Word to Mi Madre

Sing It Like You Mean It, Homegurl

2012-02-09T09:18:00.000-08:00

My homegurl is a member of the East Valley Mormon Choral Organization; it's our community's local choir, and she loves being a member more than buying a new dress at Forever 21. She now has our family listening to the MoTab to and from school, on the way to the grocery store, and on our way home from ballet. Today I wanted to push stop and play some Katy Parry, but I thought that would be a poor decision on my part, especially since I've been saying things like, "Kids, see how the feelings change in the car when I turn the MoTab off and turn on AC/DC instead. Do you not feel like we're now really on the Highway to Dante's Inferno?" They always laugh, and then I switch the music back to "This Is My Beloved Son." We all sing along when it gets to the H-h-h-ear Him part.

Do you know that part? It gives me goosebumps every time I sing it, and I always find myself immediately thanking the Lord for music, a decent singing voice, and good homies who naturally gravitate to a better way of living.

If you're interested in hearing my homegurl's choir sing, watch the vid below. Can you believe that's MY community choir? It sounds like a young MoTab, right? And just an FYI, the choir director, Brandon Stewart (hellou, Julliard graduate) is in my ward. Last week I did a little tap-tap on his shoulder and said, "My daughter loves you and your choir." He nodded and smiled, so I think he was just trying to tell me that Hannah is his favorite student.

"This Is My Beloved Son"

P.S. One of the organists, Clay Christiansen, is my dad's BFF. Not to brag.

The Gates

2012-02-06T14:06:00.000-08:00

courtesy of NY Times

We just got back from LA. We were there so my homgurl could audition for Ballet West's summer intensive. The competition was fierce, so we're keeping our fingers crossed that she'll be offered a spot. Pray for her. But you may want to pray for me after reading this story:

After my homegurl finished her audition, I went up to the director of the school and said the following: "Um, pardon me for a minute, um, we've planned our summer around her getting into your program, so I really hope she makes it. What do you think?" I didn't let him answer because I was already saying inside my head: You're the biggest stage parent on earth and this man now hates your guts. Move your crazy self out of his sight, immediately.
Peter, that's his name, looked at me and said, "As I've already told the girls, we will let them know in a week or so."
I turned and began my strut of shame out of the room, but then I turned back and said, "I was kind of just kidding about the whole arranging our summer bit, but not really, you know?"

Can you believe the car wreck, absolute disaster I am?

We have not heard back from Peter, yet, but I have started writing an e-mail to him, apologizing for my pushy behavior. My homegurl keeps saying, "Leave it alone; don't send it," so I'm taking her advice. Even if she doesn't make it, we still had a good time parading around the City of Angels. I would live there if I could.

We visited F&S Fabrics, where we found the perfect fabric remnant for reupholstering the chair for my homgurl's vanity set. Then we visited Jenny at the Dance Store. She fit Hannah into the perfect pointe shoes. We had heard that no one in the Western United States could do a better job than she, and so far, that's true. Then we ate lunch at the Apple Pan. (You must order a piece of their banana cream pie), and spied on some kissing lovers while eating our fries and burgers.

I love living in a big city, but the truth is, I will live in Gilbert until I kick the bucket. (I do love Gilbert, BTW.) To requite my burning desire to live elsewhere, I finally hung our picture of The Gates. When I'm longing for some time in a city that never sleeps, I'll stare at this picture and imagine I'm in Central Park. Do you think it will work?

If you're interested in learning more about one of the biggest displays of public art in modern history, you can read more about The Gates here.

P.S. We're off to San Francisco this weekend, so I won't need to stare at the picture until next week.

Love Notes

2012-01-24T08:07:00.000-08:00

While cleaning out my homegurl's dance bag, I found this love note. I read it, of course, because we have a rule: If you leave it where I have to clean it, it's public domain.

When Hannah got home from babysitting I handed her the note and said, "I loved reading this note from Bridget; what a sweet friend." Instead of getting mad at me for reading what I shouldn't have, she said, "I know, Bridget is my favorite, and I'm glad you found that note because I promised I would write her back."

Bridget's love note reminded me that Valentine's Day is only a few short weeks away. You won't find me standing in line at Walmart the night before we have to pass out love notes to ninety of our closest school friends. I've already bought Pop Rocks, and we're attaching the free love note I found here.

Natty

2012-01-23T08:15:00.000-08:00

Did you know this famous gal is in my ward? Well, she was sitting in front of me during sacrament meeting yesterday, and I reached over and did a little tap-tap on her shoulder and said, "I think I saw you in your garage painting a headboard bright yellow, or something like that; I wasn't stalking you." I continued since she was still nodding and smiling, "I have a set of Henredon, Louis XV style furniture that needs to be refinished." She smiled and said, in a very professional, strait-forward way, "My prices are not cheap, meaning I don't do a chest of drawers for 200 bucks." I think she could smell a bargain hunter, so I quickly said, "Well I'm looking to preserve this furniture. It was my great grandma's, and so well, yeah...I'm looking for quality, you know?"

I sounded like an idiot, so whatever.

This morning I sent her an e-mail with pictures of the set. I will keep you posted on our progress. In the meantime, look at some of her cool furniture restoration projects.

Love You to the Moon and Back

2012-01-20T08:23:00.000-08:00

I'm propping my eyes open with toothpicks due to the above pictured project. Teachers should know that an at-home school assignment really becomes the parent or legal guardian's assignment; it's never entirely the work of the student (if at all).

We got our assignment over a week ago, and I went around the house saying things like: I promise I won't wait until the last night; I just won't do it. I can't work under that kind of frantic pressure, and I've done it way too many times. It will not happen again. But life happens, and so does poor planning, so guess who was at the Walmart checkout at 10pm last night?

My hands look as if I'm wearing Michael Jackson's glitter gloves. I've soaked them in water and even tried using the dish brush to scrap all the silver glitter and spray paint off. Last night while I was sleeping, some of the glitter travelled from my hands and parked itself in my left eye. Now I look like I've got pink eye.

The things we do to get through 5th grade.

P.S. My littlest homie read the BOM to all of us while we were hanging stars. We're catching up.

Don't Be a Ploopy

2012-01-18T16:01:00.000-08:00

OK, we've already missed three days of reading the BOM. While driving home from school I said to my homies, "We're really messing things up. We can't even keep our ONE resolution in tact. Our one resolution!" One of them piped-up, "We'll make it all up tonight!" I'm just sick about the possibility of us not completing the BOM.

That sick feeling may also stem from the fact that I said an inappropriate phrase at my stake meeting earlier today. The women were a bit shocked, and I've been harping on myself about it all day. I keep thinking, "Why did you have to say it? Couldn't you have just said, 'We can't use that song because it has bad words?'" "But, no! You had to pollute the minds of such sweet sisters. Who, other than a professional waxer or anatomy teacher, ever says such filth? And how did you even know those words were in that song, huh? You're a perve to your core, and now all those ladies know it."

I think they'll release me this Sunday. Pray for me.

Push, Grab, Go

2012-01-17T11:57:00.000-08:00

Via Spiga boots

Nordstrom's price: $398.00

I paid: $39.99

Tory Burch flats

Nordstrom's price: $198.00

I paid: $59.99

Hudson skinny jeans

Nordstrom's price: $158.00

I paid: $14.97

I'm a bargain hunter to my core, so I frequent Nordstrom's version of the Good Will: Last Chance. If you live in Arizona and have never shopped the store, you're missing out on a free education on how to snag and drag the best deals. If you've visited Arizona and missed out on digging through the piles of this season's Nordstrom returns, it's time to pencil a trip into your next itinerary. People come to Arizona just to shop at this store.

Here are three rules to help you survive the experience:

1. Leave your manners and dignity at home. This store is home to Arizona's most aggressive shoppers, so it's a survival of the shopping fittest experience: You push, you grab that pair of gold sparkly TOMS, and you go to the next rack before someone else grabs that Stella McCartney bag you've always wanted. Just tuck away all the niceties your mama taught you and you'll fare well.

2. Get there before it opens. This is usually at 9:50 am, but they open earlier around the holidays.

3. Have an objective. If you need new jeans, locate the rack while standing outside the storefront, then immediately go to that rack.

4. Don't get addicted to the shopping adrenalin rush. I see a handful of the same women every time I go; I think they're addicted to getting designer brands for next to nothing. (Maybe it's me who has the problem since I've been there enough times to recognize the regulars?)

Yesterday, after digging and sorting through piles of gold, I selected the above pictured items. I pushed through walls of people just to stand in a line longer than the length of a football field. Saving hundreds of dollars on items I really needed made the trip worth it. But sometimes I'm better off just going to Nordstrom and purchasing what I need instead of joining ranks with Arizona's name brand bottom feeders. Or sometimes I'm better off just going without.

If you'd like more information about Last Chance, here's a link to yelp. There are funny reviews (BEWARE OF A LITTLE SWEARING) and some good pictures. You'll get a better idea of what you're getting yourself into.

Candy-filled Apothecaries

2012-01-12T08:54:00.000-08:00

courtesy of anders ruff

(Why doesn't my display look as cute as the above mentioned picture?)

I have a neighbor who has three candy-filled apothecary jars sitting on her kitchen island. They sit there year-round, displaying color coordinated candy suitable for any upcoming holiday. Yesterday she asked me, "Have you seen any gumballs around? I tried ordering from Lehi Valley Trading Company, but they only have green and peach, eew!"

I haven't seen any, maybe try Sprouts?" I said.

We'll yesterday, while I was shopping for some Puma socks, I found some gumballs. Guess where? TJ Maxx's Home Goods store. You can also find them in bulk at the Candy Warehouse, but I have not looked at Sprouts, yet. Do they have them? Wait, I just called them, and Angel said they never carry gumballs, but they have other Valentine's Day candy in. Good to know. Anyhoo,

I bought the gumballs at TJ Maxx and brought them to my friend's house. Then I told her, "Every time I see gumballs I think about my high school friend, Kendall. When we used to sit and eat our lunches, she would always pull out a can of Diet Sprite. I would say, "Is that all you brought for lunch?' and she'd say, 'Yeah. This and a baggie of gumballs.'

"She had an eating-disorder, I'm pretty sure," I concluded.

Then my friend said, "Maybe I should try that!" "Maybe not!" I said, then we both laughed.

Look here for additional Valentine's Day apothecary ideas.

Birthday Bliss

2012-01-09T07:24:00.000-08:00

My homegurl spent the last three days soaking in her birthday celebration.

On Friday, I brought homemade cake balls to her school.

On Saturday morning we went to the temple and did some family names, a tradition mi madre started when my homegurl turned twelve.

Then we met Kristie at the MAC Counter, and she did Hannah's makeup and told us all about this amazing mascara, Haute and Naughty. It really is the best, despite its trashy name.

Then she got all gussied-up and our friend, Jill, took her pictures.

Another wardrobe change, and we were on our way to meet her dad at his office. This is her posing while waiting for him to come out. The two of them went to Vincent's and had creme brulee.

He gave her this necklace.

On Sunday, her actual birthday, we had cake. Somebody forgot the candles, so she only had three to blow-out.

the end

Ballet Girl

2012-01-06T23:09:00.000-08:00

Here are her pictures so far. Since I don't know a thing about ballet, we had to have her teacher and the studio photographer pose her.

We've scratched Houston Ballet off our list. Tonight, Emma told us she left their last year's audition in tears. She said "It was really hard, and I made every audition except for theirs."

We don't need that kind of performance stress in our lives, so we dumped that audish.

I keep saying "we" because I kind of feel like I'm auditioning, too. You might find me standing on the observation deck window doing the moves right along with the girls who are trying-out. J/K, sort of. Seriously, stop the vicarious living. Therapy.

Twirl 'Til You Make It

2012-01-05T22:50:00.000-08:00

It's the time of year when ballet dancers begin auditioning for summer intensives--a must for aspiring ballerinas. My homgurl's first audition is next week, and she's hoping to spend a month dancing in one of the following programs: Houston Ballet, Ballet West, Maple Conservatory, Washington Ballet, or Pacific Northwest. We're saving School of American Ballet for next year, when she has a bit of experience under her leotard.

One of the requirements at every audition is that you have a head shot and a pose in first arabesque. She's been practicing her poses in front of the mirror, and this Saturday our good friend Jill will be taking her pictures. We can't wait. Here's a video of an up-and-coming ballet dancer. Don't you love her?

Here's a blog filled with useful summer intensive information, just in case you'll be auditioning too.

BOM.com

2012-01-02T20:43:00.000-08:00

Our New Year's goal is to read the BOM as a family by December 31, 2012.

At our neighborhood New Year's Eve party, my neighbor asked, "Are you prepared for the Second Coming?" I replied, "I'm pretty sure I'll be torched." He chuckled, but then turned in closer and repeated the question in all seriousness. I thought to myself, this is getting kind of weird, but for some sick and twisted reason I'm going to entertain his question, as if it's any of his beeswax if I'm prepared or not.
I said, "I don't think about it much. I have close to six months' worth of food stored and 72 hour kits for each of my family members. But heaven knows there will be a major catastrophe and we won't be able to carry the food with us and we'll all starve and go Donner Party on each other."
He continued, unphased by my last comment, "Don't you ever read Revelations? Do you wonder about the moon turning to blood and the stars falling from the sky? Like, do you want to know what all that means?"
"No," I said, "those metaphors are for the Lord to know and for me to not think about, because when I start thinking too much about them, I become dysfunctional." (He is obviously unaware of my tendency toward pandemonium any time I hear or discuss forthcoming gloom and doom.)
"Well, they mean the earth will be knocked off its axis. Did you know that?" "No, and that's kind of scary to think about," I said. And then I turned my back and lit my sparkler. Totally awkward, right?

But then I decided I'd better read the Book of Mormon, again, and brush-up on my scriptural knowledge base. I found this daily schedule that's manageable for a family filled with kids of varying ages. If you're interested in reading the BOM this year too, here's the link.

P.S. I do not take the signs of the Second Coming lightly, however, when someone asks me such personal questions, I will respond with ridiculous answers.

My Top 5

2011-12-28T19:16:00.000-08:00

I think I'm suffering from post-Christmas depression. Do you have it too? I grouched through most of yesterday, saying things to my homies like, "Get your box of See's candy and all your other crap off this couch." I'm toxic, I tell you, and my homies are steering clear of this hag.

