A request, a song, and a whole bunch of stories

First, a request:

My nephew James was born last Friday with a congenital heart defect. If you're the praying kind, will you include him in your prayers this week? He'll be undergoing open heart surgery on Thursday. Many thanks.

***

Second, a song:

Years ago, I babysat the most adorable two year old boy ever. And he wanted to watch the Veggie Tales Christmas show at least twice in the span of just a few hours. That was my first introduction to the show, and I just recently remembered the silly song on that episode/video/what-have-you. Naturally, I had to watch it three times yesterday. On the third time, I made Jacob watch it with me. He judged and afterward said that we needed to listen to a real Christmas song. So he turned on Feliz Navidad. Pssh. Men.

***

Third, a story (or two or five):

1. A week and a half ago, our pantry and refrigerator were embarrassingly empty. And for good reason: other than picking up some milk and a few snack foods, we hadn't gone grocery shopping in five weeks. Five! That has to be a new record. Granted, we were in Arizona for Thanksgiving, so that helped, but still. It was clear that we were going to have to go on a shopping trip of DOOM . . . doom . . .doom.

Now, in our nearly two years of being married, Jacob has concluded that a hungry Jennifer is a grumpy Jennifer during shopping trips. And since he's no fool, he conceded when I asked if we could use our coupons to Chick-fil-A for lunch before shopping. With our coupons, Jacob was able to purchase an adult-sized meal of his choice. And I got . . . a free kids' meal, with teeny tiny chicken nuggets. So teeny, that I made Jacob take a picture of me on his cell phone, looking all forlorn and distraught at my small meal.

Okay, so maybe they don't look that small in the picture. Just trust me on this one.

 But have no fear! We also received a free milk shake, which Jacob was so kind to let me have all to myself. The man knows I love milkshakes. So really, it was actually quite a satisfying lunch. And! The kids meal came with the children's classic short story, The Jolly Barnyard. You better believe I read it out loud to Jacob later that day, as well as conducted the guided reading questions located in the back. We had a very stimulating conversation about celebrations and gift giving and such. Be jealous.

***

2. Once upon a time, there was a girl named Heather who found a sweatshirt in one of her apartments during her college days. This sweatshirt was outrageously yellow, and had a small Arizona State logo on the front. Never mind the fact that Heather never attended Arizona State; she wore that sweatshirt with pride.

Until she decided it was too ugly, that is. Then she ceremoniously gave it to her sister, Jennifer. (That's me.) Despite the fact that I, too, had never attended Arizona State, I continue to wear it all the time. (Once, my friend Cari told me that the first time I had worn it around her, she thought it was the ugliest sweatshirt of all time.) What's that? You want to see a picture? Very well.

Talk about yellow.

I wore this sweatshirt for years -- years! -- without incident. But just a few weeks ago, I wore it to Costco and I had a run-in that made me question if I should wear it at all. There we were, innocently approaching the baked goods section, when a middle-aged man called to me. "I was a Devil, too!" he announced. As he did so, he contorted his fingers into some foreign hand signal -- apparently the school sign. I panicked. Should I attempt to mimic the hand gesture? Should I say "Rock on, my brotha!"? In the end, I ended up laughing nervously and steering the shopping cart away as fast as possible, baked goods or no.

***

3. When we were in Arizona for Thanksgiving, two of my oldest nieces were holding their twin 2-3 month old cousins. I asked them if they were excited to be moms when they grew up. Elizabeth (in first grade) said she didn't know if she was going to be a mom, but Karianna (in second grade) said that she was excited. Somebody asked how many babies she was going to have, and she responded "A hundred thousand!" Oh my! (She may have later amended the answer to just a thousand, but still.) She certainly is ambitious!

***

4. The Clam Chowder Story: This story, as well as the following one, is from my collection of 25 stories of Christmas Cheer. Jacob and I read one a night from December 1st to Christmas Day. This one made me sob like nothing else last year. This year, I was able to control the waterworks a little better. Go read it!

***

5. Mother's Christmas Mouse: This one made me sob like nothing else this year. Go read it! If you don't get misty-eyed, you have no soul.

Keeping him on his toes

When Jacob is in the shower, one of my favorite things to do is to stand right outside the bathroom door, wait for him to open it, and surprise (read: scare) him by saying, "Grandma, it's me . . . Anastasia!" Much like this:

It makes me laugh every time. Though at one point he started banging on the door in an attempt to scare me before opening it, on the off chance that I was lurking just outside. But since he hasn't done that in a while, and since it sounds like he's about to finish his shower right about now, I must be off.

