Different

Once upon a time, a prince met a beautiful princess, saved her from the wicked queen, kissed her sweet red lips, and they rode merrily off into the sunset. The End.

No disrespect to all the good folks up the road (just yonder) at Disney, but… who the hay writes this stuff? Why does “The End” always come before the real good stuff like the year of cooking disasters with the kitchen ablaze, fist-fights with the in-laws, and arguing over whether to hire a nanny for the dog? You know – the real stuff. Like they show on reality TV. That’s real, right?

But really – could the two sexes be any more different?! Don’t get me wrong. In most ways it seems to work. Girl, boy. Husband, wife. Mother, father. Men and women are compliments to each other.

Like red and green.

Steak and potatoes.

Ice skating and hot cocoa.

Jello and carrots. Let’s not go there.

You know what I mean. We fit together like the pieces of a puzzle.

Only it’s a jigsaw. 5000 pieces. 

And someone lost the box with the picture on it.

I love my hubs. He is the most wonderful, caring, non-judgmental chunk of hunky I have ever known.

But he’s different. So different.

Case in point:

He says: “I’m going to clean the carpet

I say: “Great!”

He finishes one load of dirty, brown, some-kind-of-something-floating-in-it water in our machine and proceeds to dump said nastiness into my CLEAN BATHTUB.

I say (read in irritated wife voice – yeah, you know the one): “Gosh, why can’t you dump that outside? I told you that last time!”

He says: “It doesn’t matter. It’s the same.”

THE SAME????? THE SAME AS WHAT???? The same as peeing on the bathroom floor when the toilet is RIGHT THERE??? The same as drinking from the milk jug when there is a clean cup RIGHT THERE???

Oh wait, the milk jug thing is me.

Anyway… this is why he doesn’t get to clean much when I’m home. I’m nit-picky.

He says: “Listen, I wash my dirty hindparts (ok, that’s not the word he used, but it’s a humorous alternative) in the bathtub – that’s just as nasty as the dirty carpet water!”

I say: “Whatever! The carpet is way dirtier than your [hindparts]!”

He says: “No it’s not!”

See, we’re just different. Oh, so very different.

And for the record – my [hindparts] are most definitely not as nasty as the dirty carpet water…

But the carpet’s not that bad either. It’s not. It’s not. 

I Hate Food

I. Hate. Food.

Okay, that’s a lie.

I love food.

Especially anything with the words sugar or peanut butter written all over it.

But I hate food.

Because the stuff I can’t seem to get enough of is the stuff that makes you start to feel your behind jiggling when you chase your naked 2-year-old down the street (don’t worry, there were no cars). Because I don’t care what people say, there must be sugar in heaven -- a whole cottage like in Hansel and Gretel (minus the creepy, child-devouring witch). Because no matter how much “working out” I think I’m doing, I always eat just enough to compensate for it.

Oh blah, you’re thinking. I don’t want to hear another woman’s fat-rant! Well, too bad. You’re here now. And the farther down the page you get,

the

harder

it

is

to

go

back.

I guess you could call me a runner. I “run” (I’m not convinced what running is, really. Some old lady can probably speedwalk faster than I run) 6 days a week. Sometimes I switch things up by riding my bike or doing awesome Netflix fitness videos from fitness instructors no one has ever heard of. I ran the entire time I was prego with my #3 baby and started back up right after. Feel free to clap.

But guess what? It’s not enough.

Because of that whole “I-have-to-eat-something-but-I-don’t-want-to-make-anything-so-I-think-I’ll-just-finish-off-the-bag-of-chocolate-chips” thing.

I’ve spent most of my life fighting my kid-in-a-candy-store eating habits. Seriously, exercising is the easy part most days. Get up, exercise, don’t worry about it the rest of the day -- score. Food… not so much. Especially with kids. Who wants to go down to the basement for another can of tuna after making sandwiches for two other people? Not me. Too much effort. Call me lazy.