Today is much better, though. I started my morning off with my step class, and then I came home and took an extra-long, hot shower. While in the shower I decided I should share with you a few of my favorite things.

1. Alterna's Caviar hair care line has the best, I repeat, the best shampoo and conditioner I've ever tried. (And I've tried them all). They will blow away any other professional hair care line sitting in your shower's caddy. Here's a picture and a link:

2. I've been thinking about Bill Cunningham all week. I admire his passion for fashion, not to be cliche, and I can't get him out of my mind. His documentary, offered on Netflix, is a must-see. We have even started taking the Sunday New York Times, just so we can read his column each week. Here's a sneak-peek, in case you're interested. *WARNING* He does use the d-word and h-word, FYI, and so do I. (New Year's resolution #1)

3. Nothing has ever made my eye shawdow stay on better than Too Faced Shadow Primer. Have you tried it? If not, your local Ulta store should have samples you can try. Here's a link with more product info.

4. I'm reading and loving this book:

5. I love the Christmas card I ordered this year. This talented gal on Etsy made them for me.

P.S. Guess who I saw at Costa Vida yesterday? Brooke White. I bumped into her while refilling my Diet Coke. We're kind of like best friends now, and she almost let me take a picture with her. Don't be jeal of me, OK?

Midnight in Paris

2011-12-01T23:20:00.000-08:00

This Saturday Highland High is having its mid-winter formal. Are you going? Do you wish you were 16 again and going? Do you wish you could spend hours in the mirror getting your lips ready for your first kiss? No way! We're glad we're old ladies now! And now we don't have to worry about where to place our sweaty palms while dancing to Chicago's "You're the Inspiration."(Do you still love that song or what?)

Well, the girl down the street is going to the dance, but she won't be dancing to Chicago. L. Gaga, B. Spears, and a little Jay-Z will rock her through her magical night in Paris. She asked if I'd make her something special, something that would make her stand-out from all the other danes. You may know that I'm always up for a let's-outdo-every-girl-here challenge, so we designed this little sash. Do you like how it looks on my head?

Just an FYI: I went to my senior homecoming dance with my brother David. Remember that, David?

Smile

2011-11-29T08:16:00.000-08:00

These were yesterday's best shots. They're not good enough, so we'll have to take more on Friday. Are you sad for me, Jill?

I may have acted like a swamp witch while asking them to smile for the billionth time. I've repented.

I may have turned gangsta' on the man who, my homegurl warned, was coming up from behind as I stood snapping pictures on a remote street in downtown Phoenix. The guy asked, "Have you seen my friend...

"No," I cut him off mid-sentence. "I have not seen your friend. We just got here!" I stared him in the eye and gave him the what's-your-next-question, chump? look. Then I slightly wagged my head and neck while waiting for his response, and that's when he decided to turn and walk the other direction.

"That's what I thought," I said under my breath as he walked away.

"You're kind of tough," my homegurl noted. And I said, "Dang-straight! That's how we do."

Then I turned and saw that Bryce was coming out from behind the building, so maybe it was Bryce who scared him off. No...

P.S. Maybe I should repent for being rude to the man.

Tooth Fairy, Caesar, and Huck

2011-11-19T08:28:00.000-08:00

Only three days left of teaching, and I've mixed emotions about it ending. I love the students, like really love them. I think about them as I lie awake in bed at night. I think about the literature we're reading and how I will make Shakespeare's Julius Caesar relevant to a room filled with eager to learn, but easily bored, tenth-graders. I think about how I will skirt the 215 "n"words in Huck Finn. (We don't read the word aloud, ever.) I think about how I teared-up (not cool) when I read to the class Jim's hurt-filled response to Huck's mean trick,

"When I got all wore out wid work, en wid de callin' for you, en went to sleep, my heart wuz mos' broke bekase you wuz los', en I didn't k'yer no' mo' what become er me en de raf'. En when I wake up en fine you back ag'in, all safe en soun', de tears come, en I could 'a' got down on my knees en kiss yo' foot, I's so thankful. En all you wuz thinkin' 'bout wuz how you could make a fool uv ole Jim wid a lie. Dat truck dah is trash; en trash is what people dat puts dirt on de head er day fren's en makes 'em ashamed. (Twain, 83)

I think about how some days the students like me, and the other days they want to hop on a raft to Cairo or put me at the base of Pompey's statue. Just kidding; they don't want to kill me, I pray.

I asked my homies last night, "What if I become a full-time teacher?" They said, "We miss you when you're not here in the mornings."

"I miss seeing you in the mornings, too."

Unrelated to the above thought process, I found this Tooth Fairy letter from years ago. Haven't I shared it with you already? It's too cute, and I think I'm getting Alzheimer's.

We're still waiting for the magic, Tooth Fairy. And I would like to retract the crossing out of "Clean the whole house in a second." We'd still like that, too.

Jingoism

2011-10-03T16:42:00.000-07:00

Mrs. Schlessinger's Honors sophomores will tell you the meaning of jingoism, especially when their sub mispronounces the word while lecturing from the PP presentation she's created herself. (The presentation took me hours, and I practiced it a million times. How did I miss looking up that dang word?)

"The word is jingoism, Mrs. Suzuki, pronounced jin-go-ism."

"Say it again, Harris, along with its definition. I'm so embarrassed up here and I need a minute to recover."

Harris says the word again, propping me up from my dictionary of shame. "Jingoism. It means extreme patriotism." (This is a beginner's definition, but his definition was better than what I had. If you're really curious about the word, read here.)

Maybe I should purchase Catherine Maladrino's American flag dress dress. Then on Monday, during 2nd hour, I will sing the National Anthem while wearing that dress.

Jingoism

VTing

2011-09-30T22:08:00.000-07:00

I have unnatural addiction to Ke$ha's "Tik Tok" song. I know what you're thinking: She's such a trashy pop chart bottom feeder. Why would a religious gal like you want to listen to such filth?

I've listened to it every day, multiple times, for a week straight. "There's something wrong with you," I thought to myself while singing along, "Before I leave brush my teeth with a bottle of Jack." I even bumped my base while doing tonight's drive-by visiting teaching.

Do you see the above posted picture? Well, I'm not in it. That's because this is my fourth month in a row doing a drive-by. Let me define: cookies on a plate+note+ding-dong ditch+9:30 p.m. on the last night of the month=me.

The first line of this month's note went,

Dear Jenny,

I've reached a new visiting teaching low. Sorry I have not been by this month (again), but I want to tell you how much I love you and your boys...

The church is still true and so is visiting teaching. (This last part was not in the note.)

Iambic Pentameter and Bad Words

2011-09-24T07:41:00.000-07:00

I thought this video would be an engaging intro to iambic pentameter. It's so clever, really, and high schoolers, even the smart ones, get bored so easily. They're so used to jumping from one information source to another. They like their information to be quick and fast-paced, and they don't want to spend a bunch of time processing it. That's what computers are for, not their brains. All the information they need is just a click away, so why write it down or even memorize it?

New story:

Yesterday on the kindergarten playground, Alisia's and my conversation went like this:

"Ms. S., Ethan is saying bad words."
"What kind of words is he saying, Alisia?" I asked.
"Well he-he, well when he jumped off the swing he said, 'Oh my Bob!'" (Insert Lord's name in vain here.)
"I have to tell you that in some homes that's not a bad word. I can tell in your home it is, so you can politely ask him not say that word around you."

Alisia, not satisfied with my disciplining measures, went on.

"He said a lot more bad words, Ms. S."
And before I could even stop her, "Moms don't let their kids say, 'Oh, spit!'" (You know what word to insert here.)

I covered my mouth to keep from giggling. It's not often I hear a bright-eyed, pony tailed five-year-old girls spout out some real swear words.

"Alisia, I will talk to Ethan, but you just said all the bad words, too."

"Oops!" she said, covering her mouth.

Listening and Thinking

2011-09-13T13:31:00.000-07:00

I'm eating a chicken salad sandwich while I'm listening and sweeping and scrubbing. Do you listen to this channel or what? Mrs. Virginia Pearce's stories have been making me tear-up and smile all afternoon, so now I may have to send her a BFF charm in the mail. Don't get jealous, Babs.

I'm sprucing up this place for when my homies get home. My house smells like bleach mixed with my favorite candle's scent. It's what makes my homies say, "We love when we come home to a clean house." After I'm done sprucing I'm going to make salsa. Then I can greet Mi Amor with my dragon breath when he gets home.

P.S. I may have too many eggs. Someone needs to write a list before she goes to the store...

P.P.S. My homgurl just pointed out that one of the egg carton's expiration date was in April of 2010. I guess this picture is old, but I thought I took it recently because I still have a four-stack of half empty egg cartons shoved in my fridge. Also, the Claussen pickles are still there.

Mathematical Heir

2011-09-07T09:40:00.000-07:00

Have I told you my overall high school math GPA was a D, a 1.0? I tell you this because I chose my college major based on prerequisites that required little or no math skill. I did fine in my college math classes, but an English major only had to take Pre-Algebra, which didn't require use of a TI30 calculator and was really a review of what I didn't understand in high school.

Each night, this English major and her homgurl park their derrieres at the kitchen table and have a math par-tay. Our nightly "incapable leading the blind" math celebrations are mixed with lots of Diet Dr. Peppers and episodes of tear-jerking frustration (me) and endless teeth gnashing (my homegurl).

(Not to brag, but OUR overall homework score is a 94.4%, FYI, so don't put this gal out to pasture yet.)

But our nightly math parties are doing the two of us a disservice, so that's why we're signing up here, together.

Now we'll park our derrieres at Larry's table, and just maybe we can conclude our "par-tays" tear-free. Right, Larry?

Ballet Girl

2011-09-06T21:31:00.000-07:00

Here's my homegurl during her audition. Her severity is inspiring.

P.S. My homegurl just told me her posture is horrible in this picture, and I shouldn't feel anything close to being inspired. What do I know?

The Upchuck Bus

2011-09-02T14:44:00.000-07:00

Last year's bus driver was mean. My homies would come home everyday with stories about how he'd yell, and when he'd yell, a grey-white foam would collect in the corners of his mouth, and they said they'd stare at his teeth hanging from his gums like butter sticks.

"He doesn't brush his teeth, Mom. And, he hates kids."
"He doesn't hate you, right? You two behave and whatnot, right?" I'd say.
"Oh, yes!" They'd say in unison.

I continued making them ride the bus until one day they came home and told me how the bus driver intentionally slammed on the breaks, really hard, and made a bunch of the naughty kids fall out of their seats, onto the black, rubber floor. I called the district office and complained. Then I told my homies they didn't have to ride the bus anymore.

But now I miss how convenient the bus makes my life, so I'm making them try it again this year. After all, I rode the bus, and in exchange I received an invaluable education. I learned how to say bad words, had my first crush, and got a bus ticket for yelling "Bald Eagle!" out the window to a bald cyclist. The whole experience put hair on my chest and made me a stronger woman, so on the bus my homies go.

But on yesterday's bus ride things got a little too hairy. My homies said,

"Guess what?"
"What?"
"We were really late for school."
"What happened? Did the bus breakdown?" I asked.
"No!" Jacob P. puked his brains out and it stunk up the whole bus. It smelled like goat cheese, so we rolled down the widows. Only, the hot air blowing in from the outside made the bus smell even worse."
"What did the bus driver do?" I asked.
"Well she parked in front of the church and cleaned him up. Everyone started chanting, 'No school! No school! No school!'"
"So, now you don't want to ride the bus anymore, huh?" I said.

"No. We still do. Tomorrow Zack is bringing his lizard, and he said we could pet him for a quarter."

The Clique

2011-09-01T10:32:00.000-07:00

When my homegurl climbs into the car after school, our conversations go like this:

"Who did you hang out with today?"
"Um...Bailey, Elle, and all those girls."
"Any boys? Like, did you kiss a boy and like it?" I teasingly ask.
"Ewww, Mom! I'm not like that. Besides, I don't even have a crush on ANYONE."
"Guess what, Mom?
"What?"
"Maddie quit the B.D.C..."
"What?" I say in complete horror.

If you're not already aware, the B.D.C is short for the Barbie Doll Crew, a self-titled group of girlfriends who attend Hannah's school. Their clothes are cute; they're selectively nice to others; and they're totally exclusive. Our conversation continues.

"Why did Maddie quit?" I ask.
"She just wants to do her own thing; she gets tired of people easily. You know, too much drama."
"Hmm..."
"Do you wish you could hang with the B.D.C? Looks like there's an opening" I say.
"No way. We'd have nothing in common."
"What does that mean?"
"They're not like me, Mom."
"What does that mean, Hannah?"
"I don't know, Mom. I'm done talking about this.
"Where's my Paradise cookie? You brought me one, right, Mom?"

I've always been so interested in how peer groups form and what criteria determines whether or not a person will belong. The "cool group" at my high school called themselves the Brat Pack. Again, like the B.D.C., it was a group of cute girls who really didn't notice anything or anyone on the outside of their predefined group. Now that I'm an old lady, I realize there wasn't anything going on in their world that wasn't already going on in my own. But when I was Hannah's age, I was so curious about those girls, and I would go out of my way to talk to them one-on-one, just to see what their secrets were. Why did swarms of girls aspire to be that "cool?" I really wanted to know.

I hope Hannah bypasses the phase of caring about being a part of a supposedly cool girl clique. Because, seriously, what. a. waste. of. time. As I add new friends on facebook, who used to be my old friends, I always find myself telling Bryce, "I wish in high school I would have been less attracted to cool and more attracted to interesting.

It's Official

2011-08-30T16:29:00.000-07:00

If your child is in Jill Schlessinger's sophomore Honors English at Highland High, I will be his or her new substitute teacher. The kids adore her, and I'll have big shoes to fill while she's away. That's why I'm balancing The Complete Works of William Shakespeare on my head. I'm hoping it will all come back to me through osmosis. Do you remember your high school teachers saying that to you?

We'll be covering Julius Ceasar, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and The Crucible, and I can't wait to dig in. But mostly I cant wait to be around all those high schoolers. I love watching them interact, and I actually keep a log of things they say to one another. Just the other day this Justin Bieber look-a-like kid said to me,

"Hey, Mrs. S! Do you hear wedding bells?"
"No, Jarrod."
"That's funny cuz me and this girl are getting married right now."
"You mean, 'This girl and I are getting married right now.'"
"Yeah, that."