Muahaha.

Play games of sorts

Growing up in my family, we used to play a thrilling game at the conclusion of our trips away to Grandma's house for the weekend. As we neared our house, Mom would ask all of us "How many messages do you think we have on the answering machine?" The most popular responses were three and four, and since repeat answers weren't allowed, you had to jump in quickly to pick the number you wanted.

The winner didn't get a prize, per se, but was instead allowed a victory whoop and possibly a victory jig.

I'm telling you, it was some exciting times.

For Thanksgiving, Jacob and I made a last minute trip to Arizona to visit his family. And as we have cell phones instead of a land line, we couldn't play the Answering Machine game. But! We came up with another -- just as exciting -- game. I call it "Guess how much money it'll cost to fill up the gas tank!" This one has a little more strategy than the Answering Machine game, as participants can factor in the price per gallon of gas, as well as how empty the gas tank is upon arrival at the gas station.

That being said, I think I lost almost every single time on the trip there and back. Alas.

Another game that Heather and I used to play is "Guess which Christmas light I'm thinking of," which is fairly self-explanatory. One person picks a light on the tree, and the other person can ask yes/no questions in order to determine which light has been selected. I've tried playing this game with Jacob, but he isn't very cooperative. As in, he refuses to guess which light I'm thinking of, and when I do the guessing, he says I'm right with my first guess. That really gets a girl down.

Any suggestions for other pointless games we can play?

I feel famous.

Today I'm guest posting over at Miss Carrots: Completely Ordinary. Guest posting! Me! Doesn't that make it sound like I should be getting paid for this or something?

Check it out.

Fall festivities

It is my firm belief that October is the best month of the year, for several reasons:

1. Birthday festivities, during which yours truly received Tangled and four (4!) varieties of hot chocolate, to the delight of all.

2. Pumpkin patches are very much in season, which include hay mazes (approximately a foot and a half shorter than my husband), wagon rides, wooden backgrounds with face holes for photo opportunities, and pumpkins. (Naturally.)

 3. My family has our traditional Halloween bag dinner. For this dinner, each item of food and silverware is given a code name. Jello is Ectoplasmic Slime, apple juice becomes Liquid Terror, and so forth. Each person receives a paper bag with the code names written on slips of paper. For each course, individuals pull out three slips of paper and have to eat whatever food they get with whatever utensils they get. My sisters and our husbands had our dinner yesterday. I was fortunate enough to get rolls, dessert, and my drink first, but without any utensils. Such is life. Delicious, delicious life.

4. While the Halloween bag dinner is definitely my favorite fall festivity, carving pumpkins has a spot near and dear to my heart. When I was younger, I would help design the face of our jack-o-lantern and my dad would carve it. Once I was old enough to be trusted around sharp objects of torture, I took over the pumpkin carving gig. I devoted hours (literally, hours) to gutting, cleaning, and carving the pumpkin each year. I displayed each pumpkin with pride. And when we lit the jack-o-lantern and used it as a centerpiece for the aforementioned Halloween dinner, I kept a pitcher of water by my side just in case it burst into flames.

So when Jacob and I delayed our visit to the pumpkin patch to the day before Halloween last year and it was rainy and gross and all the pumpkins were molding and we left empty handed after about four minutes, you can understand just why the situation ended in tears. But not this year!

It turns out that Jacob isn't actually a fan of carving pumpkins. (Apparently, neither is the rest of my family. My parents haven't had a carved pumpkin in their homes since I left for college.) But he dutifully cleaned his out and traced the pattern he wanted, and I ended up carving his as well as mine.

And since I'm sure you're all dying to know what I've carved in Halloweens' past, allow me to present a (not necessarily exhaustive) collage of my jack-o-lanterns from 2003ish to now. (Click to zoom in.):

I should point out that the two pictures on the bottom left may or may not have been entirely carved by Cari Dahl. Although I do recall carving our initials onto the pumpkin of The Cheat. Also, patterns were used for all except the pirate and Old Man Stanley, (bottom center).

5. Roasted pumpkin seeds! I may or may not have consumed an entire pumpkin's worth of seeds in the last day and a half. Minus three seeds, which I practically force fed to Jacob so he could "just try them," which he ate whilst grimacing. Eh, more for me!

Man in the Mirror

Text I sent to Heather a few days ago:

"On a scale from one to Michael Jackson, how creepy is it that when I sub I can pick out the boys I would've had a crush on if they had been in my elementary class growing up?"

