updated your status.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>6.</b> <i><b>Political rant.</b></i> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Whether I agree or disagree, I didn’t have the energy to
read past the “See more” button. Sorry.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>7.</b> <b><i>Rant about something
you haven’t spent a lot of time studying.</i> </b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Wow. I did not know that. Just a second while I check your
facts and type a carefully calculated response totally disproving your theory.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAWyHbNbFe-otV09DH3egYofWbhgm1FZZOvWNRqADZN5WWhH2RyLO-aE0BZfWL3o_JT5BDNS5f4fzkqM2lXdQg0V4UYVZvZb0BffHm3talg4tmZVzGSxeJi9pdLSCGAEnvlLl1hs6EkPn7/s1600/Selfie2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAWyHbNbFe-otV09DH3egYofWbhgm1FZZOvWNRqADZN5WWhH2RyLO-aE0BZfWL3o_JT5BDNS5f4fzkqM2lXdQg0V4UYVZvZb0BffHm3talg4tmZVzGSxeJi9pdLSCGAEnvlLl1hs6EkPn7/s320/Selfie2.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Duck face.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>8. </b><i><b>I worked out today,
and this is what I did. Tomorrow, you may hear about the other amazing things
my body can do.</b></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">You are truly an inspiration. I can’t wait to be inspired
again tomorrow.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>9. <i>Look at my children.
They are obviously very cute and I love them a lot.</i> </b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Congratulations on your awesome genes!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>10.</b> <i><b>Look at what I made.
(Insert photo of food, craft, décor, etc.)</b></i> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I’m so glad you have talents.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>11.</b> <i><b>Look at the wonderful
things I do with my children. (Insert photo of playing at the park,
homeschooling, crafting, etc.) </b></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">You definitely deserve the “Mom-of-the-Year” award. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>12.</b> <b><i>Happy Whatever </i><i>(insert
holiday)!</i></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Everybody’s doing it. Why shouldn’t you? Maybe I will too.
Nothing better to do on a holiday, right?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>13.</b> <i><b>Got to see my best friend
so-and-so today! (Often with photo)</b></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Your other best friends totally just saw that. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>14.</b> <i><b>I love this quote:
(insert random quote shared by thousands).</b></i> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Whether or not this quote actually means anything is
debatable, but if that many other people like it, it must be good and I should
definitely read it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh4j_K8ysWgxMDq4sK4_hCydUBV1lliq1Cb-Rxw2_dRifWTDvcyJG5Lq6MG2BpuXR8-bIfZIuC4tuHOKuqxgumdu9LXukLECL5PjIvNlfw7ZiwIvLICR7Wn3EBk3x1VUTfFQfZywkyimhe/s1600/selfie1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh4j_K8ysWgxMDq4sK4_hCydUBV1lliq1Cb-Rxw2_dRifWTDvcyJG5Lq6MG2BpuXR8-bIfZIuC4tuHOKuqxgumdu9LXukLECL5PjIvNlfw7ZiwIvLICR7Wn3EBk3x1VUTfFQfZywkyimhe/s320/selfie1.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The Sexy Selfie</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>15.</b> <b>A shared post: <i>(Insert
random company) is giving away 100 (insert random expensive electronic device) they</i>
<i>can’t sell! Like, share, and comment to
be entered to win!</i></b> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Let me get this straight…</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>16.</b> <b>Another shared post: <i>So-and-so
is a brave little soldier, fighting such-and-such a disease. Can we get 1
million likes for so-and-so (Often accompanied by a somewhat frightening
picture of a hospitalized child)?</i></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Okay, I love hospitalized children as much as the next guy,
but what in the world is liking this and sending it rambling about the internet
going to do? Link me to a donation site or something, people.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>17.</b> <i><b>So-and-so is in the
hospital. Prayers!</b></i> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">What?! What happened?! Oh, and who is so-and-so?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>18. </b><i><b>So-and-so is still in
the hospital… Doctors are so stupid!</b></i> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I know, right? Doctors never know anything, especially not
doctor things.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>19. <i>Ate (random food)
today! So good!</i></b> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I’m so happy for your tummy right now.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>20. <i>Here we are on our
honeymoon!</i></b> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Thanks for taking time to let me know. How’s it going? What
have you been doing? Tell me everything!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>21. </b><i><b>Kitty (Insert random
photo of cat)! </b><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">And… hover mouse pointer, hover mouse pointer, uncheck “Show
in news feed.” Sorry friend.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>22. Commonly seen on “Garage sale” groups: <i>Can’t afford to pay the doctor bills/give my child a good Christmas/buy
groceries, selling this (insert random item).</i></b> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Your welfare is totally my concern now. I may actually
decide I need your random item.</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIi4Quxi528YoTdTXTiXhGvackABbJlIe8PObeUVFecrr3aLkwgrY1UqPub8_23ZNreKJMrAS7OmKLzykNXx5811x7Lej2ZzrlNO_HmHDuNAP3uN0-T7QzFPAyISrMiJd-fVWMCpjnb0hp/s1600/Selfie3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIi4Quxi528YoTdTXTiXhGvackABbJlIe8PObeUVFecrr3aLkwgrY1UqPub8_23ZNreKJMrAS7OmKLzykNXx5811x7Lej2ZzrlNO_HmHDuNAP3uN0-T7QzFPAyISrMiJd-fVWMCpjnb0hp/s400/Selfie3.jpg" width="300" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Miley Cyrus, anyone?</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Ah Facebook, you add such mystery and interest to life.
Bless you and your status update box. You continue to be an addiction I just
can’t seem to break.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15471887566634140494noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3298694639946425739.post-29449488347663632592013-10-29T08:11:00.001-07:002013-10-29T14:44:19.093-07:00The Times That Try Mothers' Souls<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If there were any Reese’s Pieces in the house right now… I
would be self-medicating. Heavily. (Note also that I consoled myself with a
handful of chocolate chips.) These are the times that try mothers’ souls.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two words:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
THE. CHILDREN.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I love them. Goodness knows I do.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But HOLY FRIGGIN’ COW they know how to get to a lady after a
long day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let me explain, before I get too carried away and you start
imagining a horror film made about my insanity ten years from now.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After a long day, Hubunk scurried off to his job to make
some big American baffos, while the children and I spent a luxurious evening
eating cotton candy made from rainbow clouds, singing “B-I-N-G-O,” and giggling
beneath our cozy living room blanket fort. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
FALSE.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is real life, people. And while we do have our moments
of joy in our blanket forts, we also have big arguments about who gets to clean
it up when all’s said and done.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So here’s the real story, from the moment Hubunk walked out
the door and <i>left me all alone with my
children and my inner crazy person </i>(who was already close to free of her
metaphorical cage):</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Napping child had an accident while sleeping in <i>my</i> bed. It soaked through all four
layers of blankets and sheets, which I had <i>just
washed.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Due to said accident, formerly napping child woke up in a
sour mood and screamed, “I’m not your mommy anymore!” when told she could have
a bath, but not until dinner was done (obviously, she’s a bit confused on who
is whose mother here).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All of the children screeched and argued and injured one
another while I made a wondrous meal that none of them wanted to eat. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The children fought over who got to hold the bowl of dip
while they ate the only parts of the meal they liked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The children screamed for a bath while I attempted to live vicariously
through Elena Gilbert as Stefan and Damon fawned over her on <i>The Vampire Diaries</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Five minutes into <st1:city w:st="on">Bath</st1:city>
#1, the children leapt from the bath and yelled, “POOOOOOP!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was more screeching and arguing while the {naked}
children awaited the draining and cleaning of the tub.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While I was trying to clean the tub and watch TVD at the
same time, youngest child (the pooper), still in the nude, came running up to
me with an unpleasant smell attached to him. More poo was found on the floor,
but the rest of us are still unsure if <i>all
</i>of it was found. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<st1:place w:st="on">Bath</st1:place>
#2 was run. <st1:city w:st="on">Bath</st1:city>
#2 was removed from the tub and dumped onto the bathroom floor by the pooper.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And to top it all off, in all the commotion I left my
pumpkin seeds in the oven too long and fried them crispy. So much for a treat
tonight.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Right now, I want to lie on the floor in fetal position and
take deep breaths while cranking Katy Perry’s “ROAR.” And for a minute, I
might.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But then, I’m going to get up, referee whatever argument is
going on in the kids’ bedroom, wipe a bum, and put everyone to bed – which is,
unfortunately, quite a process.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then I will collapse in my own bed (after getting all of
my now pee-free bedding from the dryer and re-making it), possibly<i> without</i> washing my face because-who-has-energy-for-one-more-thing-tonight-seriously,
sleep for a time, be awakened by someone needing to pee or having already peed,
sleep a little more, and hopefully wake up in the morning, ready to do it all
over again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Moms do that. And it’s hard. And it’s not all kicks and
giggles like I thought when I was 13 and wanted a family akin to that in <i>Cheaper by the Dozen.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOc10A6xAVdaOuPAJ0VunA7nsX3cgvrPJrF-tzxMIIhjlOwA4oWl3XOocdlg5_9SsAB4WwsHxwhyVtjsXeA7pNe3_zcSZPGfmspYC8m6qiM9zP_49xkn45KAx35Ggcs8ey8rQzQmO4wDtd/s1600/thetimesthattry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="427" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOc10A6xAVdaOuPAJ0VunA7nsX3cgvrPJrF-tzxMIIhjlOwA4oWl3XOocdlg5_9SsAB4WwsHxwhyVtjsXeA7pNe3_zcSZPGfmspYC8m6qiM9zP_49xkn45KAx35Ggcs8ey8rQzQmO4wDtd/s640/thetimesthattry.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m still learning. Every day is an adventure. But through
good times and bad there are a few things I know for sure:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I choose to enjoy the here and now and accept every minute
for what it is and what it’s worth.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I choose to hug and kiss my kids many, many times during the