I'd better write that one down.

Just Being Audrey

2011-08-29T18:08:00.000-07:00

Have you read this book? It's adorable; and if you're one of Audrey Hepburn's adoring fans, this children's picture book is for you (so is this UK-based website filled with Hepburn paraphernalia).

Just Being Audrey is about how Audrey has a passion for ballet, but eventually she discovers that she is too tall, and her height will always ruin her chances of becoming a prima ballerina. So, she decides to become an actress. But her most favorite job of all is being a mom. Isn't that sweet?

The real reason I bought four copies of this adorable book is because my homegurl is changing dance studios, and we needed a thank you/parting gift to give to her awesome teachers at Dance Connection Too. Like Audrey, Hannah wants to be a ballerina, and luckily, I don't think she'll end up being too tall. Thanks to some guidance from my good friend, Brandee (her daughter studied ballet for years), we're off on a new dance adventure at Ballet Etudes.

Don't you just love ballet? My homegurl will dance in the Nutcracker, Swan Lake, and Cinderella. (Not Black Swan, though, right?) I even tried on her pointe shoes the other day and tried to do a twirl-jump. Not so pretty.

P.S. Please make note of how my homegurl put a little piece of fabric under her costume so her cute little bellybutton wouldn't show. I didn't even make her do it, because, frankly, I love me a two piece. Remember, Mi Madre, when I wanted to wear a two piece so bad? How did you survive me?

Dance for Heidi

2011-08-26T21:43:00.000-07:00

OK, chicas, I've been missin' this little blog of mine. So, to celebrate getting back into the groove of posting, my homegurl and I have put together a little dance for you and Heidi.

OK, this dance is actually for our stake's activity day girls. They're having a ginorm shindig at our stake center tomorrow, and I've been practicing the dance we're teaching them all week. I now have a bruise the size of a russet potato on my left rear cheek. It's a deep violet color, and I'm kind of proud of it. I keep taking a peek at it in the mirror, and I was even debating if I should post a picture so you could see. But then I thought that might be a titch inappropriate?

Tomorrow I will post videos of the girls doing the dance, all 350 of them. Also, Chelsea, from Dance Connection Too, choreographed the dance, so I can't take credit for all those smooth moves. That's why we say "We love you Chelsea" at the very end, in case you were wondering.

So Rude

2011-06-08T19:41:00.000-07:00

Tonight mi Amor said he could relate to the man in this commercial, and now my eyes are welling up with tears as I'm typing these words to you. He's so rude.

In all seriousness, though, I do jibber-jabber on and on about stuff that's inconsequential, just ask mi Madre. When I was a girl I asked her so many questions and went on and on about nothing, she finally decided to respond with, "I don't know the answer to that question; you tell me." She knew all those questions were just a front for trapping her ears with the sounds of my incessant voice.

P.S. Do you know what's even ruder than the sound of my non-stop chitter-chatter? When a girl almost crashes into you because she's checking e-mail on her phone. So rude! Right, Jill?

Better Than Chocolate

2011-06-06T21:04:00.000-07:00

Run over to your nearest Wal-Mart and buy a year supply of lavender Purex Crystals. Although the bottle's label says it's a softner, its main purpose is to freshen your laundry with a long-lasting scent that will mask that unbearable dogboy smell your homies and their clothes get after playing outside for 5 minutes.

Trust me, I've tried E-V-E-R-Y fabric freshener and this one, chica, is the very best. If you want more product information, read here.

P.S. No one paid me to plug this product.

Summer Reading

2011-05-30T13:07:00.000-07:00

If you are looking for some summer reading, here is Gilbert Public School's Battle of the Books reading list for 2011-2012. Most of these books, if not all, were awarded the Newberry Medal or Honor. My homies and I selected The View From Saturday, The Lightning Theif, and Everything on a Waffle for our summer reading. We're also reading The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, because, you know, it's the greatest American novel, according to mi Amor.

Happy reading!

Frindle by Andrew Clements
Artemis Fowl by Eoin Colfer

Everything on a Waffle by Polly Horvath

Number the Stars by Lois Lowry

The Tale of Despereaux by Kate DiCamillo

Among the Hidden by Margaret Peterson Haddix

Bunnicula by James Howe

Island of the Blue Dolphins by Scott O'Dell

The View From Saturday by E.L. Konigsburg

Sarah, Plain and Tall by Patricia MacLachlan

The Lightning Thief by Rick Riordan

The Castle in the Attic by Elizabeth Winthrop

P.S. This post is dedicated to Jill Ison.

P.P.S Finding Daddy by Louise Plummer, the book my homgurl is holding in this picture, is a suspenseful thriller that your teen won't want to put down.

Women's Conference

2011-05-27T11:53:00.000-07:00

Do you love this picture of mi madre-in-law and me? The REAL reason I went to Women's Conference was to see this wonderful lady speak. I adore Babs and all, but I really adore mi madre-in-law. I thank her all the time for raising such a wonderful son--you know, mi Amor. I owe her a million-bazillion bucks for that foxy guy.

Anyhoo, a group of girlfriends and I travelled 10 hours from Gilbert to Provo just to hear her speak. We laughed all the way there and back as we discussed how to be better mothers to our children and better lovers to our husbands (in an appropriate RS way). I came home a stronger woman, mother, and friend.

Mi madre's talk touched all of our hearts and made us cry. We think she did such a spectacular job that we suspect she'll be sitting in the red velvet chairs next general conference.

Busted

2011-05-23T13:26:00.000-07:00

Guess who forgot to show up for her big day? Bingo.

I'll post from jail.

Have a Nice Day

2011-05-19T22:04:00.000-07:00

Two words: teacher's gift.

One of my homies loves his teacher more than he loves me. That's why we had to buy her this blanket for our end of the year teacher thank you gift. She's going to DIE because she loves Bon Jovi more than her husband, dog, and two cats. She has vinyl quotes of his songs plastered all over the walls in her classroom. Pray the blanket is delivered by this Thursday.

P.S. My homie and I are planning to sing "Never Say Goodbye" to her as our last and parting words. Too over the top?

Babs Squared

2011-05-04T19:01:00.000-07:00

I have a deep love for two ladies by the name of Barbara. The first Babs is Barbara Streisand. When I'm feeling sentimental, I'll blast "Superman" in the car and sing it to my homies through my microphone made of air. They laugh and laugh and tell me they can see why I like her.

My dad told me once that Babs wanted plastic surgery to make her nose smaller. The doctors said the surgery could alter her voice and she'd never sing the same again. She opted to keep her banana-shaped nose, and when I'm wishing I could alter my AA (double As), I think of Babs's example. Chances are, my new chest size would prevent me from doing perfect belly flops this summer, and that, mis amigas, would be a shame.

My deep love for Babs number two stems from this talk. As you can see, I chased her down in the parking lot during Women's Conference and asked for a picture. Can you believe how awesome we are together? I'm mailing her a BFF charm tonight.

P.S. Take notice of how my fingers are creeping, closer and closer. Abnormal hand placement?

I Have a Dream

2011-04-05T14:00:00.000-07:00

Actually, I have two. First, I want to become a Rockette. Second, I want to play the piano.

Sometimes I practice my kicks in my Bodyattack class. I can kick as high as Lori (my instructor, FYI), so I'm close to a professional's ability to kick. But, I hear the Rockette scouts don't usually cast gals approaching age forty, so maybe my Rockette ship has sailed?

Let me be realistic: I didn't land a spot in the chorus in our community's production of Annie, so my common sense tells me the theatre and dance aren't my gifts. And, sometimes, dreams are born to stay dreams. This rationale then moves me to my second dream: playing the piano.

I took years of lessons from old, grouchy--but talented--Ben. I played scales. I played "Fur Elise," and lied to his face about my practicing every day. I also helped myself to Ben's Saltines and hid his Marlboro Reds in the garbage while my brother was in his lesson. Then I quit piano, committing the biggest mistake in my life (there are many more, really).

When I turned eighteen and received my patriarchal blessing, one of the Lord's suggestions was that I enlarge my musical talents. Of course, at the time, I thought, too late, damage done. But as I've repeated the cycle of forcing my children to take piano, I have realized that I can fulfill this blessing through my children. I sit with my homies, most days, and make them play songs like "The Pink Panther" and 'Tingalayo" over and over again, and then I tell them they can never be piano dropouts. They hate me for it, but I tell them that it's my job to help them learn to play, my patriarchal blessing says so. The Lord says so.

But then, maybe that's not really what the Lord meant. Maybe He really wants ME to finish what I started. With that thought, I practice, most days, beginning my practice on my knees. You stink at piano, I think to myself as I struggle through playing "This Is My Beloved Son." He couldn't have meant for you to learn now, when you're close to forty and so much slower at learning new things. My thoughts continue, You'll never play like Verna, the ward organist. Just give up, you crazy lady. But I don't.

Laundry

2011-03-31T10:52:00.000-07:00

I should be folding the the nine load laundry explosion on my bed, but, instead, I'm polishing off a box of Jordan Almonds. The last time I overdosed on Jordan Almonds, I busted my grandma-like molar and had to have it replaced with an eight hundred dollar crown. I'm now chewing them on the opposite side of my mouth and proceeding with caution.

In case you're wondering, my hatred for folding laundry stems from the hot summer days when Mi Madre would send me to the sewing room to fold Mt. Fuji. I would fold, sweat, and listen to Siouxie and the Banshees until sundown. This was the only way I'd be allowed to spend my nights patrolling the neighborhood with my neighborhood gang.

But our current laundry situation is dire. My homgurl has been borrowing my athletic underwear because she fears digging in the mountain, and my boys have been wearing flip-flops instead of asking if there are any clean socks. They want to avoid hearing me rant: "Do you think I was born to fold laundry?" and, "If you can't find your jeans, wear your church pants."

When will it occur to them that the only solution to this laundry situation is to pop on the iPod and just start folding? Never. Some of us never get it.

Wedding Flowers

2011-03-23T12:20:00.000-07:00

I'm posting a picture of the wedding flowers I made for Gilbert's Couple of the Year. I heard Prince Will reads this blog, so I'm hoping he'll place his order soon.

I love this trend of using fabric flowers instead of fresh flowers. Fabric flowers offer limitless color options and are cost effective. When I was married, I had a fresh bouquet and a silk bouquet. I didn't save either and I regret it. The bride is having me make a boutonniere out of her wedding dress for her groom to wear at the dinner party. Isn't that so sweet?

Awkward

2011-03-22T14:41:00.000-07:00

I hadn't been to the gym in over a week, so when I went to Bodyattack yesterday, my behavior may have been a bit overzealous.

Have I mentioned that I LOVE my fitness instructor? It's just that I really admire her. The fact that she has served a mission, was a school teacher, has five kids and wants one more, is thirty-nine, teaches piano lessons, gets up at 3:50 (that's a.m.) to practice the correct choreography for our class, really impresses me. She's inspiring and immortal, I think.

Anyway, yesterday after class I ran up to her to tell her how much I missed exercising last week. Except, instead of saying how much I missed my workouts and her class, I said, "I missed you so much last week." Then I put my hand on her shoulder, cocked my head to the side and smiled and blinked--too many blinks.

The awkward pause forced her to give me an obligatory I missed seeing you too. I could tell she thought I was a little too...What would you call it? Obsessed.

I'm not obsessed. Sometimes I'm just a little too expressive. I just really love people, and Lori.

P.S. I will really know I'm abnormal if I hear the sound of crickets in the comment section of this blog. Please tell me you've done the same thing in your life.

Cupcake Girl

2011-03-21T08:59:00.001-07:00

This girl is a cupcake expert, a cupcake foodie to her core. She's traveled from New York to Los Angeles, trying different varieties of luscious lemon chiffon, rockin' red velvet, and marvelous milk chocolate cupcakes. She's ruled that the Sweet Tooth Fairy (Provo, Utah's finest cake bakery) is the very best, and Sprinkles is a close second, along with The Coffee Shop and Magnolia Bakery.

But as I look at this picture of the two of us, I don't think about our trip to Casey's Cupcakes. Instead, I notice the feather peeking out from underneath her golden hair--how hip she is--and how she's almost as tall as me. When we talk, we look at each other, eye to eye. And when we hug, her head rests on my shoulder. And when we argue, I can no longer see the little girl who used to tug my hand and say, "Let's go play Barbies. You can be Ken."

She's changing. And when I'm really thinking of all that's right in my life, I fall down on my knees and thank heaven for the privilege of watching her grow.

P.S. Does my shirt remind you of Irene Cara's in Flashdance? Trust me, I'm wearing my religion under that shirt, even though it doesn't look like it. You weren't judging me, though.

P.P.S. Please take note of the lovebirds in the first picture. They were kissing while eating their cupcakes and sharing little bites, like it was their wedding day. So in love.

Prince in Ruffles

2011-03-15T14:31:00.000-07:00

I bought this lacy blouse at Last Chance yesterday. I'm attracted to this style of blouse, and I have purchased others just like it. But guess who doesn't like this look on me? Mi Amor. When he comes home tonight and sees me in this blouse, he'll sing in his falsetto, "Prince show. We're at a Prince show. A Prince show-o-o-o!" He'll think I look like Prince, all ruffled-up on the cover of his Purple Rain album. Maybe he's right, but you know what? IDC (I don't care).

I Finished the Sash

2011-03-07T21:49:00.000-08:00

I don't know if the bride-to-be will actually wear this sash, but it turned out better than I had thought. I had nightmares over what flowers should go where, and I was nervous that it would turn out looking too homemade--something I barfed up at an R.S. Super Saturday. Do we even do those anymore?

Going to the Temple, and We're Going to Get Married

2011-02-28T19:57:00.000-08:00

One of my most favorite young women, in the whole wide world, is getting married in May. Today I've been working on a bridal sash, in hopes of coming up with the most perfect piece for her big day. I will keep you posted on this project and will take better photos so you can get a better look. The sash is only half way done, so we'll have to see...Potential???

Tyler, R.I.P.

2011-02-27T15:26:00.001-08:00

Maybe there should be a comma between someone and help me? Maybe not.