I’m not really sure where these horrible habits come from. On NBC’s The Biggest Loser, everyone seems to blame trauma from their past. I don’t blame my trauma. I’m not even going to blame myself, because when someone whips out a heaping plate of d-o-n-u-t-s at a Halloween carnival, there is absolutely nothing inside of me that can resist a bite (or nine) of that crispy, frosting drenched fryer confectionery. Or chocolate-chip cookie dough, despite its (horribly dangerous/don’t eat it kids!) raw egg element. Or soft homemade pretzels dipped in cheese sauce. Or Reese’s PB Cups. Or cheesecake. Or any and all other delights that have that great white devil (sugar) listed first in their ingredients label!!!

Whaaaeeelll... we'll chit-chat more later about my intensely interesting dietary habits. I gots me a fruit pizza (sugar) in the fridge and it is just screamin’ my name ya’ll! 

Boy I hate food. I just hate it. 

I Shoulda Been A Sister Wife

So there’s this show. I’m kind of into it. Ok, kind of a lot.

(Photo courtesy HollywoodLife.com)

If you’re not familiar with these fine folks, allow me to elaborate. They are the 5 Browns (not the pianists). They are Fundamentalist LDS and their church is still in favor of polygamist marriage. They’re not like Warren Jeffs and his compound of juvenile wives with long frizzy hair and pioneer dresses (although Mr. Brown’s hair often makes up for that). They’re, like, normal and stuff.

The third season of their TLC reality show just wrapped. And I’m lonely.

Photo courtesy TLC/debbieschlussel.com

For approximately 8 months of the year, Sister Wives fills an immeasurable gap in my pathetic life. I believe it is the gap where my personal slave bff should exist. Oh, I have friends (I promise!), but my daydreams are filled with images of a girl-next-door bestie who just happens to wear the same size clothing (with a way better wardrobe), throws fabulous dinner parties on the weekends, and enjoys my children so much that she invites them over for tea and crumpets every afternoon while I catch up on my R&R. However, I have not as yet found the lucky lady who fits that bill, and have thereby come to the conclusion that sister wifery is most definitely the next best thing.

I mean really, what’s not to love? Live-in friends, intense female bonding, on-the-spot babysitters, people to cook and clean when I don’t want to (daily)... and let’s not forget the fact that there would always be at least one other to shoulder some of the weight when it comes to that surprisingly needy grown man called husband.

And so I ask again: What’s not to love?!

Yes, my husband is awesomely cooperative. Mostly.

Oh yeah, there is that whole sharing my spouse with another woman thing. Nevermind.

There is a Sisterhood

Have any of you ever heard the song “The Brotherhood of Man” from the musical How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying? It’s a song about helping a brotha out, bumping fists and pounding chests like guys do in the name of camaraderie. Man power and stuff. But I bet I could write a better song.

Now, I do not profess to be anything remotely close to the kind of writer who spews forth Broadway quality musicality, but I have a one-up on those guys who did. Don’t correct me if I’m wrong, but I think I have way better subject matter – namely, the Sisterhood of Woman.

Women are awesome. And frankly, I could end this post right there. But I feel like talking as long as you’re listening, so I’m going to take a moment to explain how I came to this conclusion.

It was a day like any other. I was spending a relatively pleasant afternoon at our local swimmin’ hole with my sister and my 3 little kids... When, suddenly(!) from the midst of the civilian multitude, a league of superwomen came super-marching down the beach in their super-suits (cue super-music).

Danger was looming!

A little boy was missing and the outlook was becoming grim after twenty minutes of searching. Without question, these superwomen had joined forces and were using their superpowers (Loud yelling voice to demand attention! Wide arm span for frantic waving! Speedwalking for efficiency!) to inform us lowly civilians to be on the alert. The little boy was found alive and well within five minutes. Word spread down the beach, mothers sighed in relief, children cheered, and the day was saved.

See? Women are awesome.

And I didn’t even mention the other women that day who loaned my son a towel (we forgot ours), offered me an umbrella for shade, kept an eye on my stuff, and helped me round-up my scattered family when it was time to go. When you are crazy enough to take kids to have “fun” as a lone adult, you need Superwomen to come to your rescue. Often.

And now, I swell with womanly pride and count myself lucky to be numbered among true heroes – the working woman, the homemaker, the mother/grandma/babysitter/you-name-it. The elite. The fearless. The super (dramatic space-age echo).

The Sisterhood rules.

My. Legs. Look. Good.

