What? I'm right?

I'm sorry, I just have to rub this in a little bit.

But before I do, if my kids are reading this...close your eyes for a second.
(you see, I have them tricked into thinking that Mom is All-Knowing)

Here's the rub...I was right about something, and Tary didn't listen to me, and now he's paying for it, big time! I know the woman is supposed to always be right, but somehow neither one of us read that manual, so he's the one in our relationship who took it upon himself to always be right. And I'm ok with that, really. He's like my own personal Google. If I don't know something, I can go to him and he usually knows the answer. Tary is, in my opinion, really smart. I'm not just saying that because it would reflect poorly on me if I said that I married a dumb person. He has said that his smartest decision was to marry me, and I wouldn't be inclined to disagree, afterall, he's always right. I'm not being being sarcastic either, if I was I would have used the italic key when I said he was always right.
Does it ever get annoying that he's right all the time? I must admit it has it's downside, especially when I really think I'm gonna win the argument. Sometimes I'm stubborn and won't concede that he's right, but eventually I realize, for example, that "Devasted" isn't really a word, that my tires on my little car are meant to be little, and over-inflating them will (and did) result in a blow-out, and that W-2 forms are not junk mail and should not be thrown away before April 15th, even if that means sitting out on the counter for 3 months.

Tary can figure out the endings to movies before they happen, knows the group name from every song that comes on the radio station, including the year it became a hit, and while watching a sporting event on TV, he can yell out the foul or penalty and the person who committed it even before the commentators can, and he's always right!

But I still try darnit. I'm still trying to convince him that having a TV in the bedroom is not a good thing, that washing the dishes for me is a good thing, and that sweeping me off my feet with a broom is just as effective as a dozen roses.

So, when I warned him last saturday night, that he should not play church basketball, did he listen to me? When I told him they would be gunning for him, and reminded him how this team beats him up did he listen to me? When I suggested he would be better off staying home and watching BYU play basketball instead, did he listen to me? (have I rubbed it in enough yet?)

OK kids, you can open your eyes now...

I WAS RIGHT!

When I had to take him to the emergency room that night because he couldn't walk and could hardly stand the pain, the doctor asked what happened to him, his reply..."I didn't listen to my wife". That's right buddy! The one time you should have listened to me, because that was the one time I was RIGHT! You missed it! I might not be right again for another 25 years and you blew it! But no, you had to go and get stepped on by a big samoan guy and blow your achilles tendon, and had to go and get surgery, and now you'll be on crutches and using a scooter for the next 3 months while your wearing a cast, and going through rehab for another 6 months, and won't be able to play ball this spring. And it's just a good thing I wasn't right about how we should take a cruise for our 25th anniversary, because we wouldn't be going had I been right about that...so see! The one thing I was right about...

Of course, had you listened to me and stayed home, we never would have known what would have happened to you, and we never would have known that I was right. Hmmm, maybe this wasn't such a bad thing afterall...

...and that right there, my friends, is why I am the one who is never right.

No Sweat!

I'm not sure if there is a medical term for my condition. The medical world probably has more important things to do than to diagnose a little problem like mine. My condition is not life threatening, it doesn't cause pain, and it's not contagious, just a little embarrassing at times. And since medical professionals don't take my ailment seriously, I've come up with my own medical term for my condition..."HEAD HOT". Not Hot Head, that implies something entirely different, and although I am probably that too, we're not going there today.

HEAD HOT: definition; a) the inability to extract sweat from one's face. b) Unable to cool down naturally from one's sweat glands. Symptoms: getting really, really red in the face.
Lay-mans terms: My face doesn't sweat!

For those of you who don't share my ailment, you probably don't appreciate the gravity of the situation, afterall, what's wrong with having a little color in your face? Nothing, if you want to look like you've just ran a marathon, when actually it was just 30 minutes of walking on the treadmill, although I may have been guilty at times for letting others believe I just ran a 5K on the treadmill. I like to work it to my advantage at times. But mostly, it just gets me in trouble.

Take the trek for example.