For about a week one of my homies toted Tyler the plastic fish around in a glass bowl. Since the bowl was without a lid (How many times must I buy replacement Pyrex?), he would put Tyler in a plastic baggie when we had to go out. He'd slosh him around in water that turned a cloudy, filmy beige by the end of the day. I can't tell you how many times the baggie leaked--in the car, at the basketball game, and during the Pledge at the cub scouts' Blue and Gold banquet.

After about a week of cleaning up after Tyler and moving his lidless bowl around to different places in the kitchen--Tyler's resting place--I told my homie, "I don't like Tyler anymore. He doesn't lower my blood pressure." And he said, "Nothing does." So as I was cleaning the kitchen that night, I murdered Tyler.

When my homie woke up in the morning and found the note and his beloved Tyler, he said, "Tyler's not dead, Mom. See him? He still has one drop of water on him, so he's alive." I smiled and said, "He must be magic."

My homie walked to the water cooler and filled Tyler's bowl, plopping him back into the water just as it neared the brim. He put the bowl back on the counter and gave him some crushed Saltines for fish food.

I let Tyler stay for one more day, then it was over...

Huffing Sharpies

2011-02-19T20:33:00.000-08:00

I've spent the last two hours making this poster for tomorrow's primary singing time. I'm the new primary music leader, you know, and I now spend most of my Saturday nights plotting a way to wow the ties off the senior primary boys. There's a herd of them, and they can easily turn Singing Time into Torture the Chorister Time. One of my homies is a member of the boy herd, and he's got my back, most of the time.

The above posters are for the song, "The Books of the New Testament," and it's one of my favorite primary tunes. As some of you may know, its melody is the same as "Praise to the Man," also a personal fave.

I decided to outline all the words to the song with a big, fat black sharpie. I want to make sure the boys in the back can see every word. As I outlined all 190 letters, the ceiling fan above my head swirled and spread the fumes throughout our house. My eyes were watering, and I think I was huffing, so Mi Amor called down from the stairs and said, "Are you about done with that thing? It's ridiculous how much time you spend on this stuff." I told him to simmer down and that I only had 5 letters left to outline.

After I finished tracing my letters, I turned up my boom box and sang along to "The Books of the New Testament" about 200 times. I kept getting stuck on the timing for "first and second Corinthians." I think Mi Amor slammed the door on round 7 of my song practice, but I've got the song down pat now.

Bad Biff and the Worst Lunch

2011-01-18T15:29:00.000-08:00

I biffed it bad in step today, a total derriere splat. My fall made a loud noise, and I heard some snickering from behind. I thought to myself, "You should have worn the skirt." But the skirt was in the hamper, and I was out of Febreze .

Today I volunteered in the school cafeteria, and I always like seeing what moms pack in their homies' lunches. Maybe the dad or, heaven forbid, your homies pack the lunches in your house. But in our house, it's me, and I hate packing lunches--HATE IT.

I'm always looking for new ideas, and I thought I'd share my top 3 faves from today.

1. fresh blueberries, a bran muffin, yogurt, and string cheese

2. antipasti salad, a roll (homemade, I even asked if it was), and dried apricots

3. turkey wrap, ants on a log, an already PEELED orange (Is that the nicest or what?)

Worst

1. boiled egg and a small container of tuna

Someone in the 4th grade brought the above mentioned combo, and I have one word: pungent. All of the kids around her were fanning their faces and saying, "What is that smell? Did someone die in your lunch bag?" Surprisingly, the girl wasn't embarrassed. She just smeared the raw tuna on a cracker and munched away. I was proud of her bravery.

P.S.

Someday I want explode off my step like the ladies pictured above.

Cheer Hair Flair

2011-01-07T08:51:00.001-08:00

Yesterday I busted out twenty bows for my homegurl's cheer squad. The girls on her team squealed and gushed over the bows as I pulled them out of the bag and passed them out. Their reactions rocketed my self esteem to Mars, but I really just made the bows for that sweet girl of mine.

Tomorrow she turns thirteen, and I'm stealing her away from school today so we can do lunch and shop for some skinny jeans (for her, not me). We gals like getting the party started early and such.

I just got back from step class, and I wore this black tennis skirt mi Amor picked out for me during Christmas break. I told him, "I cant wear that sassy skirt. Only the professional steppers wear that kind of attire." He said, "Get the skirt."

We bought the skirt because deep down I want to have moves like Jane Fonda and my step instructor, Lori. She's the very best teacher in AZ, you know.

Anyhoo...Today, I only tripped once, so I think the skirt has magic in it. The only problem is it's too short, like daisy duke short. So during push-ups, lunges, and over back overs, I was flashing my peaches to all my step ladyfriends. I kept shimmying the skirt down, but up it came, over and over again. I need some biker shorts to wear underneath the skirt, so maybe today we'll shop for skinny jeans and some extra long biker shorts.

P.S. The president of Creamies Inc. called today and said, "Please, please, please ask your Arizona grocers to carry Creamies." They would love to be back in our market. He told me that Walmart carried them but recently discontinued selling them. If you love Creamies, tell the manager at your local grocery store.

No Title

2011-01-04T08:11:00.000-08:00

I can't think of a title for this post, so I'm calling it "No Title." Maybe this is a sign you should stop reading now. I'm thinking a bunch of nothing is flowing in between these ears of mine.

I should be practicing piano, then reading my scriptures, then taking a shower. But, no. Instead I'm baking in my sweaty squaller and shoveling Muddy Buddies into my mouth.

I think I'm depressed.

I hate when my kids go back to school after a long break. It's times like this that make me think I should homeschool. But then again, maybe not. Last night while I was packing their lunches (Can you believe I gave them Lunchables? Is that even real meat and cheese in there?), I decided to heart attack their lunch boxes. If I can't homeschool, I can at least leave them little remembrances of our two weeks of Christmas joy we spent together. I've even put a picture up to prove how much fun we had.

In all seriousness though, I miss them when they are gone.

That last picture is a plug for eyelashes. If you want to get them done, and you live in AZ, e-mail me at katysuz@gmail.com, and I will give you the hook-up.

Best Year Yet

2011-01-03T11:55:00.000-08:00

You're wondering why I have time to pose and primp in front of iPhoto. I really just wanted to wish you the very best 2011. It's going to be a good year; I can feel it in my femur.

If you're wondering about my poppin' lip gloss, I'm wearing Devotion by What's Your Virtue. I'm devoted to all my cyber galfriends, FYI, and that's why I put it on, just for you.

Love you with all mi corazon.

P.S. Is my left eyeball creeping you out? Just wondering.

Creamies

2010-12-29T21:16:00.000-08:00

One word: addicted.

Um...while we were in Utah, mi familia consumed 74 of these babies in 5 days. By the time we returned to Arizona, we had an unquenchable hankerin' for more. I took a quick trip over to Walmart to purchase a family-sized box, but that turned out to be a no-can-do-Shamu. The next day I went to Costco, and they only had Skinny Cows. Bluck.

Today I called the Creamie headquarters and asked them to direct me to the closest Creamie fix, and they said, "You'll have to drive back to Utah!"

They don't carry them in Arizona!!! Can you believe this situation? Dire. Dire. Dire. That's why I'm asking you to demand that Fry's fill their freezers with Creamies. Talk to the manager and tell them you know a gal who needs them in a BIG way.

Banana is my favorite flavor; what's yours?

Falsies

2010-12-28T12:52:00.000-08:00

This morning I told mi Amor that my New Year's resolution is to become more selfish. He said, "You'd better check yourself, before you wreck yourself." I said, "Too late. Damage done." (J/K)

My REAL new year's resolution is to play the piano like Beethoven by year's end. OK, I will be happy if I can make it through 20 songs from the primary Children's Songbook. Last night during FHE I even tried accompanying my homies in singing "Families Can Be Together Forever." I made it through the first three measures, but then one of my homies said, "It sounds better with just our voices only." The truth hurts like stubbing a toe a 3 A.M. in the morning. (That happened to me this morning on my way to the ladies' room, FYI.)

Did you know that I ask mi Amor for another baby everyday? I think about having another one about 500 times a day. I think I have a disorder. Why would I want a baby anyway? My eggs are way too OLD, old, Old...We used to tell my littlest brother that he was an old egg, just to get under his skin. But mi madre always says she couldn't imagine life without him, me either. What if I have an old egg waiting in heaven for me?

P.S. I just got false eyelashes put on, and that bit of news was the REAL reason for this post. Mi Amor says he loves them, and that little compliment only encourages me to keep them on for the rest of my life. If I see you in the meat department at Bashas' today, I will flutter my lashes for you.

Update

2010-11-08T20:37:00.000-08:00

I've missed you so...

This year for Halloween I bought myself a costume and dressed up like a sailor gal. Someone at the ward party said that I was wearing a kid's costume, and I told them not to worry about it and that the church is still true. Then I asked if they wanted a bite of the diarrhea chili I was eating, and they said no thanks. (It was the chili I made, so I could say that.)

My homies were elated that I showed some Halloween spirit, so I think I'll make it a tradition to dress up every year, even if the costume happens to be child-sized.

In other news...My homegurl is trying out for cheer, and I'm bit-my-fingernails-to-the-nub nervous about it. I already contacted the school cheer coach and offered to be her assistant. She hasn't e-mailed me back--embarrassing, I know. It was presumptuous of me since my homgurl hasn't even made the squad. I think I have ants in my pants, and this may be my biggest flaw.

Actually, I have a bigger flaw, namely impulsiveness. That's why there's this picture of me doing the splits on the tractor. What is wrong with me?

I hope you have a good day tomorrow. I will be subbing in math at the jr. high. I'm going to tell the kids that if they're good, I will sing them a solo. Lady Gaga, MJ, Jay-Z, Alicia Keys, I can do them all:)

Mrs. Suzuki

2010-10-07T09:39:00.001-07:00

I subbed in the same 4th grade class for three days in a row. By day three, I may have lost my cool a few times (maybe 10 times more than a few, to be honest). While I was explaining to the students how to form a strong hypothesis, from the corner front of the room, Big Frank (BF) stood up from his chair and began switching off and on the photo projector I was using to explain that day's science experiment.

Prior to this, BF had caused me some major grief. He threw paper balls at his study partner's head, "accidentally" slapped a half-blind boy on the knee, and disrupted my lectures with his nonsensical remarks. In my heart, though, I kind of loved Frank. I loved him because I knew he's the kind of boy who needed the extra love.

But my love is not patient, and so, I stopped my lecture and loudly clapped my hands three times. Then I said, "Outta here, Frank!" pointing to the classroom door. He immediately burst into hysteria, slammed his rear in his seat, and began sobbing with his head buried in the palms of his hands. The whole class waited in silence as I walked over to BF and said, "It breaks my heart to send you away, but you have shown disrespect to me, and to this entire class."

OK, you're going to hate me for what I did next.

I continued, "BF, I'm going to give you one more chance. (One more chance! Can you believe I gave him another chance?) "Will you show respect for me and the rest of the class?"

"Yes," he said, wiping his booger nose.

Do you think BF was good for the rest of class? No, he wasn't, FYI. But sometimes, when you're at the end of your rope, another student will rescue you by leaving a little note on your desk. The above mentioned pep talk is what got me through my last three hours with BF. My favorite sentence in the note is, "She was able to deal with us telling her what to do again and again." It's true. They helped me again and again, and I tried to do it all the right way.

Subbing Like a Crazy Lady

2010-09-27T22:48:00.000-07:00

As the title of this post suggests, I've been subbing a lot lately. A LOT. Too much, I think. Did I mention substitute teaching is like reliving my first day on the job, from you know where, over and over again?

I just wish I were better with getting the sub key to unlock the door to the bathroom, the door to the classroom, and the door to the insane asylum, because behind that last door is where I might end up tomorrow afternoon. Pray for me.

P.S. I really love teaching Special Education. It's my favorite so far, and I'm thinking of getting my Master's in that area instead of Language Arts.

My least favorite class to teach: 6th graders. If I hear the girls gush about Justin Bieber one more time, I might lose it. Is he even a boy?

Work It, Girl!

2010-09-13T11:34:00.000-07:00

So...my homegurl is running for Choir Council today, and I'm here praying my brains out that she doesn't botch her speech (so nerve wracking). I had her bring Edward and Jacob along for a little help, just in case there was any question who should be this year's choir president/party planner. Here's the speech she wrote, and I think it's pretty respectable, if I do say so myself.

Hi, my name is Hannah, and I am running for this year’s Choir Council. Some of you may have seen the movie Eclipse. You may be Team Edward, and some of you may be team Jacob, but the only team I am on is Team Greenfield Junior High School Choir! I want to be in Choir Council for these three reasons:

1. I love to plan fun activities! As a member of the Choir Council, I will help plan parties that will be memorable and a blast for everyone!

2. I love working with other people. When you work together as a team, better and more creative ideas can be created.

3. But most importantly, I will work hard to make your year in choir the best one yet!

So remember to vote for me, and together we'll make this year ROCK!

P.S. She handed out Pop Rocks to seal the deal.

P.P.S. Go get your own Jacob and Edward for 97 cents at Last Chance in Phoenix.

Does Hannah's speech remind you of Summer's speech in Napoleon Dynamite? Just wondering.

Brunette Bombshell?

2010-08-30T22:58:00.001-07:00

So, I went to the dark side--so Darth V. of me, I know. Here's the thing: I have a bald patch in the back of my head due to non-stop bleaching and years of Sun-In streaking. (Did you ever use Sun-In? Did you, huh? That's the WORST lightening product on earth, FYI, and 7th grade in the girls locker room was the last time I sprayed that junk in my hair.) Anyhoo, my hair dresser Kim J. told me that the only way I could get my locks looking like Angelina J's is by using a semi-permanent, non-peroxide hair color, hence, the darker shade of hair.

I like my new dark hair, but one of my homies hates it worse than no Sponge Bob on Sundays. He said, "I don't know you anymore; you're not even my mom." To this I replied, "I'm still your mom, even with this hair." Then he began crying, and I scooped him up and gave him a big smooch on his forehead. And then he said, "Now you're my mom again." Kisses solve everything, don't they?

P.S. Of course I can never have Photo Booth all to myself. As soon as I snapped the above picture, my homies crowded into my photo shoot and hogged all my glory. Payback is the worst.