Guess what people? I bought me some leggings.

I realize I’m approximately 3 years (perhaps more) off the trend here, but let me explain. Remember when I told you I’m not so great at dressing myself? If I join the throng on a trend, there is generally a 1-2 year buffer between said throng and myself. And it depends on whether or not I find a purpose for the trend. See, I thrive on being able to leap and bound from great distances to rescue and/or punish children who are falling down/beating on others/consuming unknown objects. I wear heels to church (sometimes), and that’s about it. Obviously, mobility is my main priority with 3 kids 3 and under.

There is another little time obstruction to my personal trendiness. I call it the “Idaho Buffer.” For some reason, it seems to take an entire year for a trend to stretch from the big cities to the podunk of my great state. Perhaps the large amounts of potatoes we stockpile here are getting in the way. Anywho, after 3+ years, I finally found a purpose for leggings. 

And I love them.

Leggings are marvelous. I knew it the moment I put them on. It was like my legs were getting a big hug from a beautiful, stretchy, machine woven, partially synthetic bear. Imagine, if you would, all the benefits and freedom of a skirt – without having to worry about your unmentionables peeking out from underneath it!! No more long hours of sitting with your thighs clapped firmly together so as to remain socially appropriate! If you have never worn leggings with a dress, you should.

And need I mention the fact that leggings give women super-powers?! Seriously. I can now leap tall objects, run at great speeds, whip out my cheerleader moves (or at least the ones I have always tried to emulate watching Bring It On), and freely cartwheel to get where I want to go. Which is a big deal. For me.

 

Thank you, Fashion Gods, for inventing leggings. I’m sorry it took me so long to catch on.

Quote courtesy Sleepless in Seattle. In case you were wondering.

And so it begins...

            As ridiculous as it may sound, I have spent weeks (perhaps months?) deciding what to blog about. I brainstormed. I listed. I organized. I rearranged. I asked for opinions from bloggers whose writings I adore. I have read and researched blogs until my eyes glazed over and I realized I hadn’t taken a deep breath in more than an hour. Why? Because I didn’t just want to be another blip on the screen that is the World Wide Web. I didn’t just want to write about my boring life for all my relatives to read. I wanted to have something important to talk about. Now, I’m not sure if that’s what I’ll achieve here, but I finally decided to JUST DO IT (thank you Nike).

In my research to determine whether this was something I really could do, I turned to some blogs that I noticed were among the popular in places like Pinterest and “Babble’s Top 50 Mom Blogs!” Stay-at-home-moms turn moguls with their blogs; blogs displaying their crafts, decorating skills, hairstyles, fashion, organizing and cooking magnificence. Less extravagant moms thrive on a special kind of mommy angst and make a living because of the blunt truths they speak regarding the many taboos of motherhood (heaven forbid you breastfeed in public!!!). Unfortunately for me, I am not particularly crafty, I can’t even do my own hair or dress myself stylishly, I am less than gifted in cookery (although I try), and guess what, I have little to no angst (depends on the day). And when I tried to write lists of what I do have notable talent/inspiring personality in, I came up short.

Don’t get me wrong. I spent 5 years at college learning how to do things like photography, art, and teaching preschool (random?). Heck, I’ve even been a wife for 5 years and a mother for 4 years, but I have a hard time convincing myself that my experience in those areas adds up to a “mentor level.” In fact, the more lists I wrote trying to come up with a great blogging idea, the more I realized how unfortunately, dismally, and utterly inexperienced I am. Hence was born my blog theme.

            So, from the exotic depths of my inexplicable lack of experience in absolutely everything (I mean, I am 24, shouldn’t I know it all by now? I had such inspiring plans when I was 12) comes the writing you will find here. Love me or hate me, my words will dribble/slosh/spill forth as I try new things, go outside my (large) box of ignorant bliss, and struggle to stay afloat on this ocean of life. I hope that my honest blogging (if there is such a thing) of my epic fails and modest wins will enlighten and inspire you, or perhaps just leave you snickering. Catch ya on the flip side.

-          Kayla

P.S. Obviously I’m still tweaking things with the blog design. Don’t let it scare you if you come back next time around and it looks a little more… awesome!