day, no matter how hard it’s been, because they are important.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I choose to embrace the decisions I’ve made and everything
that goes along with them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I choose to love this life.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>It is all a choice.</i></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15471887566634140494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3298694639946425739.post-15094309598345190702013-09-06T17:57:00.001-07:002013-09-06T18:01:55.396-07:00Own Your Awkward<div class="MsoNormal">
As the younger generations have trotted off to school over
the past few weeks, I have been feeling a little school-ish myself. I graduated
college two and a half years ago (am I really that old??? :S) and although I do
a fair amount of “self-learning,” I honestly miss <i>school.</i> The glossy textbooks, freshly sharpened Number 2’s, and
even the gag-arific stench of perfume-drenched adolescents.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So in honor of school children everywhere, I’m going to tap
into my practically useless knowledge of scientific theory and pose a
hypothesis:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Everyone is awkward.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In order to test my hypothesis, I’ll need some support from
my [rather limited] readership (you). While I know my small sample size will
never get this theory into the mainstream scientific community, I do hope to
bring some awareness to the idea by asking you all to “Like” or “Share” on
Facebook, “Pin” on Pinterest, or comment “Heck yes!” on this blog. If you
really want to share your enthusiasm, I suggest clicking the “Like” button and
holding it down for a really, really long time—that’s what I do.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My theory has developed over a lifetime of first-hand
experiences. Consider, for a moment, these examples of my awkwardness:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*NOTE: The names of other persons involved in my awkwardness
will be omitted for their protection.*</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I started young. By the third grade, I was a little on the
chubby side, insisted on wearing my long, stringy hair down all the time (how
else would people admire its obvious beauty?), and wore horse t-shirts akin to those
of Napoleon Dynamite to school. <i>Tucked
in.</i> That same year, I obtained a large, round pair of glasses. I was
awkward-looking even among awkward-looking third graders.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheDrm7IRKuoKc_4xe2WNsM3axifgMFbjT2Bs5PXgiQeKKdxGnigTaOowDp44N_PYDShlBBxY42V9uhtT31bT5o_5SlaWLjKrlALpgeXzgfRHhFcMHA570VBJGwf8qqxLQ0yss8DouyUr-_/s1600/OwnYourAwkward1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheDrm7IRKuoKc_4xe2WNsM3axifgMFbjT2Bs5PXgiQeKKdxGnigTaOowDp44N_PYDShlBBxY42V9uhtT31bT5o_5SlaWLjKrlALpgeXzgfRHhFcMHA570VBJGwf8qqxLQ0yss8DouyUr-_/s400/OwnYourAwkward1.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My favorite awkward shirt.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To make things even more awkward, I carried stuffed animals
everywhere, was obsessed with horses, and was convinced life would be better if
I avoided all things female. My friends and I crawled around on our hands and
knees at recess, pretending to be horses, until we were in middle school. One
of our classmates even christened us “The Horsey People.” And he still called
us that in high school.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the awkwardness of my peers turned into the orneriness of
pre-teendom, I remained awkward.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhssiQgOSuevQWG8cDaVyx80Vc2haNET9vpeJNdVsvNBn9B50CdzqtUNXCeM4iicL3iq4SygrkPAUpqFP-j5_vLIgUv0maWjePOrkiIWxspeOzo1cvCrWkW15jDLgM82O8hWjV2EATP7x-E/s1600/Reception+Slide+019.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhssiQgOSuevQWG8cDaVyx80Vc2haNET9vpeJNdVsvNBn9B50CdzqtUNXCeM4iicL3iq4SygrkPAUpqFP-j5_vLIgUv0maWjePOrkiIWxspeOzo1cvCrWkW15jDLgM82O8hWjV2EATP7x-E/s400/Reception+Slide+019.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My poor brother, smothered in my awkwardness.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Soak it up, people. Every last drop. And I still took my
favorite stuffed animal to school with me half the time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then I got chubbier, and still wore glasses, and
got braces, and “went out” with a couple of equally awkward boys. Two awkward
teenagers holding hands on the bus does not make them any less awkward as
individuals.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh59UCqxCrHvEcH7A6C8P9JySrTYeru0oHpzYzuXXww9k2PVAOn3ZAEg2P5HB8XvQiC3bBFR3qiat-9By3t5Hlpmethkr9sqOIv-d-fsb7m3OXjqVVfPPQgs_jfu_d7qO524IrrMRH2wgrn/s1600/reception+slide+026.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh59UCqxCrHvEcH7A6C8P9JySrTYeru0oHpzYzuXXww9k2PVAOn3ZAEg2P5HB8XvQiC3bBFR3qiat-9By3t5Hlpmethkr9sqOIv-d-fsb7m3OXjqVVfPPQgs_jfu_d7qO524IrrMRH2wgrn/s400/reception+slide+026.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me, trying not to look awkward with my friends while styling pigtails and too much eyeliner. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then I was in high school, and my life hadn’t gone the
way I planned, and I wasn’t as cool as I had once imagined I would be. But I started
to realize something. People still liked me. I had friends. And they seemed to
enjoy a good portion of my awkwardness. So I started to <i>own it.</i> And everything changed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-zb0GrP_6YjPNHOYAs-IXT0z1xTM0jqbGcJp7I2mdT5TMHm8SMSZ7-44QRvUPr75P-VUX_GXUHlfUTBRH3cKX5FqOqJNcZgGJMITivHIpWmmPkWu1NbX-F3kpeh2s2bgEpFLX0hmOCa_q/s1600/bc+K%2526W+happy+static.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-zb0GrP_6YjPNHOYAs-IXT0z1xTM0jqbGcJp7I2mdT5TMHm8SMSZ7-44QRvUPr75P-VUX_GXUHlfUTBRH3cKX5FqOqJNcZgGJMITivHIpWmmPkWu1NbX-F3kpeh2s2bgEpFLX0hmOCa_q/s400/bc+K%2526W+happy+static.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yay, awkward!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So what I guess I’m really getting at with this whole
hypothesis thing is, yes, everyone is awkward – but it’s <i>okay.</i> And the sooner you can own it, the sooner your experiences,
oddly enough, <i>stop being so awkward.</i>
I still have my moments – I say things I shouldn’t, sometimes I laugh when I
should be quiet, and I’m pretty sure I still embarrass the heck out of my
parents. But I am owning it. I apologize when I feel it’s needed, and don’t
apologize when I don’t.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am content. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>And guess what, I even got married -- to someone who was also awkward at times:</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2kTcgapruJmybX2CizGa3hb1ufp4qqR5XqWAm22jwIDkEubhoXpHWpxBT_kLYVkggeDPg3WZhoRv9drm03S3nIKFi1e6SqoSnoGxYsClB6Xqly4Bti5Kw-zRiivv5u3K2d844CGja5TM8/s1600/Reception+Slide+011+-+Copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2kTcgapruJmybX2CizGa3hb1ufp4qqR5XqWAm22jwIDkEubhoXpHWpxBT_kLYVkggeDPg3WZhoRv9drm03S3nIKFi1e6SqoSnoGxYsClB6Xqly4Bti5Kw-zRiivv5u3K2d844CGja5TM8/s400/Reception+Slide+011+-+Copy.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
And we're awkward together. And I hope we're teaching our kids to be their own special kind of awkward. But is
that even really a question?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQN2PuN6fg4eVVfX-mUfg53bXZvMN2Hs3563-XpjJo5Af_hlF1zPgNZ2b9HJ6-BGB815fZkrD37VfcgTKgyN_z04jAwYzI6eX4vzWLg2oPCG26_0u0J1ypNwkm3Z27UnVrr_UlRA1b6Bqs/s1600/LJ+(52).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="427" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQN2PuN6fg4eVVfX-mUfg53bXZvMN2Hs3563-XpjJo5Af_hlF1zPgNZ2b9HJ6-BGB815fZkrD37VfcgTKgyN_z04jAwYzI6eX4vzWLg2oPCG26_0u0J1ypNwkm3Z27UnVrr_UlRA1b6Bqs/s640/LJ+(52).jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15471887566634140494noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3298694639946425739.post-43404427623014873762013-06-21T21:04:00.001-07:002013-06-21T21:04:57.263-07:005 Disgusting Parenting ParallelsAfter pushing a third human out of my body last February, I vowed I'd wait a considerable amount of time before I started up on #4. So, instead of developing my own miniature this year, I've enjoyed watching my friends and family develop their own. Many of you are having your first, and it's exciting! There's so much to look forward to. You've spent so much time preparing and reading and pinning on Pinterest in the name of your child that the 9-month wait seems far too long. <div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And I hate to put a damper on things. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But I wanted to spread the word on some horrifying, rarely told truths... I want to warn you, before your perfect parenting imaginings crush your soul at 2 o'clock in the AM on a Monday while your husband sleeps peacefully and you stand freezing in your underwear trying to comfort, feed, rock, and change the baby at the same time.<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I've thought a lot about what parenting is really like since becoming one. You see, before, I was convinced there would be lots of board games, reading books, snuggling, kisses, and running through sprinklers with popsicle mustaches on every smiling face. Admittedly, we do these things. And we enjoy those five seconds. But I find myself spending a lot more time feeling a little... grossed out. So, in honor of all my wonderful friends and family members who have had, or will be having, new little ones this year -- prepare yourselves for the real deal by reading these disturbing, disgusting, despicable parallels to the job you have just signed up for.</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCyQfFm7-ZANu5IeduozqFrwjEyRsYnndCB82u_A7ETvTEJuWLLiMe-eaGB3MNoGBBrgBogwCxSdfgeJz6dFFkWNjBChTrX0b-QWElS1dI1tV6EIhCDYK4qWoFbQOEKG7jJUnsGiIIt60q/s1600/4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCyQfFm7-ZANu5IeduozqFrwjEyRsYnndCB82u_A7ETvTEJuWLLiMe-eaGB3MNoGBBrgBogwCxSdfgeJz6dFFkWNjBChTrX0b-QWElS1dI1tV6EIhCDYK4qWoFbQOEKG7jJUnsGiIIt60q/s320/4.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<b>5 Disgusting Parenting Parallels</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Standing at the edge
of manure pile and being told to go digging if you want the million dollars
Bill Gates left in there for you.</i> You don’t know if it’s true, but you’re
desperate.<i> </i>You have to believe that
there is a reward to all of the work you’re doing. You have to be <i>sure</i> it is in there somewhere. But when
you’re knee deep in crap, your eyes are burning from the stench, and you haven’t
found much more than a quarter, it can seem hopeless. <i>Keep digging.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Watching someone eat
their boogers. </i>You don’t think they should and you’re positive it doesn’t
taste good, but they’re going to do it anyway. Maybe you’ve tried it yourself and
learned the hard way. You want to scream “NO! DON’T!” But if they don’t do it
when you’re looking, they’re going to do it when you’re not. It’s painful, and
you might gag a little. <i>Keep watching.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Finding someone else’s
hair in your burger after you’ve eaten half of it.</i> You were enjoying every
bite. You were savoring every flavor. The melty cheese and the crisp lettuce
complimenting that perfectly grilled slab of meat. And then, there it is – a piece
of someone else’s (likely unkempt) body. You stop, mortified, disappointed,
upset. And you have a choice to make. This isn’t just some dollar burger at
McDonald’s, though. This is the absolute, one and only, prime cut of a non-GMO,
organically raised, free-ranging, <i>super</i>
beef cow, rocked to sleep at night to the sounds of Andrea Bocelli and Joan
Sutherland. We’re talking the <i>primest of
the prime</i>. Thousand dollar price tag. Toss that hair aside and <i>keep eating.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Giving a bum a sponge
bath. </i>No matter what you do, this poor fella doesn’t seem to be getting any
cleaner. So you try scrubbing harder. In circles. Left to right. Right to left.