Substitute Teacher

2010-08-20T11:05:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I substitute taught the kids in room F-5, and I may have behaved like Miss Viola Swamp. By the end of the day I had a pulsating headache, and here are the reasons why:

1. All 15 boys in the class asked to go to the bathroom, multiple times. After 20 bathroom passes, I quit counting. I remember hearing somewhere that you can never say no. So, since it was my first time teaching, I didn't want to get fired for letting Anthony Clepper wet his pants. Next time I will reward kids who wait until the allotted bathroom break times. Cash prizes, maybe?

2. They peeled old scabs and then asked for Band-Aids to treat the fresh blood oozing from their miniature sores. 3 kids did this.

3. One student told me, and the rest of the class, a story about how his mom was screaming her head off at his dad for drinking too much the night before. Then ten other kids joined in with stories that had nothing to do with the properties of a rectangle. Next time I will bring my director's clapboard. Cut!

4. They used their rulers as light sabers, and while I was scouring for the grammar worksheets, they built the Empire State Building out of pink pearl erasers.

5. They told me the teacher keeps her math book in her desk, and when I looked in the desk,

they said, "Just kidding. It's not really there." I taught math sans the teacher's edition--very dangerous for an English major. Plus, I forgot to wear my dress shields, and all that math made me perspire from head to toe, and also in my underarms. I had armpit tacos until lunch.

6. At the end of the day one girl announced to the class that I was the best teacher they've ever had, and this bit of news brought a tear to my eye. I think I was exhausted by this point.

P.S. I split the zipper in my hand-me-down jeans while I was shimmying them on this morning. Not a good feeling.

Fiasco #2

2010-08-08T22:13:00.000-07:00

Yet another Facebook fiasco. I'm the one in the middle, in case you were even wondering. The yearbook department published this hideous picture in the yearbook, and when I got my copy, I covered the picture up with a KROQ sticker. I hated it and hoped I'd never have to look at it again. But as some of you may know, Facebook hunts you down like an angry ex-husband and makes you pay for all the stupid you've done. Cha-ching!

The girl on the left was my best friend (Do you love her hair? She'll never go bald like me. Back then I had to use all of my hair for my bangs, and I used to just stare at her curly locks and wonder what she had done in heaven to deserve all that hair.) Anyhoo, we were all nominated for Freshman Princess, and the girl in the red dress won. She was beautiful and very popular and nice and kind and all that kind of junk. And for your information, she is currently using this picture as her profile pic. She hates me, I think.

I borrowed my dress from a good friend and rented the cream lace jacket from a bridal store. Mi Madre and I searched all over Southern California, looking for something to modestfy my spaghetti strap dress. The jacket was a happy compromise since I was just fine with wearing the dress as-is.

P.S. My best friend wouldn't even need a jacket to cover up her shoulders. She could just use her hair as a shawl. Lucky.

Mormon Boys

2010-08-05T23:34:00.000-07:00

Next week mi Madre is heading to las montanas, so she can teach the young women in her stake to sing it like the Mo Tab (and Beyonce). She's the very best at getting the girls all revved up and musical, so that's why I told her that she had better teach her campers the song mentioned below (a Camp LoMia fav). Here's a video and the words, just in case you're like mi Madre, and you are in charge of teaching the young women to belt it like they mean it.

I like Mormon boys, and I cannot lie.

You other sisters can't deny.

When a boy walks in with his scriptures in his case

and a smile upon his face, you get a date!

A celestial mate.

But wait!

He's goin' on a mission, havin' you wishin'...you had a man,

Someone to hold your hand!

Deacons! What?

Teachers! What?

We don't like your features!

Your brothers are hot, and you are not!

So give us some righteous Priests! Huh!

P.S. The looks of disgust that my homegurl throws at me pierce me to the core. I had better enroll in some "How to Be Cooler" classes. She thinks my Vanilla Ice rappin' skills stink like beef and cheese. Or maybe it's just my whole personage that offends every bone in her body. The church is still true.

Date Night

2010-07-24T15:19:00.000-07:00

Mi Amor and I were going to go to tonight's D-backs game. I was going to get all gussied up in my D-backs gear and woo him all the way to the stadium with my fluttering eyelashes and D-backs foam finger. But as I stood, ironing our church clothes for tomorrow's 8 o'clock session of church (we're always 5 minutes late, no matter how much I prepare), this thought came into my brain: Go to the temple tonight, instead of the game. I went over to my phone and texted the following message:

Let's go to the temple--Pete's Fish and Chips instead of peanuts and Cracker Jacks?

Mi Amor said let's g-o, just like that.

Now I'm going to woo him all the way to the temple with my cactus cowboy shirt and denim coolots. Maybe I'll even rap and beatbox "I Love to See the Temple" on our walk up to the temple doors. Maybe not.

We're Off!

2010-07-19T21:57:00.001-07:00

We're off to girls camp, and it's too bad my "Be Strong" T-shirt is covering up my bangin' biceps. They actually make me look manish, so I'm glad you don't have to barf your brains out at the sight of them. I packed my Gas-X and my scriptures, so everything should work out as planned. I will report back to you in a week.

Summer Sabotage

2010-07-15T14:04:00.000-07:00

So, I was hangin' outside in AZ's 115 degree heat stroke, and when I came back into the house, I walked right into the middle of my homegurl's MTV video production. I went ahead and cast myself as her leading lady. I need to get an agent. Seriously.

P.S. Please notice how I wipe my sweat-juice on the same towel I use to dry the dishes. Nice.

P.P.S. You're asking yourself why I allow my homegurl to listen to such a perverted song. A good mom steers her daughter's listening ears to the Mo Tab and Vivaldi. I will burn for the trash I allow into this home.

Beautiful

2010-07-09T10:00:00.000-07:00

Niven Road-Bougainvillea

I inch my way north on Mesa Dr., repressing the urge to plow through the orange cones blocking an empty lane. If you're an AZ resident you know that the never ending road construction makes you want to jam a tranquilizer into your inner left thigh. But I usually say no to drugs (except for Ambien at girls camp), and treat my road rage with a natural dose of happy place distraction.

I look away from the red F-350 ahead of me, whose bumper sticker reads "God Bless John Wayne," whose driver I want to strangle for driving like a student driver, whose driver has, in the last two minutes, slammed on the brakes more times than the number of stars in the sky. Happy Place. Happy Place. I remind myself as I look to the east side of the street.

On the corner of Glade, a woman is standing small against the broiling sun, her onyx hair neatly coiled into a bun, which rests against the white rag hanging from her neck. I glance at my car's thermostat, 109 degrees. Then I look to the woman and watch her stretching to prune the top of her bougainvillea. One by one, the fuchsia blooms fall to the ground, quivering against the heat rising from the busy street.

The red truck ahead of me moves forward, and I follow it. Now I can see the backside of the woman and the rest of her yard. There's a sky blue Cadillac resting on cinder blocks, and oil smears across her driveway like black mascara after a good cry. The hay-like grass has grown barren from the heat, from years of neglect, from life. The woman and her bougainvillea are the only things thriving in this yard. Everything else rests six feet under.

The two of them look radiant together. She prunes, and the bougainvillea takes on a sleeker silhouette. Then I think: God will never let her bougainvillea die. Everything else may be dead in this woman's life, but not her bougainvillea. Like Moses and his burning bush, God talks to her while she prunes. And every time she looks at the flowers reaching upward, she's reminded that He is there, waiting for her to take in His love.

I look in my rear view mirror and all three of my homies are fast asleep, sweat beading on the tips of their noses, their heads resting on the next one's shoulder. Head shoulder. Head shoulder. The pattern repeats, forming a perfect row. We are still heading north on Mesa Dr. and a black Subaru has replaced the red truck. We're almost to 1st Ave when I'm startled by a loud "ding-dong." My heart is pounding as I remember, for the bazillionth time, that years ago my sister-in-law programmed the Mesa temple's location into the car's navigation system. Every time we pass the temple, we hear a resounding "ding-dong," and I always forget it's coming.

One of my homies awakens, and like a Pavlovian reaction he blurts, "The temple, Mom!" and I watch as his head slumps back against the headrest, his cherubic face relaxing as sleep escorts him back to his afternoon nap. "Yes," I say. "There's the temple," quietly thanking God for this beautiful life.

Facebook Anxiety

2010-07-06T08:33:00.000-07:00

Facebook annihilates my self-esteem. It's taken years of daily affirmations to recover from my bad choices: claw bangs, orange skin, Boy George, and electric blue mascara. Like moths to a flame, the pictures come back to burn me (and Janet Jackson) for our wardrobe malfunctions. Does that simile even make sense?

In case you're wondering, I'm the one standing in fifth position, head tilted, ready to be crowned Miss USA. At least my orange hair matches my legs.

P.S. Please respect my white Keds.

P.P.S I still love you, Kara, even though you posting this picture forced me to make another appointment with my therapist.

Soakin' up the sun, even though it's 115*

2010-07-02T16:22:00.000-07:00

I came home from Sunsplash (our local water park) with some bits of advise.

1. Think long and hard before you tattoo your lover's name on your chest. (Maybe skip the tattoo all together.)

Tattooing "Claire" above a crossed out "Veronica" brings shame to your love game. Declare your devotion for your main squeeze in a less permanent way. Putting her name on a T-shirt, or spelling out your love in red plastic cups, on the chain link fence on Lindsey Blvd., might be a better option?

2. A bikini will betray you like a philandering boyfriend

Sure, your yellow polka-dot bikini behaves while you're lounging poolside, but as soon as you step into the water for a swim, it will misbehave. While my homgurl and I were floating down the lazy river, a girl emerged from underneath the water sans bottoms. Let's just say: Full moon on Friday. Yikes. My advise is to stick with the monogamous, faithful one piece; it promises to stay and cover your ladybits, come water or sun.

3. Put down the book and swim

I'm the kind of mom who watches her kids swim from the comfort of a lounge chair. I don't like getting wet because the chlorine turns my hair into a green toupee. So instead, I enjoy the pool from a distance, periodically dipping my feet to cool off. But since it was a whooping 115* out today, I went swimming almost the entire time. My homies couldn't believe I was even in the water. They hung on my neck, whispered secrets in my ear, and raced me down the water slides. I need to worry less about my toupee and focus more on just livin' it up. Who cares what I look like, anyway?

P.S. I just snarfed an entire box of Goobers while writing this post. Muzzle, maybe?

Paying with Pennies

2010-06-28T13:55:00.001-07:00

Today my homies and I went to the movies. I love going to the movies. Like Tom in The Glass Menagerie, I would go alone and often, if I could. But I'm dripping with babies right now, and so we go together, in a gaggle, and not quite as often as I would like.

We always buy popcorn. Always. Eating popcorn is the best part of the whole experience. Because if the movie stinks, the popcorn is always there to save the day, hot, buttery and so delish.

We layer our popcorn with mass amounts of butter flavoring, in the middle and on top. The butter flavoring, not to be confused with real butter, is probably worse for you than smoking cigs. I know this because I used to work at a movie theater. As we squirted butter on the popcorn, the flavoring would splatter all over the floor. Then we'd walk through it, and it would coat the bottoms of our shoes. Little by little potholes began growing in the soles of our Dr. Martins, and we'd complain about it to the candy counter crew manger. "It's the butter flavoring. It's like acid," he'd tell us.

But here I sit, writing you, not even caring that the butter flavoring from today's popcorn is now eating away at my stomach lining. I'm just grateful that I had enough cash to buy the popcorn in the first place. Somehow in all my unpacking from California, I misplaced my debit car. So when I went to pay for the popcorn, my heart sank at the realization that my card was still sitting somewhere at home. Luckily I had three dollars in cash, and that money placed me half-way to purchasing the large, refillable popcorn.

"Maybe we have enough change in the car to make up the difference," my homie said to me, as I began heading toward pandemonium.

"You're brilliant!" I told him as we ran out the theater doors.

I spilled out the change and noticed that all I had was a few nickles sprinkled amongst a bazillion pennies. But a movie isn't a movie without popcorn, so we counted out three hundred pennies and trucked them back into the theater, cupped in our hot, sweaty little hands.

We placed our mountain of pennies on the counter, and I said to the cashier, "This is so embarrassing, but I left my debit card at home, but we need a large popcorn, so here's three dollars in cash, and here's three hundred copper portraits of Abe Lincoln."

The cashier laughed and then asked me to sort my Vesuvius of pennies into groups of ten.

"I promise it's exact change." I said, hoping he'd just scoop up the mountain and call it even. But no, he insisted that I sort them all out. I kept messing up the groups of ten because I was so nervous. "I stink at math." I told the cashier. This bit of info. made no difference to the man.

But I did it. I counted all the change, grabbed my popcorn from the counter, and did a victory strut all the way back to theater 14. I gotz no shame about it, either.

California Girls

2010-06-20T07:29:00.001-07:00

OK, so I admit this is my wannabe attempt at being glamorous, but from this picture you can gather where we're headed: California. I will take lots of pictures and report back to you in a week.

This morning I did a boogie dance-jig for my homies, because I'm that excited. There's nothing like revisiting my homeland, where the girls are "unforgettable" (not to diss the girls living in good ol' AZ). That's what Katy Perry sings in her new hit single "California Girls," anyway. Not that I listen to her trampola music or anything. But I do have one question: Does she or does she not sing the catchiest tunes in the west? And don't they get stuck in your head for days, whether you want them there or not?

Living in the Moment

2010-06-14T17:36:00.000-07:00

We've got D-backs spirit!

I pestered the guy next to me all night. I asked him who his favorite player was, if my homies were buggin' him, if he wanted to be best friends and whatnot. Do you see him trying to ignore my ridiculously self-indulgent behavior? I thinks he's peeking at me out of the corner of his eye. Crazy is hard to ignore.
There isn't an uglier picture on the planet. Just look at my neck meat--so disgust. Can you even stand looking at it? Right after Mi Amor snapped the picture, I knew it would go down in Suzuki family picture history. We've looked at the picture a hundred times since, and every time we look at it, we roar and scream about how crazy I look. It never gets old, so I just had to show it to you.

If you can't read my lips, I'm cheering along with the famous baseball game chant, "Da da da dunt da da, charge!" Of course I'm hamming things up a bit, but can I just tell you this is the best night I've had since my high school graduation?

