Take Care of Your Girls

I dread mammograms, do you?  It's a yearly ritual that's tempting to avoid.  But go I must, so go I do.

My mom died of breast cancer -- she ignored the yearly ritual, and a lump that was the size of a golf ball.  Enough said.


So first thing this morning, I marched myself into the ugly brick building that houses the mammogram center, signed the brown clip board and took a seat on the orange vinyl chair, with palms sweating, and heart trying to stay calm. 

There's something about having your girls smashed between two pieces of metal that makes me a little nervous . . . okay, a lot nervous.  Once, about 16 years ago, I got a technician that said "I'm sorry, I'm just not getting a good read on this because your tissue is too dense."  She said it 4, I repeat, 4 times, tightening the vice, each time she said it.   Having your size 36 D boobs completely flattened isn't something you want to experience over and over again within a 10 minute period, trust me on this one.   I left the office that day feeling the way an orange must feel when it has been squeezed to death and wondered if my mis-shaped "girls" would ever need another bra.


Today's experience was a little better, there was only one moment of searing pain.  As the technician was tightening away, she told me that a woman had recently come in for her mammogram dressed as a clown -- she worked as a clown and was on her way to a party.    That visual was just too funny.   I laughed so hard I needed to bend over, but I couldn't because I was trapped.     I'm mean, who in the world wears a clown suit to get a mammo??  A working woman, that's who.  Sometimes you do what you've gotta do, right?

I left today feeling pretty good knowing that I wouldn't have to do this again for another year.  I hope I get the same technician on my next visit.  She was nice.


I think all mammogram centers should have See's chocolate truffles waiting for you when you are done.   Because if you ever needed a treat, mammogram day is the day.  Just sayin.

Have you had your yearly checkup yet?  If not, I advise you to suck it up, and do it.  If a busy clown can make time, so can you.   But, on appointment day, take a candy bar with you -- You'll need the comfort of chocolate to aid your recovery.

Not What She Expected

Anna got in the car this morning and I said "Hey Anna!  How was your weekend?"

This was her response:

Well,my grandma wanted to take us to breakfast, and I was all excited until she said "Let's go to McDonalds!!!!!!!"   I said "Nooooo!"  So she took us to Dennys instead, which is not much different is it?   I hate Dennys.

Then I when we were almost done, my aunt called and said "I'm starving!  Stay there!"  And then she showed up and we had to sit there another whole hour.  So boring -- sitting there in Denny's listening to a bunch of old people talking.

So then, I had to go to the bathroom and my little boy cousin said "I have to go too" and he followed me into the bathroom.   So I set him on the toilet seat, because he's only two, and before I knew it, he was peeing all over me!  He peed all over my new shirt, and my shoes, and he just kept peeing and peeing.  Boy he pees a lot!   And I just stood there with pee all over me.    


Then I walked out of the bathroom and yelled at my aunt and said "You. Need.  To. Deal. With. This." as I stood there with pee all over my face.


I don't need to tell you that I almost wrecked the car this morning listening to Anna's story.    She is soooooooo funny.  And what makes her funny is that she doesn't try to be funny.  She just is.

I just love driving the carpool.  It's always good for a laugh.

The Weekly Summit

Once a week, I meet my friends for breakfast at the local diner.  We've been frequenting this place since the day it opened it's doors 12 years ago.  All the waitresses know us by name, and we know them.   They bring us beverages without having to order, because they know what we drink.  I love it here.   Especially when the owner gets on the microphone and tries to get us to buy sweet corn, which he sells during the summer months.   He just won't let it die -- the corn I mean.   I think he just wants an excuse to use the loud speaker.  We all burst out laughing together the minute we hear him say for the umpteeth time "folks, we have some delicious sweet corn here . . . . "   It's nice to have things you can count on.  


Sitting in the turquoise booth sipping diet Coke, we solve the world's problems and share the secrets of our lives.   When we first started coming here, we all had toddlers.  Our conversations revolved around play dates, and elementary school, with a little "my husband" or "why am I having such a hard time with this" thrown in for good measure.