Up and down. Down and up. More water. Less water. Stronger soap. Finally, a
miniscule spot on his left ankle seems a little less grimy. <i>Keep scrubbing.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Cleaning public
toilets with your tongue.</i> It’s gonna make you sick. It’s gonna make you
crazy. It’s gonna make you furious when you just put the finishing touches on
one toilet and someone comes along and <i>defiles</i>
it. Just when you think the job is done, you have to start all over again. <i>Keep cleaning.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Parenting. It will be everything and nothing like what you
thought it would be. It is up and down, a rollercoaster ride you’ll stay on
because you’re afraid of what will happen if you get off. You will discover the
true definitions of insane, crazy, and clinically off-the-wall, but in the same
dictionary you will find love, patience, and selflessness. You will scream and
cry and wonder what in the H.E. double-hockey-sticks you’re doing. You will
kiss and hug and laugh harder than you’ve ever laughed before. You will be
amazed at the smallest, most insignificant things. You will suddenly realize
why all your annoying Facebook friends post about their kids all day long. This
little <i>person</i> is a piece of you. You
did that! And you cannot imagine the crazy amount of love there will be in
that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiziMK9hWI6F2xmAtVN1gR5ySQu1yqRqpe39m0iNN9EsZwT8ohVP4R-2NtBCpxOuU0VehM4PYmY8Lkv1Zr3cGOyDuiqyy6rRRkiOPyFDc_UjOoNrPL5yAykT__RfZY_ZoPggh7KbTesYjnx/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiziMK9hWI6F2xmAtVN1gR5ySQu1yqRqpe39m0iNN9EsZwT8ohVP4R-2NtBCpxOuU0VehM4PYmY8Lkv1Zr3cGOyDuiqyy6rRRkiOPyFDc_UjOoNrPL5yAykT__RfZY_ZoPggh7KbTesYjnx/s200/1.jpg" width="133" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOmGoSGeZX_HwsGQDlIufhV1xCJ2SrbsXhsZJNVoHIR6koBEddtT7-AYCfkEvxBBqi97ohRM_bOQ0EcdMrFWqrU_MCw4Fs1TopRdb7V988MA6YlaEz2jt12PaViZei72gN-eUer_FXYvv4/s1600/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOmGoSGeZX_HwsGQDlIufhV1xCJ2SrbsXhsZJNVoHIR6koBEddtT7-AYCfkEvxBBqi97ohRM_bOQ0EcdMrFWqrU_MCw4Fs1TopRdb7V988MA6YlaEz2jt12PaViZei72gN-eUer_FXYvv4/s200/2.jpg" width="133" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGt51isILebIyCg8rGT5H7g4mOhvGtMxSESy1ppHlPezOEfTrsDjRKvjQ7uKBGlssDRdLCayssfYOI5xAYh4t4pXg2v1wXsh0f3rgk33UkMVUErB15Qxl6ZphlfP_pg-FBq0NYfDfuRJY9/s1600/3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGt51isILebIyCg8rGT5H7g4mOhvGtMxSESy1ppHlPezOEfTrsDjRKvjQ7uKBGlssDRdLCayssfYOI5xAYh4t4pXg2v1wXsh0f3rgk33UkMVUErB15Qxl6ZphlfP_pg-FBq0NYfDfuRJY9/s200/3.jpg" width="133" /></a></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15471887566634140494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3298694639946425739.post-10411843445475121172013-05-12T07:31:00.002-07:002013-05-12T07:31:51.553-07:00Stuff Moms Know<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> </o:p>In honor of moms everywhere on this Mother's Day, I thought I’d post this little
reminder of why you really need to hug that special lady in your life today – or call, or get her
some chocolates, or buy her a really nice car (if you’re into that sort of
thing). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>When you’re little, innocent, and dirty all the time, your mom knows:</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When you’ve been eating sugar straight from the container.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When you’ve peed your pants and tried to hide them where she
wouldn’t find them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When you need a nap.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How to get the grass stains out of every article of clothing
you own.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How to make macaroni and cheese for lunch.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How to clean up all your messes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How to make holidays awesome.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What to do when you’re sick or hurt.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How to make really awesome cushion forts.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When you’ve hit your brother, even though you won't fess up.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That you’re just learning, and it’s okay to make mistakes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>When you’re a sneaky, ornery teenager, your mom knows:</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When you’ve lied about why you missed curfew.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Where you’ve been when you lied about why you missed curfew.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What you were doing when you lied about why you missed
curfew.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When you’ve climbed through a window to get into the house
after you missed curfew.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you have a crush on someone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When you need a nap.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How to bake the best birthday cake, even though you don’t
say “thank you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You can do well in school if you’d just stop worrying about
everyone else’s opinions of you and just consider hers.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How to keep from jumping off a cliff when you are “acting
out.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That you know better.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When your friends are not a good influence.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why boys act like jerks in front of their friends.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>When you’re a know-it-all adult, your mom knows:</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What you’re going through.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How hard and unfair life can be.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When to give you advice, even though you’re too stubborn to
ask.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What to do when your own kids are testing your limits.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How to cook dinner for your whole family so you don’t have
to for a night.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When you need a nap.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When to stand back and let you learn through your own
experiences.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why you still don’t quite realize how much more she still
knows than you.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Personally, I haven’t made it past the “know-it-all adult” phase
yet, but when I do, I’m sure I’ll have learned more about how much my mom
knows. And the longer I’m a mom myself, the more I understand her, and love
her, and appreciate what she did, does, and will continue to do for me. I
definitely know <i>why</i> she does it now –
and I guess I knew all along, but didn’t understand the depth of it. She <i>loves </i>me, even when I don’t deserve it. She
watches me make my mistakes, and go through the same things she did, and learn
everything the hard way… and she still loves me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGgCFW3sHUNGn-1FmR1GndAZBn6IG4cEk_YoVaYazbdiA22Ly8e6L7J-ROFB4PHm5pslCQYCW92boCWcpvnAEoRZ5MVtinJ_PetGXeQQiiPbUwrSGXmsEgFMrhvdZrc9bwNLs91mPrRwx-/s1600/reception+slide+030.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="502" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGgCFW3sHUNGn-1FmR1GndAZBn6IG4cEk_YoVaYazbdiA22Ly8e6L7J-ROFB4PHm5pslCQYCW92boCWcpvnAEoRZ5MVtinJ_PetGXeQQiiPbUwrSGXmsEgFMrhvdZrc9bwNLs91mPrRwx-/s640/reception+slide+030.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo courtesy Hymas Image 2005</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I finally know <i>how</i>
she always knows where everything is – and she can give scary-specific
directions, like: “In the far cupboard, in the middle, on the right-hand side,
behind the box of baking soda.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thanks, Mom.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15471887566634140494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3298694639946425739.post-43307405269633083072013-04-28T15:40:00.000-07:002013-04-28T16:26:44.535-07:0020 Ways to Start a Fight with Your Man<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve said it before: the hubunk and I are just plain
<a href="http://utterlyinexperienced.blogspot.com/2012/07/different.html" target="_blank">different</a>. And in the time since acknowledging that fact, I’ve noticed
something:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are a lot of ways to start a fight with a man.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so I put together this comprehensive list for those of
you who may <i>not</i> have learned these
things yet. Please, ladies, use these words to your advantage.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>20 Ways to Start a Fight with Your Man</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<ol start="1" style="margin-top: 0in;" type="1">
<li class="MsoNormal">Expect
him to know and follow all of your “house rules,” whether you’ve told him
the rules or not. Like not hacking mucus into the sink without washing it
down. Like hanging the towel back on the rack <i>the way I had it</i> so it will actually get dry. Like picking up
your own dang clothes off the floor. <i>THE
RULES.</i> I mean, who doesn’t just <i>know
</i>The Rules? Men, apparently.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Hang
around and “supervise” whenever he gets a hankering for doing some chores.