I'm not one for letting go of it all. I'd rather worry about the bills, laundry, church callings, and the serial killer living next door. My want to worry 24/7 makes falling in love with a particular moment or experience very difficult. But on this night, I did it. I lived in the moment. I enjoyed every minute of the baseball game. We danced so much, we even made it onto the big-screen TV. The whole stadium got to see our moves.

We even stayed for the fireworks.

P.S. I think I'm balding.

School's Out for Summer

2010-06-10T10:18:00.000-07:00

Mi Madre would not approve (remember how she loves whole grains and healthy), but it's time to celebrate! School's out for summer, and I'm loving every minute of it (except for the five hundred fights my homies had yesterday). But we've gotten into a rhythm of sorts, and that's why I kicked off our three month long party with this bucket of cheese balls. I also loaded my Costco cart with other junk, like Carr's Lemon Ginger Cremes and ice cream sandwiches. Have you tried the cookies, though? I've already eaten through a sleeve and a half, and it hasn't even been 24 hours since I purchased them. Sick. And. Wrong.

P.S. My 5 year-old can fit his head through the container's opening. Impressive.

Kai Razor

2010-06-07T15:27:00.000-07:00

Once a week my homgurl and I cuddle on the couch and watch a new episode of TLC's hit TV show, "Toddlers and Tiaras." Have you heard of it? Does the TV show disgust you, huh? Do you become shelled-shocked as you watch the moms transform their sweet little girls into miniature tramps, all in hopes of winning a small wad of cash and becoming Miss Grand Supreme of Who Knows What?

A good mom encourages her daughter to watch wholesome classics like Anne of Green Gables and The Sound of Music. But, no, my homegurl is stuck with a mom who has a macabre sense of humor, and so, instead, we watch shows where parachuters fall from the sky with faulty chutes and moms turn their sweet angels into Britney Spear look-a-likes.

If you want to see an outrageous clip from the show, click here. My kids can do a perfect impression of Makenzie (the girl in the clip), and it's just so sick and wrong and hilarious, all at the same time. They go around the house saying, in a perfect southern accent, "You are driving me nuts!" We all laugh and say how crazy she is and how crazy we are for wasting our time on a show that exploits children.

The show has one redeeming characteristic, though: beauty tips. One mom used a Kai razor to contour her daughter's eyebrows. It was very humane of her mom, since waxing the eyebrows of a five year-old could be considered a form of physical abuse. Within six strokes of her magic wand, the mom had perfectly shaped the girl's eyebrows. I was jeal to my core, because waxing makes me bleed, so I immediately popped up from the couch and ordered some magic wands from Amazon.com. I just knew it was the answer to eliminating the baby caterpillar that's living on my upper lip.

It's been two days since I clipped the critter, and my lip looks great. I don't have a five o'clock shadow. And you know what else? Shaving doesn't make your hair come in thicker; that's an old wives' tale. So if you want a painless way to get rid of any unwanted hair, Kai razors are for you, me, Miss V., and the sick moms on "Toddlers and Tiaras."

P.S. I lost my spray tan in the lazy river.

White House

2010-05-24T21:10:00.001-07:00

Did you know the month of May is when we celebrate Asian Pacific American Heritage? Neither did I! Well, President Obama and his homies invited mi Amor to attend an annual reception at the White House in efforts to commemorate the arrival of Japanese immigrants in America, and to honor the many Chinese workers who labored to complete the transcontinental railroad.

Mi Amor was shocked when someone from the White House called and extended to him a personal invitation. He felt honored to attend, and he said the President's speech was eloquent. In his words, "The whole experience was surreal!" Here's President Obama addressing the group. I think he's wishing he were as handsome as mi Amor.

He looks so official, standing outside of the south entrance. He had to go through numerous levels of security before he reached the reception room.

Who gets invited to the White House? I'll tell you who: MI AMOR. He's that awesome. Maybe he should be the one who plugs the gallons of oil that are spilling into the ocean.

Temple, Conditioner, and Dance

2010-05-23T18:35:00.000-07:00

We went to the Gila Temple Dedication, and it was the best in the west. Several years ago, we attended the dedication of the Nauvoo Temple (so historic), and I can't remember a single bit of the dedicatory service. I may be getting Alzheimer's, and I'm not joking.

Anyway, today, when President Monson came out of the temple and made his way to mortar the cornerstone into the temple, he turned toward the children and wiggled his ears. We all started laughing at his candor, and then I leaned over to my homie and whispered, "You can do that, too. Maybe one day you'll be the prophet." He wiggled his ears and smiled. Then I smooched his cheek.
Could my hair look any more like a scarecrow's? Yikes! Someone needs to deep condition her mop, like, asap. Plus, I look manish. I think I see a stache shadow on my upper lip.

I was driving while doing this photo shoot. (I'm my own paparazzi, you know.) Driving while posing is dangerous, and then I went home and slammed a Diet DP. Should I tell the bishop?
She brings tears to my eyes. I lied when I said she's not dancing anymore. She's still taking one class, just in case soccer doesn't work out. (Let's pray she sees the light.) I got her all dressed up for her recital pictures, and I said, "Are you sure your dreams don't include dancing for the rest of your life?" She rolled her eyes at me, and I don't blame her for it. What will she do with this nag-hag who won't let it go?

Cha-Cha-Cha Changes

2010-05-21T12:15:00.000-07:00

Before I sent my homgurl off to school today, I gave her a little pep talk about the "changes" video she will be watching in class today. You remember the video, right? The one about periods, reproduction, and the endless battle of unwanted hair. Bluck!

I told her I couldn't wait to be in 6th grade so I could see that video (what a perve, I know). I remember watching the 6th grade girls slipping out of the library after watching "that" video. They seemed taller and wiser as the group of them huddled under a tree to talk and giggle about their new and enlighten minds. They looked as if they had just unlocked the secrets to life's greatest mystery: boys. What I would have given to be under that tree, to be a big 6th grader.

I told Hannah when I finally had my chance to see it, I was totally disappointed. "It didn't teach me how to get a boyfriend or kiss or anything good at all," I told her. "It was informative, very clinical, common information, stuff I already knew about my body." Then I told her, "Don't be weird about it. All you need to know is that your body is beautiful, be glad you're not a boy, and periods are a drag and a hassle."

"Please, Mom, just stop!" she said as she walked out the door. "I can't wait to hear all about it," I called after her. "Take notes, please!"

I'm demented, I think.

The only change in my life is this new bedspread pictured above. Do you love it? 30 bucks at Target.

P.S. Please note the bed at the bottom, right hand corner of the picture. Some things never change. Like having your scaredy-cat kids sleeping next to you when they hear things that go bump in the night. That will change, though, and then I will miss it.

Dear Hannah,

2010-05-20T08:57:00.001-07:00

Do you hate me? Can you blame me?

Her beautiful stories made me laugh and cry, and I couldn't stop reading her insightful perspectives on life. Afterall, she's only twelve, but she writes like she's a mature eighteen. I was never as good as she. Never. And I can't believe she's mine.

P.S. Did I mention she's helped herself to my diary? I think we're even now, but I do realize that my eye-for-an-eye rational is deadly. I won't read her journal again. promise. Plus, this isn't her "real" journal.

P.P.S Did I mention that Mi Amor was invited to the White House? For reals. More about that next week.

**She just got home and said, "Moms are never to read their daughters' diaries, but I don't mind if you read mine. Just ask first."

Keepin' It Real In Gila

2010-05-17T07:57:00.000-07:00

On Saturday we packed the bus and rode to the Gila Valley Temple open house. It's the first time my homegurl has seen a temple in its entirety, and I couldn't wait to watch her reactions to the temple's breathtaking craftsmanship: the furniture, the 9 foot solid Maple doors, the stained glass, the gold leaf trimmed ceilings, the life-size paintings of the Savior's ministry, the Bride's Room. I wanted her to see the Bride's Room.

More than anything, though, I wanted to stand with her between the mirrors that hang in the Sealing Room. I wanted to whisper in her ear how our love and friendship will go on for eternity, just like our reflection in the mirrors. We were meant to be, she and I. I wanted to tell her to find a man as good as her dad. Someone who will hold her high when she is low. A man who will sustain her divinity and amplify her very best qualities.

But I said none of these things.

She's at an age where my sentimental talk makes her feel squirmy and awkward, almost queasy. When I actually muster the courage to tell her what is in my heart, she curls her lip and says, "Stop, Mom." I decide I don't want to ruin the moment, so I settle for trailing behind her and twirling her ponytail round and round my wrist. I don't let go until our procession through the Bride's Room and Ceiling Room ends.

"Look at the crystal chandeliers, Mom," she says in a whisper, turning her head enough for me to read her lips.

"They're stunning." I say immediately, wanting more than ever to tell her how I feel.

She senses the thoughts that are reaching the tip of my tongue, so she quickly whips her ponytail out of my hand. With a toss of her head and two quick steps forward, she is now standing with her friends. Gone. She will play Keep Away until I relinquish my thoughts and save them for a more appropriate moment, for when she's older and wiser.

She was gracious enough, though, to let me have a few minutes of her time. (Seriously, moms can be such a drag and a hassle.) We asked Brother Walker to take our picture and he said, while adjusting the camera lens, "It doesn't get better. A girl and her mom at the temple together." I sucked in my want to cry, because crying in front of your teenage daughter is like committing emotional suicide. Just say no to your emotions.

As we walked back to the bus, I began twirling her ponytail round and round my wrist again. "I love you, Hannah," I said. "You're as good as they come." She smiled, "I love you too, Mom."

She tilted her head forward, pulling her hair from my hand. "I'm going to go find Grace now, but I'm glad we came to the temple together." "Me too," I said, taking another picture of her sweet face with my heart.

Love

2010-05-14T08:08:00.000-07:00

The other morning I received this e-mail from a classmate. She wrote:

I'm not going to be in class on Monday and possibly Wednesday. My Ava passed away sometime last week and I had to go into labor to deliver her. She was born around 4:30pm Saturday afternoon...She was a beautiful 3.5 pounds girl. The doctor said Ava's umbilical cord was wrapped so tightly around itself that her nutrients and oxygen got cut off. Apparently, this had a 1/1000 chance of occurring. Maybe I should start playing the lottery...

I'm sure those of you that have kids do this often, but hug and kiss them all again.

"Hug and kiss them all again." Her words continuously march through my mind like an endless parade. While I'm tucking my kids in at night, I hear them. While I'm watching them play in the pool, I hear them again. As I'm listening to their chatter and play at the homework table, my words begin to trumpet along with my mind's parade, "I love you like crazy!" I say it out loud, wanting desperately to brand their hearts with my love.

"Hug and kiss them, Katy." I hear the words, as I sit here typing, and I will hear them again while I'm putting clothes away in their chest of drawers.

When they come home, I will wrap my arms around them, just as I did the day before. Each day, another layer of love comes to rest upon what can never be taken away. Our love.

Jewels

2010-05-12T09:58:00.000-07:00

I've listened to Jewels' (Julie B. Beck) conference talk about fifty times. (I call her that because we're sorta like bffs, in a way.) Here's my favorite thought from her talk:

"A good woman must constantly resist alluring and deceptive messages from many sources telling her that she is entitled to more time away from her responsibilities and that she deserves a life of greater ease and independence. But with personal revelation, she can prioritize correctly and navigate this life confidently."

Just last night I said to mi Amor, "I will avoid taking night classes at ASU; they mess up our family's groove. I will go to school when the kids are in school. That's my new rule." "Agreed," he said, cautiously.

He's always careful when agreeing with me, just in case I've set a trap. Like the time I said, in front of our friends, "Isn't my peach cobbler the best you've ever had?" and he said, "I've had better." He dwelt in a tent that night. But soon after, he quickly learned how to calculate his responses to my questions based on the tone in my voice. His responses are accurate about 95 percent of the time. The other 5 percent, well, you know where he has to go. T-E-N-T City.

As the thoughts from Jewels' talk sink deeper and deeper into my heart, I've come to this: I'm in my parenting prime, chicas, and I need to make sure my aspirations coincide with raising up my homies in the best possible way. Even though I'm a 4.0 (yes, I did just say 4.0) student, night school made our fhe, scripture time, and our family prayers spotty at best. And spotty isn't good enough. Spotty at ASU equals a C--a 2.0 GPA. These homies need routines that are constant and predictable, consistency that merits a 4.0. I'm working on getting that GPA up.

P.S. But I'm not whipping myself with the guilt belt; that's no way to live.

Beauty by Josh

2010-05-09T08:06:00.000-07:00

You may think you're staring at Sugar Lips the Drag Queen, but it's just me. I'm doing this glamorous pose just for you, and I'm hoping you're having a wonderful Mother's Day. Mothers are the best, you know, especially that mother who goes by the name of Mi Madre. Anyhoo...

On Friday I was invited to hang with my littlest homie and his classmates at an exclusive mommy makeover event. (Are you jeal?) As I walked into room A-3 the kids sang in unison, "Josh, she's here! Your mom is really here!" They made me feel like Queen Elizabeth, and so I graciously sat in my throne sized for Goldilocks's littlest bear. I began nibbling (like, inhaling) a sugar cookie while my homie sat on my lap and chatted in my ear about recess, corn dogs for lunch, and how we just saw Kent Grober pick it and eat it. All the while, the kids in A-3 continued announcing each mom as she entered, "She's here. Your mom is really here!" Within minutes, the room was overflowing with the lilting sounds of moms' kisses and best wishes.

As Mrs. Harnish stood to began explaining that day's event, my homie and I could hear coming from behind, "sniff-sniff, sniff-sniff." We synchronously turned around. "Alvin!" Josh said, concerned. "What's the matter, Alvin? I know what's wrong. Your mom is not here yet, huh? Where is she, Alvin. Where is she?"

Alvin lowered his head and we watched as his hot tears dotted his tan corduroy pants.

"Guess what, Alvin?" Josh said, wiggling Alvin's shoulders back and forth. "My mom has two eyes and she has two cheeks and she likes kids and so you and me can share my mom. You put makeup on this eye, and I'll put makeup on the other eye. We can share, Alvin, just like when we share our scissors."

Alvin said, "No thank you, Josh," and began crying even more.

"Where's his mother?" I said in desperation, while flagging down Mrs. Harnish. "Where in the world is his mother?"