Now we have teens and college students.  We've learned a thing or two as we've dined on bacon and eggs, and we've weathered many storms.  I am thankful that I've had this place, and these women to help me through them.   They are my rocks.  When I share my troubles, they remind me that I am stronger than I know.  And I remind them of the very same thing . . . when they need me.


As we pay our tab, we all leave feeling a little bit better about our lives.


I am a lucky woman to have such wonderful friends. And a diner, where I can meet them for our Weekly Summit.

Take the Wheel Chef Boyardee

I am done driving the chuck wagon.  I really am.  Last night, I threw in the towel.  I've decided that I do not enjoy cooking for kids. 

Do. Not. 

Which is sad really, because in my heart I'm a "wanna be" Food Network star.   Sometimes I practice when no one is home.

Over the past 15 years, my dreams have been dwindling because of the likes of this:


"What is that stuff????? I looks like sewage."


"I don't like my foooood to touchhhh!"

"Why are you making homemade rolls?  We like Pillsbury!"


"You put ketchup on my plate, I haaaaaate ketchup!"


"Why can't you just be a normal mom and make Kraft Macaroni and Cheese?"


"This tastes like a Barbie doll dunked in chlorine." (My daughter actually said that to me. It's a classic quote at our house now.)


This week my refrigerator was stocked with leftover goodness -- scones, chocolate trifle, flank steak, chicken crepes, fruit, lemon curd . . . you name it, it was in there.


But, every time someone opened the refrigerator door, I heard


"Maaaaaan, when are you going to the store, there's NOTHING to eat in here!"


I give up.   It's time to start buying cans.  Lots and lots of cans.

How it Ended.

I've been fretting about Book Blub for months. You already know I searched high and low to find the perfect book. Well I should have searched a litter higher . . . and lower. I should not have listened to 5 of my friends who all said in separate conversations "Oh you just have to read Three Cups of Tea, it's seriously one of the best books I've read in years."

Here's how it went down:

I ignored the suggestions of friends and picked a book I read about on the Barnes and Noble website called "The Elegance of the Hedge Hog." It got rave reviews by hundreds of readers so I just knew that this was the perfect book. I bought it and sat down one night to get immersed in a great story. On page 10, I realized that trouble was on the horizon. I needed a dictionary by my side the entire time I was reading just to figure out all the huge words. And let me just mention that I don't shy away from a challenging read like Dickens, or Austin, or the Book of Mormon. (Did I also mention that this book was first written in French and translated into English?) So I panicked. I emailed the Book Club and said "There's been a change of plans . . . . Hedge Hog is out, Buy Three Cups of Tea instead. "

Email sent, I bought Three Cups of Tea, which I had not yet read. Mistake number 2. One night, I settled down in my favorite chair and cracked it open. On page 10, I realized I had just purchased the most boring book in the world. Every single night thereafter I picked up the book and started to read. I couldn't even make it through 5 pages before I fell asleep. And that is something I've never done in my life -- fallen asleep while reading. Normal me would stay up until the crack of dawn to finish a good book. And believe me, I have done that on several occasions. But Three Cups --- I just couldn't do it. I couldn't even finish it!!!!!!!!! Me. The host of September Book Club, didn't finish the book. I don't think anyone has ever done that in the 10 years that we have been together. That was mistake number 3.

Now before you get me wrong, let me just say that what Greg Mortensen accomplished is most noble. And, he is a man I admire -- greatly. It's just that he is not a writer, nor is the person who helped him write the book. Sometimes it was in first person, sometimes third person. They went off on so many tangents I forgot what was happening in the story. And there was boring technical climbing jargon that only a climber would care about. (I think people who want to climb K-2 are insane. Just sayin.) It was like reading a college text book from cover to cover -- and who wants to do that for Book Club? Not me. Not my friends.

So the day of Book Club came. I spent hours and hours preparing a humble offering of food to make up for such a bad read. On the menu:

Lemon Ricotta Pancakes with Homemade Raspberry Syrup and Lemon Curd
Potato's Gratin with Bacon and Leeks
Artichoke & Goat Cheese Strata
Trifle
Apricot Scones with Clotted Cream
Mixed Berries
Citrus Water
Diet Coke (the most important part of any Book Club)

Sounds good, huh. It was sub par. I didn't manage my time well so some of the humble offering never even made it to the breakfast table -- like the lemon ricotta pancakes. The homemade syrup and lemon curd were there, but not the pancake. I just couldn't finish, which seems to be a reoccurring theme in this story -- mistake number 4.