Make sure he does it the “right (your)” way.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Nag/whine/complain
about how you do all the housework, and then criticize the way he works
when he finally does some.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Unintentionally
(or intentionally) insult his favorite people, whether they are family,
friends, acquaintances, or celebrities.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Assume
he is ogling the skinny chick in the Daisy Dukes and hassle him until he
admits it. Of course he is. <i>You</i>
are. Everyone is looking at her. <i>That’s
her point.</i> And give him the silent treatment for an hour. That’ll
teach him.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Assume
he remembers what you told him a week ago.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Neglect
to lay out your children’s clothing and show him where you put it, but
still expect him to meet you in public with all of them dressed
appropriately with hair combed and faces washed.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Make
jokes about gifts he gives you, even if it’s a new gun that he really
thought you needed.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Be a
martyr. This is my signature move Me: “Can you go turn off the
bathroom light?” Him (joking, as usual): “No.” Me: “Fine, I’ll do it.”And proceed to do it in an
irritated manner, even though you know he would have gotten around to it
eventually.</li>
</ol>
<ol start="10" style="margin-top: 0in;" type="1">
<li class="MsoNormal">Act as
though your own family is better than his in any way.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Expect
him to listen to the words coming out of your mouth while he is watching
epic fail montages on YouTube, when he is absorbed in his hobbies, or when
a <st1:state w:st="on">Victoria</st1:state>’s
Secret commercial comes on TV. Or that T-Mobile ad with the (formerly)
cutesy gal in skin-tight black leather, riding a bullet bike.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Explore
a multitude of innovative organizing, parenting, dieting, crafting,
homemaking ideas and expect him to be just as excited about “starting
totally fresh” as you are. </li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Be a
little too much like your mother.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Don’t
be enough like his mother.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Summarize,
interpret, or otherwise bend his words and repeat them to another person
while he is within earshot.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Try to
convince him to do what <i>your</i>
father thinks you should do</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Complain
to others about how many problems your vehicles may have. This is particularly
painful for him if he already knows how to fix it but just hasn’t had time
yet. Plus, how much do you really know about cars? </li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Allow
your children to play in his workspace while he is away and feign
ignorance when his belongings disappear.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Twist
everything he says into a personal insult. Him: “You look nice today.” Me:
“What, I don’t look nice all the other days?”</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Put
semi-complicated furniture together and put little faith in his
man-skills. This was one of my first mistakes as a newlywed. <span style="text-indent: 0.25in;">Me: “Did you
read the instructions? Where are the instructions? Are you sure you don’t need
the instructions? I just think you need to look at the instructions.” BIG
ARGUMENT FOLLOWED. A week later, his dad came over and pointed out the fact
that we put the table legs on backwards. Guess who told him to do that? Yeah.
So much for instructions.</span></li>
</ol>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-indent: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjga4pxrsf3ukuqgyk4AIvf-52Zymco_8DpwN0dVbSvg-BKv0Z_C-qlZEkZlYItrouc879QQKx8sdAqSJJ4cpDVnTSTiDqF8CIke89VXKrh05I_TZhFooWaVAOiX60IO5nxXU6XsRkG8iIK/s1600/BP21WaystoFight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjga4pxrsf3ukuqgyk4AIvf-52Zymco_8DpwN0dVbSvg-BKv0Z_C-qlZEkZlYItrouc879QQKx8sdAqSJJ4cpDVnTSTiDqF8CIke89VXKrh05I_TZhFooWaVAOiX60IO5nxXU6XsRkG8iIK/s640/BP21WaystoFight.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.25in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
So what are your favorite ways to
start a fight? Please share, that the rest of us may glean knowledge from your
mistakes.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15471887566634140494noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3298694639946425739.post-72740397337831276712013-03-26T22:28:00.000-07:002013-03-26T22:28:46.738-07:00Sometimes, You Just Don't Win<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today, we experienced a little tragedy. One of our new pets, a sweet
baby chick, passed away, for whatever reason baby animals sometimes do. I, of
course, was quite distressed. Believing that my children would also be
distressed, I took the proper measures to ensure that Chicken Little received a
viewing and memorial service.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(Cue emotionally moving piano ditty)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wrapped the tiny bird in a tissue and laid her in a box,
put her name on it, and prepared myself to explain to my children what had
happened, and how we’d never ever see the chickie alive again, and death is a
part of life, and of course little birdies go to heaven, and sometimes those we
love die, and we miss them, and we hope to see them again some day, and we will
all feel better in time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They could have cared less.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh, initially they were concerned, and my daughter even said
“I so sad, Mommy,” but it was nothing compared to the tears she shed a short
while later when I wouldn’t give her a jelly bean. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But despite my dismay at their lack of emotion (and the
unfortunate amount of emotion I dealt with), it got me thinking. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes, you just don’t win.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the third grade, I was in a spelling bee. I’m not going
to lie – I was G-O-O-D <i>good.</i> I could
spell words like <i>arrogance </i>and <i>vanity</i> without so much as the bat of an
eyelash. Over the course of the bee, I beat out every other girl, and most of
the boys. It was down to the final three. I was up first. The word was:
“rhyme.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had studied. I knew this one. But for the life of me, I
could not remember if the word really had an “h” in it. I mean seriously. What
kind of a word is that? A silent “h”?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Rhyme… r…” I stared into the audience at my mom,
half-hoping she’d give me a sign. Come on Ma – H, or no H?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“…y… m-e. Ryme.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes, you just don’t win.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not the only one who doesn’t win. We’ve all had our
moments. Even our beloved celebrities have had theirs. Like when Britney Spears
went loony and shaved herself bald. Like when Tiger Woods wrecked his SUV and
simultaneously revealed that he was a lying, cheating scumbag and forever
stained his title as “Only Professional Golfer 50% of Females Can Name.” Like
when Taylor Swift dated Taylor Lautner and no one could make up a celebrity
couples’ name for them. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes, you just don’t win.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like when my younger brother was playing with my daughter,
tossing her back and forth, over and over… and she threw up <i>all over him.</i> Or when I slaved over a homemade
cake for my mom’s birthday, didn’t let the layers cool long enough, and the
buttercream filling melted and spilled out all over my car on the way to her
party. Or when I was clipping my baby’s fingernails in church and totally
snipped the tip of his finger, causing him to bleed and scream murderously
until my husband took him out and left me to sit in shame for the rest of
meeting. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes, you just don’t win.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And really, isn’t it true, that we are all fighting, every
day, in a battle we will <i>never</i> win? Just
like our sweet baby chicken, we live as best we can, battling against age,
against illness, against death – until the moment comes when we are expected to
give it all up, to willingly secede from one life and move on to an unfamiliar
place. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But, you remember, my children weren’t overly concerned with
this loss. Maybe it’s because they haven’t had enough experience in real loss –
in death – just yet. Maybe they’re ignorant. But maybe, in their innocence,
they are simply more accepting, more resilient, and more prepared to give up
what was never theirs to begin with.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="text-align: center;">Sometimes, you just don’t win. And that’s ok.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH0oKUaSXhteHlQcnkKLOkPyK88A9BjZu8ZwzVzLlIJzzpnWwZUfjYGyQNaTrU1LiMhPP8FDbahyphenhyphenEW7fi_iZIU4YNTDAOGRrA2bTuh9mQbDb4TLulr-zG6PYg5tZgf7Gfg71uQwLGDjT5D/s1600/BP19SometimesWin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH0oKUaSXhteHlQcnkKLOkPyK88A9BjZu8ZwzVzLlIJzzpnWwZUfjYGyQNaTrU1LiMhPP8FDbahyphenhyphenEW7fi_iZIU4YNTDAOGRrA2bTuh9mQbDb4TLulr-zG6PYg5tZgf7Gfg71uQwLGDjT5D/s640/BP19SometimesWin.jpg" width="428" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15471887566634140494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3298694639946425739.post-42909138607846199192013-03-20T10:28:00.000-07:002013-03-20T10:28:43.700-07:0010 Things You Don't Want to Hear Your Small Children Say<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve been a mom for a little over four and a half years now.
I’ve had my share of joys, sorrows, and poopy diapers (some days it feels like <i>more</i> than my share in the latter). I’ve
been through illnesses, sleepless nights, and more shouts of “You’re making Mom
psychotic! You’re making Mom psychotic!” than I’d like to admit. I’m not saying
it makes me an expert. I’m just saying you should listen to every word I say in
case I slip in some golden nugget of magical mom advice you will never survive
without.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So almost five years into the job, there are days I feel
like I’ve got it down. I am, after all, a <a href="http://utterlyinexperienced.blogspot.com/2012/08/casual-parenting-complete-with-quiz.html" target="_blank">casual parenting</a> master. I’ve figured out the Zen of Motherhood – 10 dirty
diapers balanced by 5 minutes of giggling and tickling, 5 hours of sleep
balanced by 10 minutes of staring at the ceiling during naptime – Zen. It’s
great. But then there are those days… Those days when my kid pees in the
<a href="http://utterlyinexperienced.blogspot.com/2012/09/the-walmart-apology.html" target="_blank">Walmart checkout line</a>, those days when even having
<a href="http://utterlyinexperienced.blogspot.com/2012/07/i-shoulda-been-sister-wife.html" target="_blank">sister wives</a> wouldn’t be enough, those days when words come
out of my child’s mouth, and <i>I</i> have
to deal with the consequences. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>10 Things You Don’t
Want to Hear Your Small Children Say<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1. <b>Mommy, I need to
go potty.</b> It’s always in a store with no public restroom, one where you
can’t find the restroom, or one where you have to ask for a stupid key to open
the restroom. By the time you can get to the potty, you’re risking hearing the
next line:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2. <b>Mommy, I peed.</b><i> </i>I bet you wish you’d packed that extra
pair of pants now, don’t you?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3. <b>Mom, (insert
child’s name) is bleeding really a lot!</b> But kids exaggerate, right? Doesn’t
matter. Whether there is actually a lot of blood or not, someone is bound to be
screaming, there will be no Band-Aids in the house, and you will threaten to
take them to get stitches just to make them stop crying.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4. <b>Mommy, it was an accident!</b> It wasn’t. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
5. <b>Mommy, I don’t
feel good.</b> Once this has been said, it is almost always too late. You might
as well jump out of the way, because it’s likely to be only a matter of seconds
before your child pukes. And it’s likely to be projectile, and you’re likely to
be somewhere with carpet.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
6. <b>Don’t be mad…</b>
Has anything good ever followed this line? NO.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
7. <b>Mommy, (insert
child’s name) broke your (insert valuable object).</b> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
8. <b>HOLY S***!</b> Oh
yeah. Right in front of Grandma.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
9. <b>Mommy! (Insert
child’s name) is playing in the toilet!</b> There’s definitely pee in it.