"I have no idea," she said. "And I'm, like, dying right now." She leaned over Alvin and began rubbing his back. The whole class of kids and moms sat staring at Alvin who was now beginning to curl on the floor in the fetal position.

Just when we thought all was lost in Alvin's 5 year-old world, the door to room A-3 swung open. Like the angel of hope, peace, and joy, Alvin's mom stepped through the door. (She had wings.)

"Alvin, she's here! Your mom is really here!" we all sang like the Mo Tab choir. "Hallelujah!"

He ran and jumped into her arms, and while she rocked him back and forth she said, "You were the only one without a mom? The only one, huh? I'm so sorry!"

She kissed him head to toe and then sat in her throne sized for Goldilocks's littlest bear. A queen. An angel. A mom. She made his world new. Just like that.

P.S. Beauty by Josh is taking new clients. So if you'd like an appointment, just drop me a line, chica. Makeup artistry doesn't get better.

P.P.S In that top picture, do you see an arm that looks like a Madonna arm? Just wondering.

Happy Mother's Day!

2010 Census

2010-05-06T12:29:00.000-07:00

Just seconds ago Garth, from the US Census Bureau, knocked on the door. He had come to fill out another report since ours got lost in the mail, or something like that. I gave my littlest homey a crusty for answering the door--that's a no-no in our house. Only adults are allowed to answer the door.

I swept the bitterness and my bangs to the side, and let southern hospitality gush from my lips.

"Can I help you?" I said smiling.

"Um, yes, this will take just 10 minutes of your ti..." I cut him off along with the artificial genteel and said, "We filled that baby out already. Mailed it out over a month ago."

"Oh. Well I'm so sorry to hear that. You can never count on the US mail system; it's a real shame...Anyway, the Census requires that I interview you again, so that we can update our records."

"Well I can't right now; I'm writing a research paper." (A TOTAL LIE, and I can't believe how easily the lie formed and came to save the day. I'm not proud.)

I continued, "Besides, we already spent hours filling the thing out, and now you're telling me it was lost in the mail?" He nodded and smiled. "You know what?" I said. "This Census reporting system is inefficient. I spent my time filling the thing out, and now you're here telling me it's lost. I just can't believe my tax dollars are paying for all this wasted time. Do you even know that our local schools are running out of paper? What's happening to this country?"

"When would be a better time to come back? It has to be filled out by Saturday," he said calmly.

"Well Friday and Saturday are busy, so is Sunday the Sabbath; it's Mother's Day. Then on Monday, it's my birthday."

"Happy birthday! " he said, resting his clipboard on his hip. "I understand you're so busy, but..."

I cut him off again, "You bet I'm busy. Then on Tuesday I have a dentist appointment, a presidency meeting, then I'm volunteering in the cafeteria, and going to two baseball games after that. Wednesday we have dance, Karate, piano practice. Then on Thursday I'm starting my period, and you'll want to steer clear, so looks likes you'll have to come back next month!"

"I'll let you decide when I can come back, but please remember that we really need to get this filled out. It's the law."

Just as I slammed the door on Garth, a little speck of doubt landed on my heart. Maybe I didn't actually mail it in, I thought. I ran back to my junk mail pile and flipped through months of old papers. Nothing. Then I slid open another drawer and rummaged through my note cards. Nothing. As I began closing the drawer, I heard something heavy slide down the backside of the cabinet. I opened the cupboard door and lo and behold, ding-ding-ding, there was the Census.

"You're a fat jerk," I said as I ran to catch Garth.

As he was pulling away he must of caught sight of my flailing arms in his rearview mirror. He stopped, then rolled backwards in his SUV, and before he could get his window down, I started, "I found it. Look right here. See it? I lied. I'm a big, fat jerk of a liar, and I'm so sorry. Do I still have to fill the report out with you?"

"Yes."

"Well I can't. You already know that. But I'm going to mail this right now. Then we'll see what happens. I know you're just doing your job, but you don't ever need to come back. I just came out to say sorry for being such a snot. Sorry."

"Apology accepted." And he drove away.

Sometimes I wish I were a little more civilized. I'm an embarrassment to this family of mine (and to mi Madre). I had better shape-up and fly right.

P.S. That's the face my homegurl will make when she hears about my latest shenanigans; she's embarrassed to be my daughter. I can't blame her.

P.P.S I really didn't tell Garth that I was starting my period; that's inappropriate.

If You Tell Me No...

2010-05-04T11:56:00.000-07:00

While I was a student at BYU, I remember hearing all about this so-called controversial professor, Brian Evenson. Do you remember hearing about him? His book, Altmann's Tongue, which a few critics labeled gratuitously violent, ruffled the minds of some students and faculty members.

I asked my friend, "What's the name of his book again? I need to buy it, like, ASAP." She looked at me puzzled, wondering why such a religious gal, like me, would want to purchase a book like that. I wanted to tell her I've always been the kind of gal who trades a "no" for a "yes." Like when the lifeguards at Hunt Park pool blow their whistles and tell me to stop running, I take that walk down to a jog. And when I'm not tall enough for the roller coaster at Six Flags, I stand on my tippy-toes, and when mi madre says, "Only one cookie, Katy." I stuff two more beneath my shirt.

I do say "yes" to obeying the commandments, though. Almost always.

The other day while I was in our study looking for a book on how to write a research paper without ripping your head bald in the process, I came across his book. I've never had the chance to read it, and so I opened the book and read its first line.

"He had that day found his daughter dead from what must have been the fever, her swollen eyes stretching her lids open."

"Oh, boy, have mercy," I thought to myself. Reading this story is way more interesting than reading about how to cite sources in APA format. "Brian, where ever you are, why are you tempting me with your gory story?"

He didn't answer me back, and so, I went to the computer to look him up. I've always wondered how his stay at BYU ended. Wondered if he had ever found a place to teach that was just right for him. If you're curious about his whereabouts, you can click here. A little hint: Brown University, Ivy League, hellou!

I don't know if I'll get a chance to finish reading Ultmann's Tongue; the gory genre tends to give me bad dreams. Besides, I have other books waiting in line, for instance, Anna Quindlen's Every Last One. Have you read it? Huh? Can you even put it down? But before you rush to Amazon, I must confess there are a few swears in that book. Now you see what I mean about obeying the commandments almost always. Pray for me.

Swine Divine

2010-04-26T08:52:00.001-07:00

On Saturday we took a sunny drive to Pinal County's Pork Shop. If you're a close friend of mine (Stephanie and mi Madre), you know I can't stand meat, especially swine in any variety. I was a vegetarian in high school and lived on Del Taco bean and cheese burritos for about 4 years. But I married a T. rex, a total carnivore, a man who could live on meat alone, who just this morning sawed apart a sausage log and ate it for breakfast. I've surrendered to the fact that a chica must please her man so that's why we made the drive. We must have meat. We must always have meat.

The Pork Shop was swarming with people, and we quickly gathered the following: 4lbs of peppered bacon, a jalapeno-cream cheese log, ribs, a bag of dried pork green chili sticks, AND a green chili burrito. (Are you puking your brains out right now?) I know, it's enough pork to feed the neighborhood.

Do you know what else will horrify you? Our family, in two days, has eaten it ALL. The swine was that delicious, and the green chili burrito is the best I've ever eaten. The best!

Anyhoo, as we were checking out of the Pork Shop, I kindly commented on the man's stache pictured above. I said, "That stache is manly." To which he replied, "My wife hates it." To which mi Amor replied, "I can't grow a stache at all." To which mustache man replied to mi Amor, "But you look like you have such soft skin." To which I replied,"He does. He does. That's so true! The softest skin in the deep blue sea!" End conversation, add awkward silence.

We paid fifty bucks and walked out of the Pork Shop, and on the way out mi Amor informed me, "Never comment on the manliness of a man's stache in front of your own man; it's just not a way to behave." To which I replied, "I'm sorry." Good news: It's Monday and we're still married.

P.S. I have a Mia Maid whose thirst for bacon is unquenchable and so I delivered a pound to her doorstep.

P.P.S. Looks like this chica needs reminding on how to treat her man. Any suggestions?

Fresh and Sleezy

2010-04-22T10:30:00.000-07:00

I'm not a pervert; that's just what mi Amor calls the store, Fresh and Easy. Can I just express my deep hatred for this store? Can I, huh? Can I?

1. It's a faux Trader Joe's. No one can duplicate Trader Joe's. No one.

2. You have to bag your own groceries. And that takes me hours due to the testy "Please place your item in the bag" computer lady.

3. I always come home with smashed hamburger buns.

4. The store employees bug. "Would you like a magnet?" "No thanks," I say. "My fridge has wood paneling." Then the man tells me, "I'll give you two, just in case you get a new fridge."

That's all for now.

P.S. Fresh and Sleezy does play some good music, though. I think Olivia Newton-John's "Let's Get Physical" was playing, and I did shake my junk and sing all the way down the cereal isle. Why would a religious gal like me enjoy dancing to such a scandalous song? Maybe I am a perve after all.

This Girl

2010-04-21T14:26:00.000-07:00

On the day she was born, I whispered in her ear: This girl will dance.

When she took her very first step, I enrolled her in a movement class. This girl, I thought, is headed for the Joffrey Ballet.

While she danced and twirled, I dreamed and plotted: Now I will give this girl the life she's always wanted.

Kick higher. Dance harder. Sweat until you are wrung dry. Fulfill your mother's deepest desire.

This girl danced; she did as she was told.

But then, on a certain day, this girl said, "I will not dance anymore."

"I want to kick the ball so hard it lands on the moon. I want to run like a gazelle and feel the wind whipping through my pony tail. This girl, mother, will not dance anymore."

While she kicked and scored, I sat and schemed: How will I get this girl to do what I've always wanted?

This girl, sovereign and strong, will make her own dreams come true. This girl will do what she was born to do.

P.S. The ever talented Shawni Pothier snapped this remarkable action shot of mi homegurl. I owe her big for capturing what I couldn't express with words.

The Loded Diper

2010-04-15T12:46:00.000-07:00

If you're a fan of Jeff Kinney's Diary of a Wimpy Kid book series, you'll appreciate knowing that my homie's replica of Roderick's beat-up van won 3rd place at this year's Pinewood Derby. His father and I couldn't be prouder.

You may also be interested in knowing that the author had originally intended on naming Roderick's van "Diaper Whip." You may want to use this as a conversation opener during tonight's dinner conversation.

Wish Me Luck

2010-04-14T18:01:00.000-07:00

My homies said, "Looks like you have a couple of banana peels on your feet. This comment made me try on another shoe. But then I said to myself, "You've got nothing to lose. You're wearing those banana boat shoes." Wish me luck!

P.S. You're thinking I should have gone with the other shoe. Shoulda ditched the Trina Turk diamond tights. Shoulda bought the Betsey Johnson dress you saw at Last Chance. Shoulda, Shoulda, Shoulda.

Something Close to New

2010-04-14T13:57:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I went to Last Chance in search of a dress to wear tonight's soiree of sorts. Mi Amor told me I could spend 100 bucks on something new, something dazzling, something that will bring the other danes to their knees, begging me for mercy.

We ladies know that whenever we're invited to hang on the arm of our beloved at a special event, we're really just dressing to impress (or outdo) the other ladies in the room. Maybe that's not the case for you, and maybe I've just been blessed with a sick and twisted mind.

I couldn't find a dress, so I ended up buying a pair of gold flip-flops and 2 T-shirts. Instead, I've decided to wow the other ladies with a gray sheath I purchased at Banana Republic about a year ago--so last season, I know. I'm pairing the dress with a pair of 4 inch, yellower than a NY taxi cab, heels.

I can do the Running Man and Robo Cop in those heels, and so, if I feel like I'm not winning tonight's beauty parade, I'll just challenge the other ladies to a dance-off. I'll win first place.

P.S. I just measured the heels and they're actually 5 inches. Impressive, if I do say so myself.

Sugar Sugar

2010-04-13T19:30:00.000-07:00

There isn't one thing I ate today that wasn't loaded with sugar--and fat. A slice of lemon cake, 4 chocolate macadamia nut truffles, imported from Hawaii (for your information), 2 Dr. Peppers, a handful of Japanese candy, and 3 Oreos. And I hate Oreos.

Tonight I hollered at my homies to "quit eating all that junk" while simultaneously pouring a box of Nerds into my wide-open jaws. What's wrong with me?

P.S. I just remembered that I did eat some edamame, so I guess I've been redeemed.

P.P.S. Mi Amor thought it was funny to take this picture of me when my glasses were broken, due to someone else's carelessness (names will go unmentioned), and I was suffering from a lengthy bout with pink eye. Can you believe how vile I look? Looks like the only friend I had in this situation was the Dr. Pepper nuzzled so comfortably in my hand.

Growing Hair While Waiting for a Ride

2010-04-08T09:03:00.000-07:00

Two of my homies have missed the bus for the last three days in a row. On the first day I said, "Tomorrow, we'll be better. We'll lay out our clothes and pack our lunches the night before." My homies agreed to do these things; and they did.

But the next day, due to my hanging out at the shaving sink with mi Amor, blabbering on and on to him about nothing (something about the ingredients found in belly lint), I let time slip by until, again, it was too late to catch the bus. That day I committed to zipping my lips, no matter how the next day's shave would beckon me to ask mi Amor how he felt about the founders of the Bumpits company. (Do you own one? Huh? Do you?)

So the next day is today, and we missed the bus again. Again! Can you even fathom this situation? We have no excuse. None. As I sat in the car this morning debating whether or not I could make the eight minute drive to the bus stop in three minutes, I turned to my homies and said, "No one cares about making the bus, especially you two. So I guess you won't care if you have to sit here for the next twenty minutes so you can think up a solution to this problem. They said, "Fine. We'll sit here and think about it."

Twenty-plus minutes went by, and I really thought that after finishing my shower I'd find the two of them crouched in the pantry, eating chocolate covered pretzels.

"Boys!" I called out, while closing the shower door. But there was no answer. "They're still in the car!" I thought to myself. "They're taking our time management, bus-missing problem seriously!" Just as I finished assuming the very best case scenario, my littlest homie ran into the bathroom and said, "You've left us out in the car so long that I grew this mustache while you were gone. What do you think? Huh? Do I look like a gorgeous babe?"

I said, "I think I give up!" And then I took a closer look at his manly stache, and together, like two carefree hyenas, we laughed and laughed.