So then everyone came to my house. By this time I was hot and sweaty, and really tired from cooking and cleaning and trying to read a boring book. When we sat down to eat, I said "What Did You Think?" And these were the answers:

Didn't read it.
Hated it.
Boring-est book ever.
Didn't read it.
Didn't read it because I heard everyone who was reading it hated it.
It has replaced Tylenol P.M. at my house. Just start reading and you will fall asleep.
Me too.

Then we all laughed our heads off. It was epic. Then I said "This will go down in history as the suck-iest book club we've ever had." We laughed some more, and ate sub-par food for 2 hours and had a wonderful time talking about how we never want to climb Mt. Everest.

When it was over, my friend Julie said "Good thing we always emphasis the food or there would have been no Book Club today -- well . . . other than talking about how much we hated Three Cups.

And I said "Maybe we should change the name of our Book Club to "The Food and Sometimes Book Club."

It was unanimous. The Food and Sometimes Book Club will be meeting next month at Kristi's house. Care to join us?

Conversations in the Carpool

Anna: I hate my bangs today. They are all separated and weird.

Me: Anna! Are you having a bad hair day????? Me too!

Anna: Yeah, it's a bad hair day for sure.

Eden: Now that you mention it mom, your hair is molded to the back of your seat. Did you just decide not to style it today?? Was it one of those "I just give up days," like in Bermuda?

Me: No Eden, I actually tried to have good hair today.

Eden: Anna, you should have seen my mom in Bermuda. When we first got there, she spent all this time trying to do her hair, and then, she just gave up. You probably liked that huh Mom, not even having to try, cuz in Bermuda, nobody even cared.

Me: I gave up because it was so humid! But yeah, I admit, it was kind of nice having a hair vacation.

Anna: My hair stays the same when it's humid.

Me: You are lucky Anna, because my hair does not. Mine looks like Einstein having a bad hair day.

Eden: Good thing it's not humid today, because your hair would be even worse. Huh mom. I'm going to take a picture of the back of your head when we get home so you can see how bad it really is.

Bartering

I've met some lovely women lately, and this is one of them.



Sarah Sample is a singer/songwriter/mother who lives near my favorite mountains -- the Tetons. I discovered her music on CJane a couple of weeks ago and sent her a note to tell her how much I loved her gift of song. It's soulful, and haunting -- it speaks to my heart.

She sent me a note back and suggested a trade. I'm so flattered when really, really, talented people want to barter. (I always get the better end of the deal.)

I sent her these.



And these.


And Sarah sent me all of her music CDs.

This is my new favorite song. I seriously can't get it out of my head.




You can buy her CD here.

Sandwich Protocol.

I went to lunch today with good friends. We met up in the afternoon for deliciousness.

The conversation went something like this:

Me: Hey that sandwich looks good. What did you get?

Erin: Cobb. Soooo good! You should try it next time we come here.

Kristy: Your sandwich looks good too. What did you get?"

Me: Roast Beef with Blue Cheese Spread. It's soooooo, soooooo good! I crave this thing.

Bobette: I've always wanted to try that one, but I'm just can't leave Cobb. I love it that much.

Kristy: Me too. I'm loyal to Cobb.

Erin: Me too. You should try it Crystal. It's sooooo good. This bread is to die for.

Me: I can't. I am in love with Roast Beef with Blue Cheese. I can't leave him either. He's too good to me.

***

Glad we got that matter resolved -- our loyalties are now clear. There will be no trade-sies when we visit Great Harvest.

Rip Van Winkle

Last Sunday, I went in search of Autumn. I didn't see much, just a few red berries, and a hint of yellow in the Aspen.

I was tired, so I decided to sit down in a grove of trees and rest my eyes for a minute.

I think I had a really good nap because at some point, I woke up with a start, and a giant dog was staring at me face to face.