Probably more. And you may or may not have to fish valuables out.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
10. <b>Daddy said I
could!</b> Since when is the sperm donor the boss? <i>I grew your little body inside of mine and pushed it out when you were
fully developed and not a moment sooner</i>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I</i> am the boss.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ4r4c69_9R8uI4q-zB_UX2GZKIMi_ikxWpfc7zoKIjYPx7Gll4a32Jb1wEUCiOR-RjbXaEZKZKTl-OX86oawDMfORCQFRXQNVQaxZFseWA_DPO8zHYscCcipLmQWYpj2vXL0shORLi1d5/s1600/BP18Yell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ4r4c69_9R8uI4q-zB_UX2GZKIMi_ikxWpfc7zoKIjYPx7Gll4a32Jb1wEUCiOR-RjbXaEZKZKTl-OX86oawDMfORCQFRXQNVQaxZFseWA_DPO8zHYscCcipLmQWYpj2vXL0shORLi1d5/s640/BP18Yell.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you hear these things from your kids a lot, keep your
chin up. It could be worse. In fact, from what I’m told, I’ll be re-writing this
list when my kids are teenagers, but the consequences will be way worse. So I’m
just going to sit back and enjoy this while it lasts! And if you want my <s>expert
advice </s> humble opinion, you should
too.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15471887566634140494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3298694639946425739.post-60367980182083118322013-02-13T20:57:00.000-08:002013-02-13T20:57:16.068-08:00The Things I Like to Lie About<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m feeling a bit exposed as I write this in the deafening
roar of my kids’ morning playtime. It's a bit revealing. Some might say a
little too revealing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I’m all about honesty here – even honesty about my dishonesty.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This wasn’t my first
choice in subject matter, mind you. I’ve been thinking all week about what I would write. But for whatever reason, I kept noticing all of the little fibs I have been telling lately, whether to save
face, save others, or because I just plain did <i>not</i> want to
share. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not saying I’m proud of myself. But I’m not saying I’m
100% ashamed either. So, for the record, I'm coming clean to all of you who have been subject to my lies. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To the cashier at the grocery store:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My lies to you are more… <i>indirect</i>
lies. You talk to me. I don’t really want to talk to you… but I do. And I act
really thrilled about it. But I’m not. Your need for social interaction is
affecting my ability to tackle my 4-year-old to the ground before he scales the
toilet paper display.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To my church leaders:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I love you guys. But, as I’m sure you know, church callings
can be – well, as the grandmothers in church say – <i>a
learning experience</i>. I tell you I’ve “enjoyed my calling the past five
years,” and “I’ve learned a lot about myself,” but what I’m really saying is “HOW
COULD YOU LEAVE ME HERE SO LONG???” and “I AM REALLY TIRED OF GETTING TO KNOW
MYSELF.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To my dentist:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not sure why I lie, because I know you can tell. But I
just can’t bring myself to tell you that my flossing habits are less than acceptable.
As in, twice a week. <i>If I'm lucky.</i> Gross, I know. And I wonder why I keep having to pay you.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To my child’s pediatrician:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I lie about the milestones my kids have reached. Call me
ambitious, but no, he/she may NOT be saying 10 words. Or even 5. I round up.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To my parents:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I [still] lie about what I’m doing. 90% of the time, I’m NOT
cleaning the house when you call. Or doing anything productive, really.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To my husband:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m sorry honey. Although I’m sometimes a little <i>too </i>honest with
you, I continue to lie about how I really feel when I, the lone soldier, wake
up in the middle of the night with the kids AGAIN… while you snore peacefully
in the 3 a.m. darkness. Most nights, I want to beat you up. And if I wake you
up to help (like you tell me to) but you’re pretty much uselessly incoherent, I
often still want to kick you <i>on accident </i>when
you climb back into bed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To my children:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not scared to teach you about sex. I’m not going to lie
to you about death or why bad things happen to good people. It’s true that
there are no such things as zombies, monsters under beds, and vampires -- particularly the vegetarian variety (*sigh*). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But do NOT ask me anything about Santa Claus, the Easter
Bunny, or the Tooth Fairy. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I. Will. Always. Lie. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Probably until you’re 30.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicHKGfk7y-7UHDime_JmWJ7_1CVP8zXt4Yez3sWbKsDgZNzoWANbCIwJh1q5xpNbic_srM6LPfg-VW0FmAud7Xmdr-kLamln8F3xx9iXFmKnvkIzbuzOjCHsD8OTygXoz6DOW4apIdNlDs/s1600/BP18Liar.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicHKGfk7y-7UHDime_JmWJ7_1CVP8zXt4Yez3sWbKsDgZNzoWANbCIwJh1q5xpNbic_srM6LPfg-VW0FmAud7Xmdr-kLamln8F3xx9iXFmKnvkIzbuzOjCHsD8OTygXoz6DOW4apIdNlDs/s640/BP18Liar.JPG" width="428" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Anyone else need serious forehead Botox at my age???</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15471887566634140494noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3298694639946425739.post-18010729188068903222013-01-25T14:12:00.000-08:002013-01-25T14:22:32.059-08:00I Almost Became a Minimalist<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I've mentioned before that <a href="http://utterlyinexperienced.blogspot.com/2012/07/my-legs-look-good.html" target="_blank">I'm not much for trends</a>, trendiness, and/or being trendy. I'm the type of gal who can never justify buying ten different colors of skinny jeans because I'm afraid the trend will be over in a year and I'll have nothing to wear again. I mean, really... retro can only be retro for so long, right?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, there's a parenting/life trend going around these days, and I must admit I've been interested. It’s all about de-cluttering your life, simplifying your lifestyle, living
greener and swapping all your children’s stuffed animals for lessons in needs
vs. wants.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe you’ve noticed some of these great people. They call themselves "minimalists." I’m pretty
sure most of them live in big cities, because I certainly don’t know any
personally. In my experience, we country folk tend to be a bit less…
enthusiastic when it comes to free-thinking, world peace, make love not war
kinds of ideas. Most of us are like… well, “Heck yes I will spank my child! And
in public, just to avoid stares and judgment, I pinch their thighs instead!”
I’m not sure that’s a minimalist method.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, these minimalists. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bless their hearts. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They set out on a journey to
simplify their lives in every way, and many of them blog about the whole
process. I got started reading a few of these blogs. I enjoy reading tips from
a minimalist blog called “<a href="http://zenhabits.net/about/" target="_blank">Zen Habits</a>.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But it’s written by a man. And a man
don’t know nothin’ ’bout being a woman in this here crazy world. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I thought I’d check
out some minimalist women too. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I must say, when I began to read, the idea really appealed. Wouldn't it be great to throw out all my worldly distractions and focus on what really matters?!!! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wonderous idea.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am<i> not </i>a clutter-lover. I mean, I like a few things lying around.
Toys, usually. I feel like my house is just more “homey” with a few things out.
But I’ll tell you what I hate. Wall to wall junk that I can’t get the energy up
to sort through (aka: our basement). So reading through all these wonderful
minimalist proposals was motivational, to say the least.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But as I continued reading, I began to realize something. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I
just don’t think I can commit. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These people have every reason to be admired.
They are frugal, enjoy their families, and try to live without going AWOL and breaking the bank to pay a shrink like the rest of us. I’d still like
to be like them. But there a few things about the minimalist lifestyle that I
found to be </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
BIG. FAT. DEALBREAKERS.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Minimalist Living Dealbreakers: A List</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<ol start="1" style="margin-top: 0in;" type="1">
<li class="MsoNormal">Some
of these brave people actually <i>combine
households</i> with other people. I’m talking <i>move in with their in-laws</i>. As much as I love my in-laws
(don’t smirk, that’s a true statement), it ain’t gonna happen.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Minimalists
tend to become vegetarian or vegan in the long run. Girl, please. My
husband spends hours in the woods killing wild animals with a bow and arrow. <i>We will be eating meat</i>.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">These
guys give away <i>everything.</i> My
husband worked hard and I shopped even harder and we <i>paid</i> for our crap. We paid <i>money</i>. I have approximately 23 plastic garbage bags
full of clothing for children ages 0-6 in my basement at this very moment.
We <i>need</i> that stuff. Preparedness and all. Not to mention the boxes of maternity clothes,
baby blankets, winter coats, and camping equipment. All <i>needs</i>. You don’t give away what you
<i>need</i>, right? Validate me here,
please.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Minimalists
practice a lot of discipline. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not too bad at
self-discipline, but when it comes to cookie dough, well… self-discipline
what? And I’m really, um… chill, you might say, when it comes to my kids,
too. If they want to ride bikes in Walmart, I really don’t put up much of
a fight – unless they crash into something. Then the fun’s over and it’s
time to run in the opposite direction. Seriously. Run.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Minimalists
hoard <i>nothing.</i> I’m not a messy
hoarder. I don’t {think} I belong on TLC’s <i>Hoarding: Buried Alive.</i> But I am an organized hoarder. A file
box with pages and pages torn from magazines on every topic imaginable
(perfectly categorized, thank you). A (surprisingly heavy) box of National
Geographic Magazine. Books of all kinds. Craft supplies. Fabric for sewing
projects I want to do. Boards upon boards of "stuff" on Pinterest. Things that will surely be useful… someday.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Minimalists
don’t spend a lot of time in front of a screen. I live in the middle of
nowhere. It is winter. It is cold. I have three young children. I have no
car. I have no friends. We are going to watch TV. Possibly all day. The
noise calms me.</li>
</ol>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And perhaps the biggest dealbreaker of all:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<ol start="7" style="margin-top: 0in;" type="1">
<li class="MsoNormal">Minimalists
learn to disconnect emotionally from their crap… and I just <i>cannot</i> do it. I’ve always had a
problem. I was one of those little girls who would pile all of her stuffed
animals on her bed at night because I didn't want one of them to feel left out. In
fact, I still have some of those same stuffed animals. <i>They have feelings too.</i> And that
scribble (one of millions) on a scrap of paper that my daughter drew for
me? Heaven forbid I should ever carelessly discard a sweet memory of my sweet
child. </li>
</ol>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCoOH6qfQ3_TNc7xw07WS4X8llRlOV2g510NN6lqJc-iKgi5JLRqVkYT0IzbGjUTHUZLn77x4QdyfSoaQLUZkYatkGE1Z8SwngX-BxNMDdLtKxRuDWq3mxcwLRBPqRCmf8EzXJVoCefbDk/s1600/BP17Minimalist2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCoOH6qfQ3_TNc7xw07WS4X8llRlOV2g510NN6lqJc-iKgi5JLRqVkYT0IzbGjUTHUZLn77x4QdyfSoaQLUZkYatkGE1Z8SwngX-BxNMDdLtKxRuDWq3mxcwLRBPqRCmf8EzXJVoCefbDk/s640/BP17Minimalist2.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ah, the simplicity.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bless you, those of you who live as minimalists. I envy you.