9 years ago our stake was preparing the youth to go on the pioneer trek in Wyoming. Tary was on the high council over the young mens and so we had the opportunity to go beforehand with all the bishops in the stake with their wives to visit the sites and make plans for the youth conference. It was a beautiful summer morning when we started our trek from the visitors center to Martins Cove, about a 5 mile trek round trip. It wasn't a hard walk, but as the sun baked down on us, we all started sweating a little bit...everyone but me that is. Oh, my armpits were probably a mosquitos playpool like everyone else's, but my face was holding in every last bit of moisture it could contain. Soon my face was swelling and turning so red that if there was an oompa loompa around I'm afraid he would have tried to squeeze my head like a ripe tomato to see if he could extract juice from it. No such luck, all I had where several concerned bishops wives who literally took their 'Relief Society' oath into action and tried to relieve me of my condition. One lady gave me her big straw hat to wear, another slathered me in sunscreen thinking I was getting 3rd degree burns, another sat me down and wouldn't let me get up till I had drunk a liter of water, convinced I had heat stroke. Several offered to sit with me while the others hiked up, thinking I had heat exaustion and wouldn't make it alive if I continued. My poor husband, I don't remember any sympathy from him, except for maybe him feeling sorry for me for all the unsolicited attention I was receiving. He was probably rolling his eyes and prodding me along with his walking stick. I was fine...I wasn't dying...I wasn't that out of shape...I was just hot. And that's what happens to me when I get hot. Then I was embarrassed, and that made it worse. I'm just glad I didn't start to cry, my face would have probably exploded.

Sadly enough, I'm afraid I passed down my genetic defect to my son. Poor thing can't run down the basketball court without the coach pulling him out to get a drink of water.
Coach: "Are you OK? You look hot...go get a drink"
I'm not much better though, I'm always nervous when I forget to bring my inhaler because he looks like he's been holding his breath for 5 minutes when he steps off the court.
Mom: "Are you OK? Can you breathe? Go get a drink"
Deep down I know he's fine... he can breathe...he's just hot.

So, there you have it. If you see me and my pale skinned body out and about, but my face looks like it had a close encounter with the sun, don't worry, it's not fatal. I'm OK.

I probably just gone done running a marathon...

No Sweat!

Another 'Faun' Birthday

My posts are getting harder to write now that I'm in my second year of blogging. I've used up all my blogging juices, I have reached my peak of posting and feel like I'm on the downhill slope. Take this post for example...Faun's birthday. What can I say this year that I didn't say in last years post. I'm stumped. Although I mainly focused on stories from the Faun of my youth, the stories from the Faun of my now are stored somewhere in-between the files of my mind that also require me to remember everything I need to know for work, my church calling, my motherhood memories, calendar items, dentist appointments, visiting teaching, parent teacher conferences, staff meetings..the list goes on. What I'm trying to get at here, is that most of the time my little brain is overstuffed with, well...stuff. I have a hard time remembering certain things that should be important, but somehow don't get filed in that folder of my brain that says "IMPORTANT...do not forget!" For instance, things like the punchlines to jokes...I only have one joke stored in my brain...one. Yeah, I'm really fun at parties. Books...I have to look at the cover of the book to see if I've read it by recognizing the picture, even then sometimes I get halfway through a book before I realize it sounds vagely familiar. So everytime Faun calls me up and says "Did I tell you about..." I always say, "I'm not sure, tell me again..." it's not because I didn't love her story the first time, it's because I suffer from short term memory. It's true, ask my husband or kids. If I forget to buy something for them at the store and they complain to me, I say, "Have you told me 10 times yet? If not, don't blame me", yeah, it takes that many times of hearing something before it starts to stick.
So, my point is...where was I going with this? Oh yeah, I've been trying to think of a funny Faun story to share on her birthday. Today is Fauns birthday. I do remember that. Do I remember all the late nights staying up laughing till we cry? Yes. Do I remember what we were laughing about? No. But one story does stick out in my mind...probably because I painted a mental picture of what happened while she was telling me, and it's not something that one forgets too easily. I hope she doesn't mind if I share this funny story with you.

Not too long ago, on a Sunday much like today, Faun was sitting with her little primary class during singing time. The music director, to encourage her little congregation to sing loudly, brought an incentive to those who showed musical promise. Little dots...measles, she called them, to put on one of the teachers...dot them up, if you will. All the little children agreed Faun should be the teacher they spread the 'musical measles' too. So Faun got to sit at the front of the room while the children sang their songs. Being the good little patient, she suffered through dots being placed on her face, and in her hair while the kids laughed at her funny new 'spotted' look. Things were going quite well, the kids were having a good time 'dotting' her up, while they were singing loud and proud. But kids can be quite unpredictable, and it seems like there's always one in every group that has to stir up trouble, usually the Bishop's kid, and in this case it was no exception. A little boy was chosen to come up and place his measles on Faun, and much to Fauns dismay, and the embarrasement of every male teacher in the room, Faun ended up, not with measles on her chest, but something that resembled 'pasties', placed stratigically on the bulls-eye (if you know what I mean). Two little dots, that started out innocently enough, were now the cause of blushing, eye-averting and snickering throughout the primary room. Poor Faun, what could she do? She was a good sport about it, and although her dress ended up a little stretched out in certain places from trying to subtlely rearrange the position of the dots by pulling and tugging, she kept her dignity and her virtue, and has since been able to laugh it off.
As of yet, I haven't heard whether the 2nd counselor in the bishopric has been able to look her in the eye, and as far as I know, the primary chorister has retired the 'musical measles', a cure has been found and they haven't been seen since. It's a miracle really.