It scared me to death!

Then I heard a girl call "Eden, Eden! Here boy!" which was really weird because that's my son's name.

I wondered if I was dreaming.

But I wasn't dreaming because the dog slobbered on me. Then he barked and ran to some women who were out for a walk.

I must have looked like a hobo lying against the tree with my blanket because they were all laughing.

Remind me not to doze off again like that in the woods, will you?

My Drug of Choice

I have an addiction that I'm not proud of: Carmex. You read that right -- Carmex.

I have to have Carmex on my mouth at all times. I do. And it has to be Carmex. Nothing else will suffice. I've become dependent. I need a fix every hour. There must be some secret chemical added to this Yellow Tube of Goodness, because I've had this addiction for years and years. I got hooked in high school.

I buy tubes of the stuff. There is one in every room of my house, not to mention the car, my purse, my pocket, and Matt's car.

Sad. I know.

Now you would think with all this Carmex in the house I would be able to avert any chapped lip crisis that comes my way. Wrong!

Last night while my family was fast asleep, I was getting ready for bed. I reached for some Carmex -- it was gone! I went to my secret emergency stash for a new tube . . . all of it was missing!

I started to get a little frantic so I crept downstairs and fished through my purse. Nothing!!!!

Who is this Carmex thief??????? How do they know about the secret stash!!

I'm pretty certain if I could have made my way through the maze of shoes and cloths in the Black Hole I would have found it all in Claire's purse. But it's just too risky in the dark. Then again, Eden has been known to steal a tube or two. I've discovered it on occasion in his pockets.

I'm sort of bugged. My kids know I have Carmex issues and still they plunder. They don't even like Carmex. The prefer Blistex, which is a good thing because it probably doesn't have addictive properties.

I couldn't sleep last night! I lay there and felt my lips getting chappier as the night wore on. It was torture.

You better believe the first thing I did this morning was drive to Walmart and purchase about 20 tubes.


Eden and Claire, read these freshly Carmexed lips:

Keep Out! :)

Invitation

One more word about Spark. I think all of my creative blogging friends need to go next year. Wouldn't it be a fun way to meet? Start saving now girls -- every one of you would love it! And what would make it even more fun for me, is to be there with you!!!!

Let me know if you are interested, and I'll give you a heads up as soon as I hear about the next one. (I know people, who know people.)

Check out the blogs of two lovely women I met there -- Jasmine & Emily. They inspire me. And I covet their dreads.


Post Script: In answer to your questions . . . it costs about $1,000 for the weekend. That includes Spark fee, plane, hotel and rental car.

Spark No. 2

I've spent the last two days with over 200 pairs of shoes.


Each pair is as unique as it's owner. Some are fancy with high, high heels. Others are simple and understated.

Every single one has traveled a different road -- they've seen bumps and steep hills, and beautiful sweeping views.

But as different as all these shoes are, they have something in common -- they belong to women who love to create, with a desire to share it with others.

It was humbling to be among them. I learned so much from every single pair of shoes there.

I learned how to do this . . .



and I made one of these,



I laughed

and cried,

and softly sang along with Mindy Gledhill (although she didn't know it).

My soul was filled. And I left happier than I came.

Thank you Sparkers for rekindling the flame within me.

It was another wonderful year.

The Name Game

I'm sitting in the food court of the San Diego International Airport with my laptop and a McDonald's cheeseburger. I'm surrounded on all sides by businessmen with computers and cell phones. Everyone looks so professional -- serious faces, serious conversations, and computer screens full of spreadsheets. And then there's me snapping pictures of my McDonald's bag while blogging. Where are all the young college people -- the Facebookers, and web surfers? I feel so out of place sitting here with all these worker bees.

I shut off my computer and mosey down to the gate. There in the pleather chairs sits a herd of senior citizens all waiting for the flight to Utah. It's so funny. There isn't a young person in site. Are these the early birds -- the people who arrive 2 hours early as instructed by the airport authorities? I'm one of them, so I can't mock them too much. I was here promptly at 11:00 -- my flight leaves at 1:00. I'm guessing that all the cool people arrive fashionably late.