But I’m just not ready to give up my crap. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXzrKOGHrBjsi_rp-9KGbpQzcxrWlQmkE_Jd7GQvkTy4PeA20NCo0_QpvFsDTTo0r-eLnoBDZYcYVBkqXQGt3uqTNii7WjfIEDsFSmSqdxrXHMNwEV4ALImg-2ZoSFWAgodLr1St1MWj5A/s1600/BP17Minimalist1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXzrKOGHrBjsi_rp-9KGbpQzcxrWlQmkE_Jd7GQvkTy4PeA20NCo0_QpvFsDTTo0r-eLnoBDZYcYVBkqXQGt3uqTNii7WjfIEDsFSmSqdxrXHMNwEV4ALImg-2ZoSFWAgodLr1St1MWj5A/s640/BP17Minimalist1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ah, the crap.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15471887566634140494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3298694639946425739.post-80172496214054603572013-01-06T15:17:00.001-08:002013-01-06T15:17:08.234-08:00Unresolved<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ah, a fresh new year! It feels great, right? Have you all
got your shiny new resolutions of losing weight, living in the moment, quitting
smoking, and getting out of debt polished and sitting on your mantel so you can
sheepishly hide them away in two weeks when you’ve given up?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I almost put mine out. Almost.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are a million resolutions I could have chosen to start
this here year of 2013. I am just as full of imperfections and problems as I’ve
ever been. Usually, I make resolutions. Usually, I put mine up with bright
lights, flags, and trumpets in the darkest corner of my basement for all (aka: me) to see. Usually, I am so busy thinking and
writing resolutions down that I never actually get around to doing them (hence the reason I hide them in the basement in the first place).
Usually, my resolutions list starts like this:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<ol start="1" style="margin-top: 0in;" type="1">
<li class="MsoNormal">Be a
better person</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Be
healthier</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Be a
better wife</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Be a
better mom</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Be a
better homemaker</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Be a
better daughter/sister/granddaughter/cousin/relative/whatever</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Do
more in my church callings</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Learn
new things (any number above 25 new things will do)</li>
</ol>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then, after defining and specifying each category,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
combing the net for inspiring blogs, Pinterest boards, and web articles,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
breaking each category into multiple subcategories, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
defining and specifying each subcategory, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
listing [tentative] dates of completion, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
writing stepping stone goals for each,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and then lacing it all with good intentions, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I end
with this:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<ol start="9" style="margin-top: 0in;" type="1">
<li class="MsoNormal">Simplify
my life</li>
</ol>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know. And then I subcategorize that one too.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve tried <i>not</i>
making resolutions. It doesn’t work. I write so many self-improvement lists, so often, that I
eventually find myself titling some random page “New Year’s Resolutions,” and
then my resolve to not make resolutions crumbles and, yet again, I am staring
at a list of things I <i>wish</i> I already
was.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, as I am quite tired of my ring-around-the-rosie,
never-accomplish-much resolutions, I have decided to make something called an
“Un”-resolution. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What is an “Un”-resolution, you ask?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, I figure that in the past, I’ve always made
resolutions to change myself, to do something new, to break a bad habit. And it
doesn’t work very well for me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, what if I did the <i>opposite</i>
of that? What if, instead of doing something to make myself a shining,
wonderful example of all things beautiful, selfless, and healthy, I did
something that could make me seem… worse?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s right. I’m gonna stick it to The Man (who <i>is </i>he anyway???) and drop the façade I
have so carefully constructed over the years to make people love me. I’ll tell
you what I’m gonna do this year. I’m going to do things that will make people wonder
what the heck kind of crazy I really am. I’m going to do things that will make
other people (particularly my mom) embarrassed for me. I’m gonna do things like… like… like lick the
spoon from the cake batter in someone else’s kitchen <i>and then put it back in and do it again.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If making an un-resolution sounds like something you’d like
to try, I’ve got a few more ideas for you, just to get you started. Pick one.
Or make up your own. But don’t subcategorize, don’t research, don’t make a
list, and don’t think about it. Just do it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Some ideas for
“Un”-resolutions in 2013:<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<ul style="margin-top: 0in;" type="disc">
<li class="MsoNormal">Eat a
cookie every day. Or a donut. Or chocolate. Or all three.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Scream
at the top of my lungs once a week <i>for no good reason</i>.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Say
“no” to whomever I please, whenever I really don’t want to do something.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Spend
money on whatever I want once a month (the catch - there has to <i>be</i> money to spend).</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Let my
kids get whatever it is they beg for in the store once in a while.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Let
people do things for me, even if I know I can do it myself.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Stay
in my pajamas all day and don’t put on any makeup (gasp!) <i>whenever I feel
like it</i>.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Don’t
clean the house for a day or two once in a while.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Take
the biggest slice of pie/pizza/cake/whatever once in a while – <i>before</i> all the men come into the
kitchen.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Roll
down my car windows every time a Taylor Swift song is on the radio and
force everyone else on the street to listen as I sing along.</li>
</ul>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hope you’re inspired. I can’t wait to get started.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPjBy5eS4t0LyOE0PlIoFwKN1fDLMIVe7dKmhUpa5WkjZvdBiKF8NuFeE-nOIr8AIvmxFQsU4FwqASZLaHxO-sVoib-riNCt69jOSiX1zVC0tt7iypB6pw34NInWVBr-oiWhyAY0tI-J7A/s1600/BP16Unresolved.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPjBy5eS4t0LyOE0PlIoFwKN1fDLMIVe7dKmhUpa5WkjZvdBiKF8NuFeE-nOIr8AIvmxFQsU4FwqASZLaHxO-sVoib-riNCt69jOSiX1zVC0tt7iypB6pw34NInWVBr-oiWhyAY0tI-J7A/s400/BP16Unresolved.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15471887566634140494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3298694639946425739.post-15735262469630523282012-12-02T13:37:00.000-08:002012-12-02T13:37:29.621-08:00Emergency Preparedness: 10 Things You Need to Survive the Imminent Zombie Apocalypse<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am a member of a <a href="http://www.lds.org/">church </a>that places a lot of emphasis on a
little something called “Emergency Preparedness.” I am encouraged by my church
leaders to collect non-perishable supplies, stock up on space blankets and
flashlight batteries, and have a plan for every emergency under the sun.
Mormons don’t mess around, people.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Personally, I’m glad I’ve grown up with the motivation to be
prepared. Preparedness is important. Preparedness keeps you safe. It keeps you
alive when disaster strikes. It keeps you from showing up on the news after
said disaster screaming, “Where’s Fema?! Where’s the Red Cross?!” It keeps you
from being stuck with nothing but a foam cup of dry noodles when the Mayan
Calendar ends. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Preparedness is serious stuff.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We’re all about preparedness at my house. And not just
because our religion encourages it. I am personally motivated to stockpile 25
lb. buckets of dehydrated milk and egg products when a hurricane strikes on the
other side of the country. I’m motivated to purchase large amounts of Betty
Crocker cake mixes and Fruit Roll Ups when my local grocery store has a 4 for
$5 sale. My husband is motivated to stuff a cabinet full of weapons and
ammunition when a Democratic president is re-elected. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But nothing has ever motivated me more than watching this TV
show:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMj3Y9jbquAgHexspORMYe-q6d95oP0L45KyEU7XFKJAVm1sm_Jorp3bijcfq57pLWG_y3YoKylKVnl1pgec-k-OS_pYvbAZkDh0BLe3lcyfgJw9jV9GV-6TGWq8n1hD_sIBfrrrR6260p/s1600/BP15walkingdead.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMj3Y9jbquAgHexspORMYe-q6d95oP0L45KyEU7XFKJAVm1sm_Jorp3bijcfq57pLWG_y3YoKylKVnl1pgec-k-OS_pYvbAZkDh0BLe3lcyfgJw9jV9GV-6TGWq8n1hD_sIBfrrrR6260p/s400/BP15walkingdead.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image courtesy AMC TV</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you haven’t heard of it yet, you probably will. I’m
pretty sure it’s sweeping the nation (and if it’s not, it should be). The first
two seasons are on Netflix <i>as we speak.</i>
The third season is currently underway, and as the title suggests, it’s all
about a seriously disturbing zombie takeover of our precious planet earth.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Honestly, although I’m totally into end-of-the-world,
apocalyptic-type stuff, this is not a show I would normally dive into. It’s pretty
darn gory, for one, and there’s enough cussing in it to make a dairy farmer
squirm. Ok… maybe not. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I was <i>curious.</i>
Oh so curious. And I paid the price for my curiosity.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I COULD NOT. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
STOP. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
WATCHING.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s right – for two days, huddled in front of our 37” screen
with the blinds closed and the kids watching mindless hours of Disney in their
bedroom, the hubunk and I <i>inhaled</i> all
19 episodes of seasons 1 and 2. When we finally emerged again into the light of