Faun, you still make me laugh! Let's keep it up for the next forty-something years!
Happy Birthday! Love you!

19 years ago...

...I welcomed my second child into the world. Kayla. Did you know her name means '...sister of my soul'. Not really, I just made that up, but that's how I feel.
I remember being worried about having another child and loving her as much as I loved my first one. I didn't think I could ever love anyone else as much as I loved my little Chelsea. But when they laid that sweet little baby in my arms, I knew my worries were over.
We named her Kayla after my middle name, Kay, so of course she was destined to be just like her mother. And she pretty much is. We look alike...that is, if I had naturally curly hair, a perfect nose, perfect cute teeth and sparkling blue eyes, we would practically be twins. We also share the same emotional DNA. In any given movie, if someone, or something dies, if someone is sad, or even happy, if someone is lost, or found...if the background music starts playing soft and sweet and my heart overflows into my tear ducts...while everyone else around me is rolling their eyes, I know I can turn to Kayla and we'll both have tears running down our faces. Like me, she has a soft heart. And a very giving heart.
She'll be the first one to come to the aid of a friend. I can't count how many times she would decide, usually at 11 pm, that she needed to run to the store to buy something for a friend who needed cheering up, or who was having a birthday and she needed to decorate their locker. Plates of cookies went out to anyone who was sick, or broke a bone, or just because. I suggested she become a nurse because she is so compassionate, but she wants to become a psychologist, because she likes to listen to other people and tries to help them with their problems.

And so, what seemed like only yesterday that she was born...my little girl is now too far away to hold. She's all growed up and on her own. She doesn't need me to comb the snarls out of her hair anymore. She doesn't need me to match her outfits, cut up her food, read her bedtime stories, and kiss her goodnight. I'm not there to help with homework, listen to her boy problems, and get her out of bed ontime.
But Kayla, I'll always be here when you need a home-cooked meal, dorm decor advice, and a shoulder to cry on...cuz you know I'll be crying right along with you.

And your never too old for a good-night kiss, neither am I. I miss your good-night hugs and kisses. I miss you most of all. I miss that little girl who would make up stories that never had an ending...that sang and danced and twirled everywhere she went. But I know she's still in there somewhere...you still make me laugh...you make my heart sing...I'm so proud to be your mom.

xoxoxoxoxox

Happy Birthday girl! Love ya

2010...A Space Odessy?

Well, it's 2010. Did we ever think we'd see the day? Wasn't the millenium supposed to be here by now? Or time travel, or something...magnificent! It looks the same as 2009.
When I was little, my favorite cartoon was the Jetsons. I'm not sure what year they were in, but I'm pretty sure by now we were supposed to be traveling by flying cars, or transporters, or something to beam us up and around with. And shouldn't I have a robot maid by now, doing all the cooking and cleaning? I must be stuck in the 20th century. Call me old fashioned, but my car still runs off gasoline, I still have a phone that has a cord attatched to it and doesn't sing to me when someone is calling.
I fight off wrinkles with something that comes out of tube and not out of a needle. My fingernails are my own, and so is my bra size.
I still buy stamps, write checks and balance my checkbook from a register.
I use my phone to talk to people, not to type to them, email them, or take pictures of them. I do have a computer, complete with my "Doss for Dummies" manual, which I never did read. I still have movies on VHS, songs on cassettes and vinyl records, and a video camera as big as a size 12 shoebox.
My dayplanner is not electronic, and neither are my scriptures. I workout on a treadmill with weights in hand, not a balance board with a numbchuck in hand.
I still get my directions from a map and streetsigns, and if someone is telling me to turn right at the next intersection, it's coming from the backseat, not the dashboard.
I have a pair of thongs (that I wear on my feet) and a friend from High School named Gayla, Gay for short, and no, we didn't make fun of her name. Back then it still meant 'happy'.
Call me old fashioned, but I still think the best 3 words one can hear are "I love you" and not "You've got mail".

Really, I'm not opposed to the future and the technology it brings. Afterall, can you imagine life without a microwave? I don't know how my mom survived all those years without one...I guess the same way we survived growing up without cell phones.

Life is good. I'm excited for the new opportunites this year will bring. A new position at work, a new grandbaby in our home, a new storage room! (still thanking the hubby for that one).

Now, I wonder where I can get one of those robot maids.