I sit down next to an Indian couple, and a man with curly hair that looks a little like my old neighbor wearing a wig. Suddenly, all of these men come walking up to Curly Hair. One says "Hey man, I just love what you do. You are amazing!" Curly sheepishly smiles and says "Thanks, I love what I do too." Then another guy says "Where you headed?" Curly says "There's a race in Utah this weekend." The fans all nod. One old man pats Curly on the shoulder and says "Hey good luck. I'll be rootin' for you." Then someone else says "Can I have your autograph?" Curly pulls out a pen and begins to write.

As Curly is writing, I lean over to one of the groupies and ask "Who is that guy?" Because, of course, I want to be in the know if I'm sitting next to someone famous. I might want to chit chat or sneak a picture with my phone.

The groupie whispers "That's Boris Said the race car driver!" But this is what I heard:

"That's Morris Set the race car driver!

Well, as you can imagine, I am not a NASCAR or road racing enthusiast, so I had no interest in pulling out my phone or making friends. I let the old men have all the glory. But, Matt is a huge fan of racing -- as you might recall, he has secret dreams of becoming a race car driver himself. So I sent him a text that said "Hey, guess who I'm sitting next to in the airport -- Morris Set, the NASCAR driver!"

Matt replied "Never heard of him. Did you get his autograph?" I found it funny that he thought I should ask for an autograph when he didn't know who Morris Set was either.

Just as I had suspected, a large group of young people showed up just as we were about to board the flight. It was a bumpy, knuckle gripping ride. It makes me a nervous wreck. I have to close my eyes and think happy thoughts --- raindrops on roses, and whiskers on kittens kind of stuff.

When we landed, I made my way over to the rental car area, along with Curly. As I stood there in line, I learned that I am pretty deaf and need to pay more attention when people are whispering important information. Curly approached the counter, and the Budget Rental Car staff (all women) totally recognized him. One said Hey Boris, can I have your autograph! That's when I figured out that Morris was really Boris -- Boris Said.

Good thing I never uttered a "Good luck Morris" tiding while we were sitting next to each other. It could have been embarrassing for both of us.

When I got to my hotel I called Matt. I said "Well, Morris Set is really Boris Said." Then Matt said "Ohhhhh, Boris Said, the French road racer! (See, I knew he would know.) We laughed.



Then Matt said "Hey Penny Marshall called you to see if you could teach Sunday school this weekend, but I told her you were out of town."

I said "Do you mean Margie Marshall our neighbor??? We both started laughing again and Matt said "Well, I watched an episode of Laverne and Shirley last weekend so I think I blame it on that!"

Whatever the reason, I'm glad I'm not the only one who has issues with names.

Off to Visit Fall

I'm off to the mountains. I can hardly wait to see Autumn making her debut along the Wasatch Front. And I'm even more excited that it might be cool enough to wear a sweater!

If you are lucky, I might post a few pictures after my photography lesson with Blue Lily. But really, I'm the lucky one -- Autumn, Blue Lily, and the Sweet Tooth Fairy Bakery all in the same place at the same time. It doesn't get much better than that (unless you throw in lunch at Cafe Rio).

I'm breaking my Celiac diet for one short hour -- even if it means I have to suffer later.


Post Script: I'm giving away jewelry this weekend on my giveaway blog. Check it out!

The Monkey on My Back

This room is driving me insane! Insane I tell you.

I stay up nights worrying about it. It's an important room -- it's where I do all my work. Only I avoid going in there at all costs because it's such a disaster. Seriously, you have to climb over mounds of stuff just to get to the desk. I can't even sit in my chair because it's covered with piles of scrapbook paper, which is kind of funny because I don't scrapbook.

Every time someone comes over to buy jewelry, I trip my way into the room making apologies as I go "Sorry about this, I've been crazy busy" I say. I always get a kind response, but I know what you are thinking ..... you are thinking "This place could be on the HGTV show Hoarders." It really is that bad.

I know it, and I know you know it too my friends.

Sorry, it's the monkey on my back, and I'm having a hard time getting rid of it.