day, I knew our lives would never be the same again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have never been more motivated to prepare. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I have therefore created this handy list of items you,
too, will need when the world ends and a horrific zombie infection seizes all
mankind. Call it a “Zombie Apocalypse To-Do List,” if you will. You’re welcome.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
IN CASE OF ZOMBIE TAKEOVER YOU NEED:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<ol start="1" style="margin-top: 0in;" type="1">
<li class="MsoNormal">Food,
water, clothing, shelter, fuel. All your basics. Knowing how to grow and/or
kill food yourself will also come in handy.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Tools,
nails, screws, and boards to block all possible entrances to your
stronghold. If you rely on a vehicle as your stronghold, you’d better be
sure you’ve got enough gas in the ole tank to stay mobile.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">LOTS
AND LOTS OF GUNS. And please don’t forget the ammo.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">To make
friends with a doctor/surgeon and make sure this person will be a part of
your survival group. Veterinarians may be substituted for doctors if
needed.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Besides
guns, you need weapons of silence (so as not to attract unwanted zombie
attention). Swords, knives, hatchets, baseball bats… all valuable. Pointy
sticks, screwdrivers, and other tools will also become useful in a bind.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">To make
yourself too valuable to leave behind as zombie bait. Are you a good
watchman? A superb zombie-killer? Do you have a wide base of survival
knowledge? <i>Cultivate your skills.</i></li>
<li class="MsoNormal">The
ability to break into abandoned buildings quickly and quietly to obtain
supplies. Locksmiths and robbers survive well because of this. </li>
<li class="MsoNormal">To practice
running, climbing, swimming, and otherwise keeping yourself fit. <i>The fat kid always gets eaten first.</i>
</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">To be
good at keeping your head in life-threatening situations. Quick-thinking. Anything you do
(or do not) under severe stress (zombies chasing you through the woods,
zombies trapping you in cars, zombies swarming your home) can make or
break.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Hope
for the recovery and future of the living. If you don’t have that, you’re
just one bad zombie encounter away from driving yourself off a cliff.</li>
</ol>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMhy6QuLVkV8FkeKIfDWWV1lch4T0ZsyTHPfF_1HApMY9fOoSWom7A0p43reH9syb4ASk7MsS9eSXGw0MJg090PwyRUHB4ehkxtkfkKDwF6Om9kVdbbuw4j6PDa8URbuG5vWyXDsauf2Uz/s1600/BP15ZombieApocalypse.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMhy6QuLVkV8FkeKIfDWWV1lch4T0ZsyTHPfF_1HApMY9fOoSWom7A0p43reH9syb4ASk7MsS9eSXGw0MJg090PwyRUHB4ehkxtkfkKDwF6Om9kVdbbuw4j6PDa8URbuG5vWyXDsauf2Uz/s640/BP15ZombieApocalypse.JPG" width="425" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh, and one more thing you’re really going to need in the
Zombie Apocalypse – a strong stomach. Zombie blood/guts/bodily shrapnel get <i>all over the place, </i>ya’ll<i>.</i> No joke.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15471887566634140494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3298694639946425739.post-72915555230151878862012-11-05T16:28:00.000-08:002012-11-05T16:28:11.272-08:00The Bystanders Guide to Helpful Bystanding<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve noticed some things since I’ve had kids.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To name a few: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kids make every trip to the grocery store (/gas
station/mall/fast food joint/etc.) take approximately 30 minutes longer.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are very few things that cannot be solved by candy,
toys, or holding bedroom doors shut until the screaming stops.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you let your kids ride the bikes in Walmart, there will
come a time when the “Cleanup on Aisle 10,” is definitely a signal to run to
Aisle 10 and extract your child before he makes it worse.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sleep is optional.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But perhaps the number one thing I’ve noticed since having
children is that there are loads upon <i>loads
</i>of “helpful” bystanders out there in this world. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m pretty sure that many of these people are just standing about
in random public places, waiting for a slightly insane mother (aka: me) to
stumble along with her little brood and create a scene worth “helping.” I have
no doubt that most of them have the best of intentions. Many of them can likely
relate to the train of chaos that follows me everywhere I go. Many of them
genuinely try to help. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But some bystanders are more helpful than others. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are three categories of helpful bystander:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<ol start="1" style="margin-top: 0in;" type="1">
<li class="MsoNormal">Nervous
Grandmother</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Judge
Judy</li>
<li class="MsoNormal">Mary
Poppins</li>
</ol>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Nervous Grandmother is certainly possessed by good
intentions. She is sweet, careful, and wise. But she is also very nervous.
Perhaps her own frailties have made her overly cautious and concerned for
others. Perhaps her less than catlike reflexes have given her a sense of unease
when she sees little children leaning over grocery carts and jumping down
stairways. Whatever it is, bless her heart, Nervous Grandmother follows you everywhere.
And Nervous Grandmother gives far too many warnings.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This dear old lady can be identified by such warnings, often
directed at the children but intended for the mother’s ear:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sit down, Honey, I don’t want you to fall!” “Do you have a
jacket, Sweetie? The wind is blowing out there!” “Oh, your little feet look so
cold! Where are your socks?” “Don’t put your fingers in there, they might get
stuck!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkpfPpC9sShKXKlMGEBL238I3ryc8ZFyFIye4Y-IAl9uEmOerjMFfnxO_yOFBYpKDx65zzOZlgf3Q-AOUtNxMxLfF5-0ssjC7e254QWLT-7Dej6W5mB4wUR48CSYI13MZhyphenhyphenJlW8uqgn09R/s1600/BP14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkpfPpC9sShKXKlMGEBL238I3ryc8ZFyFIye4Y-IAl9uEmOerjMFfnxO_yOFBYpKDx65zzOZlgf3Q-AOUtNxMxLfF5-0ssjC7e254QWLT-7Dej6W5mB4wUR48CSYI13MZhyphenhyphenJlW8uqgn09R/s200/BP14.jpg" width="133" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwzOQF6rLO3YGUj6VH0M1sdom_s3-a6NtCt5uuLxf1K-frxEiiBB-9SbRbJh5ELweEL_vcFfbedY89qJd_OgcJEWmUiyCBFS0DuXsNX1PEQ9ZVgzQUWyEdtkezKexp5sz26Y0H419yOdKF/s1600/BP14gma2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwzOQF6rLO3YGUj6VH0M1sdom_s3-a6NtCt5uuLxf1K-frxEiiBB-9SbRbJh5ELweEL_vcFfbedY89qJd_OgcJEWmUiyCBFS0DuXsNX1PEQ9ZVgzQUWyEdtkezKexp5sz26Y0H419yOdKF/s200/BP14gma2.jpg" width="133" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkCFppMi5nxQP9YsxErFoEEltv6rLS5HYaIelq-WfQO5C7VzS7FDE9D_pBHYj7qRbxrqDmQz5UYWwm-UA-QFEZy4a9Monqv4IMBFEDjP3-YktB6iqB-YISeaQ7fXtebcMGqrJIMwSLJRKp/s1600/BP14gma3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkCFppMi5nxQP9YsxErFoEEltv6rLS5HYaIelq-WfQO5C7VzS7FDE9D_pBHYj7qRbxrqDmQz5UYWwm-UA-QFEZy4a9Monqv4IMBFEDjP3-YktB6iqB-YISeaQ7fXtebcMGqrJIMwSLJRKp/s200/BP14gma3.jpg" width="133" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But as wonderfully cautionary as Nervous Grandmother is,
she’s got nothing on Judge Judy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Judge Judy tends to be around age 50. She tends to have dark
eyebrows and does not smile. She does not direct her sage advice at the children,
but speaks to the mother. Judge Judy may have adult children she considers
perfect, or she may have no children at all. Judge Judy speaks harshly or often
just glares and makes annoyed sounds and gestures. Judge Judy is mean. Judge
Judy makes mothers run crying from the grocery store and fret late into the
night that their children are going to grow up and be serial killers.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Judge Judy says things like:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Um, <i>hello</i>, your
kids are pulling all that stuff off the shelf down there!” “Uh, did you lose a <i>kid</i>?” “Ma’am, you have <i>got</i> to get these kids out of here.” “Are
you <i>really</i> just letting them run
through there like that?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg0Kgsms8iH7GQQ9WM24Jtzn72sJZpuw4yuS6xWMFCbsJ3kQxjtNs9mohMv1jrkTqIXhU4VFc4n3p8yiJd4JC0vhYzTAZaqxLbtOvklk2n1KD9isUdL1CoUho-9-yUSGpNi4Mqz356RDxJ/s1600/BP14judy1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg0Kgsms8iH7GQQ9WM24Jtzn72sJZpuw4yuS6xWMFCbsJ3kQxjtNs9mohMv1jrkTqIXhU4VFc4n3p8yiJd4JC0vhYzTAZaqxLbtOvklk2n1KD9isUdL1CoUho-9-yUSGpNi4Mqz356RDxJ/s200/BP14judy1.jpg" width="133" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjixzl7ARMdlgvjNBccjDPTtouCxI21vvHiE6viUeY-Juq87WipZy9pR2V-6199zgRYTni0UykOokDnK08A9LDS-vC9Ra_HZ8jSKuxGmk399CAR9eK3g00-0WoWPmRKOKdFqGz-3U_O5k89/s1600/BP14judy2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjixzl7ARMdlgvjNBccjDPTtouCxI21vvHiE6viUeY-Juq87WipZy9pR2V-6199zgRYTni0UykOokDnK08A9LDS-vC9Ra_HZ8jSKuxGmk399CAR9eK3g00-0WoWPmRKOKdFqGz-3U_O5k89/s200/BP14judy2.jpg" width="133" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9akKvaV6IUjn54U1HE5bO3h9n1LTElg4Tb0K4CXeHAB_tJXYt16pbO65RZOZ_Q3XB5WQl9c8b3hIbMdAY1RhSeTyLwKhRXA2y5WKBr5ubq2qPyI9CxuQO7Lmjcsr_skupncnT4vf7xJIy/s1600/BP14judy3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9akKvaV6IUjn54U1HE5bO3h9n1LTElg4Tb0K4CXeHAB_tJXYt16pbO65RZOZ_Q3XB5WQl9c8b3hIbMdAY1RhSeTyLwKhRXA2y5WKBr5ubq2qPyI9CxuQO7Lmjcsr_skupncnT4vf7xJIy/s200/BP14judy3.jpg" width="133" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t like Judge Judy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But in the midst of my darkest public crises, I praise Mary
Poppins.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mary Poppins is kind, but firm. Mary Poppins recognizes when
help is actually needed. Mary Poppins sees a problem and fixes it, with little
ado. Mary Poppins says little, but does much. Mary Poppins is experienced. Mary
Poppins is smart. Mary Poppins is <i>practically
perfect in every way</i> (I couldn’t resist).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mary Poppins sees a child running into the street while the
mother struggles with two others and a cart full of groceries, captures the
child, and returns it before the mother even notices. Mary Poppins watches from
the corner of her eye and assists a child who has his finger stuck. Mary
Poppins simply rights a child who has flung herself over the top of the grocery
cart. Mary Poppins catches items falling from shelves. Mary Poppins assists
children in finding their lost mother.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Each of these people has their place in a mother’s life.