I'm so glad we missed today's bus.

P.S. The car was parked in the cool, shady garage.

P.P.S If you're curious about the ingredients found in belly lint, click here.

Raise Your Hand If You Need a Tan!

2010-04-07T11:05:00.000-07:00

MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! Somebody buy this chica some self-tanner. Madre?

I've been blinded by the light.

April Fool's Day

2010-04-01T08:25:00.000-07:00

Most every year (when I'm thinking straight), I play a little April Fool's Day joke on my homies. This morning on our way home from the gym, I said to mi Amor, "Let's really fool them. Let's cook a frozen pizza, and when they wake-up we'll say they slept through the day and now it's time for dinner."

Mi Amor rolled his eyes and said, "L-A-M-E!"

"Instead," he suggested. "We'll fill their breakfast plates with broccoli!" (Remember my kids are allergic to anything healthy?) Then we'll say, "Breakfast is served!" Dunt Dunt Dah! (insert villainous music here).

I thought to myself, "I think I married Einstein because this idea is brilliant!"

One by one my homies wobbled out of their rooms and found their place at the breakfast table.

I said in a cheery voice, "Get it while you can! Fresh organic broccoli, hand selected especially for you, this very morning from Walmart's produce department!" My homies were not amused, and the littlest started crying, flinging his body to the ground in absolute horror. (5 solid years of breakfast with Toucan Sam will cause a child to react in such a way.)

I was ready to keep playing along, especially since the other two had begun taking petite bites of their broccoli. I delighted in watching them pucker, chew, and swallow in pure disgust. They are so trusting, really. Can you believe they believe I know what's best for them?

As I began telling my littlest homie to get-up to the table so he could grow some hair on his chest, I remembered that I had forgotten to wash the broccoli. A bit panicked (because who knows what kind of germs lurk on unwashed organic broccoli), I said, "Halt the veggie feast, ya'll!" Then, like a ray of April Fool's Day light, mi Amor came into the kitchen, tall and sweaty. There he stood, balancing a box of day-old donuts on his hand like a waiter delivering a feast to a table full of neglected and starving children.

He's a genius, I tell you. Because who looks like the Wicked Witch of the West now?

The End of Me

2010-03-30T18:25:00.000-07:00

Why did I just inhale an entire family-sized bag of Reese's Pieces peanut butter eggs? Where's the self-control, chicas?

I'm blaming my growing gut-pooch on the Mia Maids, because on Sunday, one of my girls handed out eggs filled with these little bits-of-heaven. After emptying 4 eggs--I repeat, 4 eggs into my mouth, I said to myself, "On the morrow, when it's no longer the Sabbath day, I'm going to buy my own supply." I bought a ginormous bag at Walgreens on Monday, and 24 hours, 3 blackheads, and 2100 calories later, they're all g-o-n-e, and I ate every single one.

P.S. I just unbuttoned the top button on my button fly 501s (remember how cool those were)? I can now breathe. The church is still true.

P.P.S I ran out of Diet Dr. Pepper on the Sabbath and Basha's Fiesta cola vending machine was out-of-order. I went the whole day soda free, so maybe I can quit injecting myself with the junk. What do you think?

Rants and Swimsuits

2010-03-25T12:35:00.000-07:00

I've been working out at the gym, faithfully, since December. I've gained 15 pounds in my rear and gut, and I don't think the weight gain is due to the newly-grown muscles in my triceps. My rear is bursting out of my old jeans (just say no to crack), and I look five months pregnant. Every time I pass the hallway mirror, I suck-in my gut. Then I wish I could remove my gut-pooch and stuff it into my bra.

My point is: It's warming up outside, and the yappy birds in our backyard trees are reminding me that, soon, I'll be sitting poolside in my itty-bitty, yellow-polka dot tankini. And that reminder made me wish that didn't have to wear a swimsuit with a padded top. Did you know stuffing with toilet paper doesn't work? The toilet paper sags then scatters into pieces, once you've gotten into the pool. A total disaster. Trust me, I should have a PhD in this topic. (Hannah will die when she reads this. And you know what else? She and I have the same bra size, and I'm not kidding one bit.)

Last night I flexed my biceps for the Mia Maids, and they were totally impressed. I told the girls, "If you ever need me to kick someone's butt for you, I'll do it." That's what good Mia Maid leaders do: encourage Personal Progress and kick butts. (Such crass language from such a religious gal, I do say.)

Anyhoo, I want to tell you that I got an "A" in my writing class, two points shy of a perfect "A." Are you so proud of me? I just want to give a shout out to Professor Deakin for being such an AWESOME teacher--I adore her to her bones.

P.S. I can't take credit for that bodacious bicep. It belongs to my brother, Chris. My bicep is almost as big, though.

Globe Obsessed

2010-03-22T23:31:00.000-07:00

Have you ever wanted something so badly
that it possessed your body & your soul
through the night & through the day?

That's how I'm feelin' about this here globe I spotted at Anthropologie today. I want it bad, and I've been thinking about it all day long. But it's 148 buckaroos and something that expensive needs approval from 'da boss, aka, mi amor.

So, at tonight's 9 o'clock showing of Diary of a Wimpy Kid (I heart Rowley), I popped the question. "Can I buy the globe I saw at Anthropologie for 148.00? It's on sale, half-off, a total bargain, and the only one of its kind!"

He took a bite of popcorn and a sip of soda and said, "N-O." Just like that, "no."

So that's why I'm blogging to you right now. I wanted to let you know that tonight I'll be dreaming about winning the Lotto. And when I win the jackpot, my first purchase will be...that globe. Pray for me.

P.S. Maybe I'll call mi madre and tell her about this globe situation.

P.P.S It's not against the law to take your kids to the movies on a school night, even when it's past their bedtime. Plus, when you take your kids to the movies at 9 o'clock on a school night you get the theater all to yourselves. Now that's what I call a memorable fhe. Or maybe that's what you call poor planning. It's a toss-up, really.

Back in Black

2010-02-09T07:42:00.000-08:00

Have I been a flaky writer or what? I'm back, though, and stronger than ever.

So I'm three weeks into school now, and I'm loving every minute of it. On the first night of class, my writing professor gave us a series of writing prompts. Every time she'd give us a topic to write about, my mind would go, "You're too old for this, Grandma. Do you see all these sweet, young honeys around you, writing up bits of brilliance? Their minds are fresher, stronger than yours. Go home old goat; it's not too late to drop-out."

I walked out of that night's class thinking, "Katy, you're not letting your mind go there. Remember your step class at the gym? You used to be the worst, but now you're second to worst (sorry, Kevin). This time, you're not giving up. You're going to crank it up AC*DC style, and you ain't never looking back."

I'm Back in Black, Chicas!

Foxy Lady

2010-01-19T08:59:00.000-08:00

Here I am, posing in a gas station, on our way home from Utah. I couldn't believe the amount of beef jerky that place stocked. I really wanted to buy the above pictured keychain, but I resisted and settled for a bag of Funyuns. Not so foxy.

Sun Devil

2010-01-04T23:42:00.000-08:00

I'm officially a Sun Devil. That's right, sweet chicas; I'm going back to school on 1-19-10. Can you even believe it?

I'm nervous. Nervous like when I had my first real kiss or when I had to sing the National Anthem at my high school's track meet. Nervous like the first time I got pulled over for speeding. "My dad is going to K-I-L-L me!" I cried to the cop. My dad didn't kill me. I think it was because my eyes were swelled-shut from blubbering all the way home.

Tonight, as I loaded the dishwasher, I turned to mi Amor and said, tears starting to brim, "Do you think I can do it? Get my master's degree? Be real with me. Seriously. I don't want to fail, and then waste all our money in the process."

You know what he said? He said, "There's no doubt in my mind that you can do it."

I'm taking his word for it; and he'd better be right.

Now the question I have for you right now is: Do you think I should show my ASU Sun Devil spirit by redecorating our bedroom like the above posted picture. Too extreme?

It's All a Blur

2009-12-18T08:49:00.000-08:00

That's me, on the left, doing my thang at a Nordstrom trunk show. The picture was taken two years ago, and it's the only tangible memory I have from doing the show. When I downloaded the picture, I was bummed that it turned out so blurry. I knew I'd have to squint to see all the hours I had spent on making those hair accessories.

I look at this picture every now and again, and for some reason this thought always comes to mind: Don't waste time on things that profit you little or nothing. My little tryst with Nordstrom wasn't unprofitable or a waste of time, but all the trunk shows took place during the holidays. As you could imagine, I was already up to my eyeballs with other holiday responsibilities and adding four trunk shows into the mix wasn't easy--at all.

I was a SWAMP WITCH from November 1st until January 1st. I cried and yelled more times than I care to share, and my kids got used to saying, "We won't bother you while you're making clips." I was making clips for three months straight, so they didn't have a mother until Christmas day.

Was it worth it?

Yes and no.

I'll always be glad to have the accomplishment. But every time my kids look at that picture, they say, "Remember all those clips?" It's a loaded question, so I always leave it alone, unanswered.

P.S. The girl standing next to me is the Kids' Wear manager. I got to know her really well, so well, in fact, I ended up giving her a BOM. While standing in between the kids' clothes and cases of Dior sunglasses, I bore my testimony about Joseph Smith and the restoration of the gospel. It was gutsy of me, I know.

So my point is: Maybe it was all worth it, just for that one little part.

P.P.S Behaving like a swamp witch is never justifiable, right?

Choppin' Broccoli

2009-12-09T08:22:00.000-08:00

I laughed like crazy when I read my homie's essay, "My Least Favorite Food." He's such a lover of anything that will clog his arteries: bacon, sausage, chips, processed cheese food, logs of butter. I can never get enough fruits and veggies into his diet, so I wasn't surprised to read his loathing for anything green.

For your entertainment:

My Least Favorite Food

My least favorite food is broccoli. I think they should invent a broccoli deflector. Literally, it's that bad. It's super nasty, and I barfed the first time I had it. It looks like a rotten tree. It is horribly rotten and do you know what the color of poison is? GREEN! So I'm never eating broccoli again. I would rather race around the world than eat broccoli. If it were alive it would be hideous and taste hideous. So that's why I hate evil broccoli.

The End

P.S. I hope he goes on a mission to Taiwan. After he has a serving of chicken claw stew (talons and all), he'll never turn his back on broccoli again. Never.

Handel It.

2009-12-05T22:51:00.000-08:00

I grew up listening to this version of Handel's Messiah. I love it more than a chocolate bar or a bowl of rocky road. I dare say it's one of my all time favorite things. Yesterday, on my way to picking up the kids from school, I blasted track 7, "And He Shall Purify." I sang along like I was the first chair soprano in the Mo Tab. (I know there's really no such thing, right?) I could only sing to about the middle of the song. Then I had to windshield wipe the tears from my face. Christmas isn't Christmas without a lot of, "And He shall reign for ever and ever..." You feelin' me?

P.S. Did you know Frederick Handel was down in the dumps financially and mentally when he composed Messiah? It only took him 24 days to complete the entire score. Amazing. That's what mi madre told me, anyway, and she's right 110% of the time.

Sacagawea

2009-11-24T07:46:00.000-08:00

The other night I was dead-dog tired. And you know, when the mama is dead-dog tired, the demands begin to swarm like gnats on a hot summer's day. It's God's way of teaching us patience and long-suffering.

After three hours of homework (seriously), an hour of piano practice, cooking dinner, and bath time, I was D-O-N-E. The afternoon had quickly turned to night, and I could hardly wait for 8:30 to flash on our microwave's digital clock.

"It's time for bed, people." I clapped and hollered as I marched up the hallway to check what was going on in the brightly lit bathroom. My homies had been in there, fonching around, for the last ten minutes. I turned the corner, surprised to find wads of toilet paper, dotted with blood, scattered across the bathroom counter.

"My tooth came out." Sam said, turning to show me the blood pumping from his back molar.

"Awesome, Bud. Go to bed." I said, patting him on the back.

"The Tooth Fairy will come tonight. That tooth was hard to get out, Mom."

"I bet it was, Bud. Bed." I said, like a broken record.

Here's the thing: The Tooth Fairy and I were out of cold, hard cash. We were also exhausted to the max. That's why we decided on using the Sacagawea I had found in the dryer the day before. Sue me, and kick me down the street. I now realize that the Tooth Fairy and I stink like toe jam. The old, dirty coin was a heartless and lazy gift. I get it.

I busted a gut when I found Sam's written response to the Tooth Fairy, which was left on his bedroom floor, next to his bed:

Dear Tooth Fairy,

I was expecting more of a gift. I am not trying to be rude but I think you could put a little more efort into that (Not trying to be rude).

Love,

Sam

The story gets more pathetic. I loved the note so much, I stuffed it into my underwear drawer. I wanted to save it forever. Later that day, Sam found it and asked, "How did the Tooth Fairy's note get in here?"

I stood there, speechless.

P.S. In case you were wondering, I did ask Sam what in the tarnation was he doing, shuffling around in my undergarment business. Apparently he was looking for Christmas presents.

Sweet Potato

2009-11-21T11:46:00.000-08:00

(image via skiptomylou.org)

I'm the only one in my family who loves sweet potatoes, and I bake them once a year, on Thanksgiving, just for myself. I've searched high and low for the best recipe, and I've finally found it. I could just kiss Hilary Weeks for providing this next to perfect recipe. It's the best in the west. Seriously.

Sweet Potato mixture:
3 cups cooked, mashed sweet potato, skins off
1 cup sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon vanilla
2 eggs, well beaten
1 stick butter, melted

Crust mixture:
1 cup brown sugar
1/3 cup flour
1 cup chopped pecans
1/3 stick butter, melted

Instructions:
Boil or steam sweet potatoes, drain, remove skins, set aside. In a mixing bowl thoroughly combine the ingredients for the sweet potato mixture. Pour into buttered 9-inch square baking dish. Bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes or until firm.

Combine crust mixture ingredients in a bowl. Sprinkle surface of baked sweet potato mixture with crust mixture. (This uses the word “mixture” a lot. Has anyone else noticed that?) Broil briefly just until crust is golden brown. Allow to set for at least 30 minutes before serving. (Tom said the crust mixture burned easily on the broil setting. He recommended putting it on before the sweet potatoes bake and letting it bake along with it. You do what you feel good about.)