Last week during my nocturnal spree, I worked on the monkey, all the while thinking "I wish someone would send a letter in to HGTV and get a professional organizer over here to re-do this room. It might be worth the embarrassment to get some shelves and a desk with drawers to store my hoard of beads. There's only one hitch -- I would have to talk someone into being my "stand-in/stunt woman", because they say television adds 20 pounds, and I can't afford that, if you know what I mean.

I have to say, I made some headway last week. I can walk across the floor now without tripping over boxes. And I can sit in my chair. I moved the paper stack to another corner where it is awaiting a cute storage box that I'm going to buy at Walmart one of these days. I'm feeling pretty hopeful.

This week, I'm going to tackle the work table.

Wish me luck. I really want this monkey gone by Halloween, 2010. (Notice I put the year in there, just so you know I mean business. Monkey business.)

Caveat

For a person who complains a lot about the proper pronunciation of words, I guess I better issue a caveat -- I follow my own rules when it comes to punctuation and grammar.

I use dots and dashes like a cook uses salt and pepper. I have no idea if I'm even using them correctly ------------ and I don't even care. I put those in there for effect . . . . . . . . . so what I write sounds like how I would say it.

Hence, big fonts for yelling, lots of ?????? marks when I want to make a passionate point -- and dashes . . . . and dots.

I'm out of control, I know.

I apologize to all the English majors out there.

Opposite Ends

Are you a night owl or an early bird?

I am a night owl. I love staying up late. I'm guessing that it's a mom thing because I sure see a lot of women online catching up on emails in the late hours of the night. (You know who you are.)

I just get started around 11:00 p.m. and I can go for hours. My teenagers are the same way -- but it wasn't always the case. When they were little, they were early, early birds! I remember being fast asleep and getting the feeling that someone was staring at me. I would open one eye, and there was Claire, standing by the bed, in the wee hours of the morning. She would say "Is it time to get up yet?" I'd say "No Claire, when you see the sun, and the birds start to sing, it's time to get up." I'd roll over and go back to sleep. She'd go back to her room and play. She was kind like that.

As you might guess, being nocturnal doesn't work out to well if you are married to an early bird. Matt is an early bird. He loves going to bed at 9:00 p.m. and waking up at 5:00. He even gets up early on weekends. It drives him nuts that we don't like to follow the early bird routine. Sometimes on Saturdays, he shakes the Owlets and says "What are you doing still asleep -- it's 7:30 for heaven's sake! He's completely given up on me. Now when he sees me sleeping-in, he just rolls his eyes. (But in my defense, I was busy as a beaver while he was in dreamland.)

The Early Bird rules at our house, the lights go out at 10:00. On weekdays, I'm fine with that -- he has a real job and needs to be on the road by 6:00 for the long commute into San Diego, and the kids have school. But on weekends, not so much. Sometimes I want to stay up late and watch movies -- he wants to get up early and ride his bike.

But, when Matt's out of town, well that's another story -- anything goes. I can stay up as long as I want. And I do. I love it. I get SO much done. Probably because there are no interruptions. My kids are sleeping, my dog is sleeping, and so is the rest of the town -- except for the Pechanga gamblers down the street.

Last night, I stayed up until 2:00 making jewelry, folding laundry, and reading a good book that I just couldn't put down -- Pope Joan. It's my second time around reading Joan, but it seems like a new book since I first read it about 10 years ago and can't remember a thing about it -- except that it was good.



I finally forced myself to sleep because I knew I'd have to get up in a few hours and drive the car pool. Just as I hit R.E.M., I got a butt call from the Early Bird. Only it wasn't early in India, it was late afternoon -- 3:00 p.m. approximately. With a groggy voice, I whispered in the phone --- "Maaaaatttttt. Maaaattttt, your butt is dialing!!!" He didn't even hear me because he was busy chatting way with someone else -- a man with an Indian accent. It's kind of funny listening to the conversation on the other end of a butt call -- not so funny when you are half asleep.

I'm thinking about giving him a call tonight at 2:00 a.m. He will just be finishing with lunch, and I will be getting ready to go to sleep -- the Early Bird and the Night Owl at opposite ends of the world, meeting in the middle.