Nervous Grandmother is great on sunshiney days when you’re on top of the world
and just glad someone cares. Judge Judy is great on reality television where
she can be turned off with the click of a button. And Mary Poppins, she is
there in the moments when she is most needed, just in time to keep us all from
going insane.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
May we all be the Mary Poppins in someone else’s life.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK1XRbRbrzCHgrFIkGc30pScQRwWtFr2NgKl4AOqATx88p3XoRMZlvRSuWaGT2bJNy_frqiOeANUR-pjUjB_iaZV_chVjPFD815-wTljYVLl7cGC_1a0clXlO4cWGfFiikaqcrJVo6Pf97/s1600/BP14mary.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK1XRbRbrzCHgrFIkGc30pScQRwWtFr2NgKl4AOqATx88p3XoRMZlvRSuWaGT2bJNy_frqiOeANUR-pjUjB_iaZV_chVjPFD815-wTljYVLl7cGC_1a0clXlO4cWGfFiikaqcrJVo6Pf97/s640/BP14mary.jpg" width="428" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15471887566634140494noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3298694639946425739.post-4642740231274155482012-09-27T16:12:00.001-07:002012-09-27T16:26:23.340-07:00The Walmart Apology<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Walmart.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Love it, hate it, it is as American as apple pie and
baseball.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s a place where all walks of life, all creeds and colors,
can come together with a common goal. It’s a… a melting pot of sorts. The man,
the woman, the child, the redneck, the businessman – all of us together. And Moms.
Walmart is <i>so</i> good to moms. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As a mom, I can get my groceries, my wardrobe, my cleaning products,
my cat food, my craft supplies, and my baby wipes in <i>one place</i>. THAT IS IMPORTANT.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mothers, bless our hearts, spend every day taking care of
the every need of those sweetest little beings called children (among other
things). There are good days, when you cuddle up to your sleeping angel and
sniff their soft, sweet skin and kiss their soft, sweet eyelashes, and you can
hardly believe that something so incredibly wonderful could come from your very
loins. AND THEN THERE ARE BAD DAYS.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bad days are days when you count the minutes until you can
tuck (strap) them into their beds, pray that they won’t get up once they are
there, quietly collapse into fetal position on your living room floor to
whimper (softly, so you won’t wake the <s>demons </s>children), and you can
hardly believe that something so incredibly out of control could come from your
cursed, wretched loins. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had a bad day. And Walmart got to bear the brunt.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Someday I will write an apology letter to Walmart. It will
say something like this:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dear Walmart,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m sorry
my kids terrorize, vandalize, and otherwise violate your sacred halls. I’m sorry
they pull things from shelves, break things, slobber on things, ride bicycles
at high speeds through busy aisles, get lost multiple times in a single visit,
run from your employees, and scream – really – loud – for – ages. I am sorry
that they may have driven many potential customers out with their antics. I am
sorry that no amount of purchases can make up for the pain I have caused you.
And I’m really, really, really sorry for that one day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That day was a doozy. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We were on our way home from a fun day at the state fair,
all of us exhausted (as other battles had already been fought with the kids), and
<i>that man I’m married to</i> wanted to
stop once more to see if there was any good clearance on fishing gear. BAD. I.
DEA.(IloveyouHoneyyouaremore<br />
wonderfulthanwordscansayI’dnevertradeyouforanyoneexceptformaybe<br />
ZacEfronbutyouknowthatalready)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My kids ran through their standard list of entertaining
public displays:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Run amuck.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Scream and laugh.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hide from Mom.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
First potty break.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hide from Dad.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Laugh some more.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ride bikes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Grab things from shelves. (We are <i>not</i> buying that. Put it <i>back</i>.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Child #1 lost.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Child #2 dawdling while we try to get to the checkout.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Child #3 crying to be held.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Second potty break.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Repeat. Multiple times.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I could have handled it all. I usually do. But my final
straw, the one that sent me completely and totally over the edge, was the
dreaded moment in the checkout line.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Daddy Dearest wants milk to go with the cookies we are
buying. He offers to take Little E with him while I stand in line with Big E
and Sis. Sounds do-able. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
FIVE SECONDS LATER… the disaster began.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sis, perched in the basket of the cart, spills our little
box of cookies all over the floor. Oh well, Walmart germs never hurt anyone. I
scoop them up and put them back in the box with nary a crumb left behind. No
big deal. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Suddenly, Big E needs to go potty. Again. I’m wedged between
two families with full carts, and I don’t know how to get out or what to do. I
send the tiny-bladdered child to the (nearby) bathroom alone (where he will
hopefully not be abducted). After showing him where to go, I quickly return to
Child #2, who is sitting in the grocery cart, eating cookies. Are you scared
yet? It gets worse.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A moment passes as I wait for an old lady on a scooter cart
(bless her) try to buy a protection plan for her new TV from the young,
inexperienced cashier (bless her) with a large Walmart star sticker on her
cheek (wth?). Suddenly, I hear a strange noise, like liquid hitting the floor.
I glance around. I see the people behind me staring underneath my cart. I look
at my daughter, sitting there, surrounded by the ruffles of her little skirt,
eating cookies. I look at the floor. Puddle. I look at my daughter. I bend down
and look below the cart. Waterfall steadily contributing to puddle. <i>Coming from my child</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She didn’t even have the decency to tell me she had to pee.
I’m sorry Walmart. So, so sorry.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgikJyw_GdjbI1MmPI0wh5CmPhltOXagUB7kV_7fZkuFqALjvlGni-trlb6HJCJNV8nEOGaUYhnAfonIkcIMCZ8cjXPENtFXyxm95BZ2Iglw4dCXxdvS7Qo7C49vpnn3hjgu0hEuzFF6szp/s1600/BP13Walmart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgikJyw_GdjbI1MmPI0wh5CmPhltOXagUB7kV_7fZkuFqALjvlGni-trlb6HJCJNV8nEOGaUYhnAfonIkcIMCZ8cjXPENtFXyxm95BZ2Iglw4dCXxdvS7Qo7C49vpnn3hjgu0hEuzFF6szp/s640/BP13Walmart.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
TWO DAYS LATER, she peed in the toy aisle at Kmart. I picked
her up. I walked away. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sorry Kmart.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15471887566634140494noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3298694639946425739.post-62252632226705075822012-09-25T18:38:00.001-07:002012-09-25T18:38:52.363-07:00It's the End of the World as We Know It<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you watch the evening news, you may have noticed
something lately…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
THE WORLD IS ENDING.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I’m not talking about prophetic visions of F10
tornadoes, mountain-moving earthquakes, the Great Yellowstone Explosion
(monitor that imminent disaster <a href="http://www.earthmountainview.com/yellowstone/yellowstone.htm">here</a><span id="goog_1447712802"></span><span id="goog_1447712803"></span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/"></a>), or hail the size of a beach ball
crushing every WalMart from here to the moon. I’m talking about the
life-altering, soul-crushing, inexplicable launch of the </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
CORN/BACON/BALLOON APOCALYPSE.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I first tapped into this horrible truth on my own evening
news, only to have it reaffirmed the next half hour by World News with Diane
Sawyer. Obviously, there is cause for concern here, people. Diane Sawyer knows
stuff.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perhaps you’ve heard about the shortages. The unfortunate
lack of rain in our grand ole US of A this summer has left us with an
unfortunate lack of some of our staple foods – namely, corn and corn. Let me
tell you all a little something about corn. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
EVERYTHING EATS IT.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For a greater understanding of why our lack of corn is
affecting bacon and balloons, observe:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lack of RAIN = Lack of CORN = Lack of PIG FOOD = Lack of
PIGS = Lack of BACON = NO BALLOONS AT YOUR KID’S FIRST BIRTHDAY PARTY</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ok, maybe I’m not a scientist, but I think I’m on to
something.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is what the folks over at TIME Magazine have to say
about our current helium situation: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">The <st1:country-region w:st="on">U.S.</st1:country-region> </span><a href="http://www.blm.gov/nm/st/en/prog/energy/helium/helium_facts.html" target="_blank"><span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; color: #cc0000; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">helium reserve</span></a><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"> in
<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Amarillo</st1:city>, <st1:state w:st="on">Tex.</st1:state></st1:place>,
controlled by the Bureau of Land Management, accounts for 30 percent of
the world’s helium. But a current Senate Bill calls for the reserve to<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><a href="http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10000872396390443545504577567102314948314.html"><span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; color: #cc0000; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">continue selling helium</span></a><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">, even if it risks running out by 2018.
Helium is a common inert gas, but for commercial purposes it’s usually
generated as a byproduct from natural gas mining. But because the recession has
caused a slowdown in natural-gas production, helium markets are facing a
shortage; more plants will coming online by the end of 2012 in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Qatar</st1:country-region>, <st1:country-region w:st="on">Russia</st1:country-region>
and <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:state w:st="on">Wyoming</st1:state></st1:place>,
but not in time to ease the current crisis.”</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; font-size: 15pt; padding: 0in;"><br />
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Got that? No?</div>
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Here’s my interpretation:</div>
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Basically, since we elect our government in this here land
of the free, we have thereby given them permission to ruin any and all birthday
parties from this day until forever. Thank you, democracy. I will now do my
part by sacrificing the chance to hear my husband talk like <st1:place w:st="on">Alvin</st1:place> the Chipmunk on his birthday in order
to leave more helium for MRI machines to diagnose my <a href="http://utterlyinexperienced.blogspot.com/2012/09/whats-not-ailing-me.html">ailments</a>.</div>
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And now you see it – the Corn/Bacon/Balloon Apocalypse has
begun. We were warned, guys, we were warned.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWnUmFmutCYon7GUJPpgpQDoRRZD7JIdtztd2Iy8GBUL2DktoyUUeycbxJ0Y9NQcCUKwqPiHOm094zumbLkRL1QKV_HDbfMxeMkM4yyHj98GVsbP2ToOziDT9PsJl-z9R1wd0fBFd4lUHd/s1600/BP12Apocalypse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWnUmFmutCYon7GUJPpgpQDoRRZD7JIdtztd2Iy8GBUL2DktoyUUeycbxJ0Y9NQcCUKwqPiHOm094zumbLkRL1QKV_HDbfMxeMkM4yyHj98GVsbP2ToOziDT9PsJl-z9R1wd0fBFd4lUHd/s640/BP12Apocalypse.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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