(In case you were wondering, she assured me that it was "hilarious" rather than creepy, which is probably the only reason I'm comfortable enough revealing this on the Internets.)

Quarantine.

Are you ready for a tale of sadness and utter woe? I'll wait right here while you grab some tissues -- it's a tearjerker.

Ready? Good.

If you've been a follower of this blog for a length of time, you may recall that in November of last year I was student teaching in a first grade class. Amidst all of the small children and flying germs, I semi-tragically was afflicted with pink eye. It was only semi-tragic because it meant I was required to miss a few days of school, and I did not exactly love teaching first grade.

If you have not been a follower of this blog for a length of time, allow me to repost a picture so you can understand how truly grim this illness is:

If I knew how to add music to this blog, I would post the sound clip of the shower scene from Psycho here. But as I do not, you'll just have to imagine it yourself.

As it turns out, this was not the first time I caught pink eye, nor would it be the last. (The first time, incidentally, was almost exactly a year prior, when I was in a third grade classroom for about four weeks as part of the education program.)

Fast forward to the first weekend in August. Jacob was in the midst of changing jobs, so we decided between the last day of his old job and the first day of his new one, we'd make a quick trip down to Arizona to visit his family. We enjoyed general merriment, swimming, and central air conditioning. We spent quite a bit of time with the nieces and nephews, and one night we went to a children's museum the same evening approximately half the population of Arizona also attended.

The night we drove back to Utah, my left eyelid was starting to feel a little sensitive and swollen. When I woke up the next morning, it was thick and puffy. And it wasn't long before I self-diagnosed that I had pink eye again.

Fortunately for me, I still had my eye drops from last November (and they hadn't expired yet), so I undertook a vigorous regimen of using eye drops, washing my hands almost psychotically every time I touched my face, and switching out pillow cases every night.

It seemed to work. The disease remained isolated in just one eye, and after a few days it cleared up completely.

I enjoyed two glorious weeks of having the scleras (fancy words for whites) of my eyes the same color.

And then -- and THEN! -- two days ago pink eye struck again. In the other eye this time.

I think the fates hate me.

Dream big.

A couple of days ago, Jacob played dodgeball with some other men at the church building. He asked me to come along, so I packed some snacks and a book and did so.

One of the men brought his four children with him. The oldest, a boy maybe 8 or 9 years old, decided to do some sit ups. He asked each of his younger sisters to help hold his legs down.

After going on for several minutes, his youngest sister was straight up tired of sitting on his legs, and she told him so. His response? "Wait! I'm ten seconds away from a six pack!"

(Once those ten seconds were up, he turned around, lifted his shirt, and looked at his stomach. He then started exclaiming, "Oh. My. Gosh. OH. MY. GOSH! DAD! I did sit ups for seven minutes and I still don't have a six pack!")

Teehee.

You can have a Coke.

Over the weekend, Jacob and I visited our local DI for a little window shopping. I can't decide which was the best find:

Was it 1) the journal with a picture of Jesus on the cover that detailed, in 8- or 9-year-old handwriting, that "Colby is so smoken [sic] hot" and that "he is my man"? Or was it 2) the bag of creepy severed doll heads in the "craft" area?

So. Many. Questions.

(Sadly, we did not purchase either item. Jacob also vetoed the idea of purchasing the entire Richard Simmons' collection of Sweatin' to the Oldies. Way to crush all my hopes and dreams.)

:)

New additions to the family . . .

After nearly a year of anticipation, we are proud to present our new twins!

I realize that Clarissa's flower on her headband should be much, much bigger than it actually is, and maybe it's a little indecent to show them without any clothes on, but aren't they just soooooo precious? They may be a little chunky, but we love them just the same. Especially me.

The Ugly Bug Ball

We have a fly swatter hanging on the door in our bathroom.

Classy, I know.

I think we stuck it there when we first moved in for lack of a better place to put it, but now it's handy to know where it is when we (read: Jacob) must defend ourselves against intruders of the arachnid/insect variety.

Remember the post about spiders I wrote a month ago? That was just the tip of the iceberg. Since then, we've had probably close to a dozen other spiders crawling around our apartment. Upon discovery, their visit is short-lived.  We are such gracious hosts.

Side note: I'm not sure why the spiders feel a need to have a convention in our home. I've talked to our neighbors, and none of them have had any problems with bugs. If they're trying to escape the summer heat, they came to the wrong place, because our apartment is hotter than an oven in Hades. But I digress.

Anyway, this morning Jacob was taking a shower, minding his own business, when I came across a terrifying-looking bug in the hallway. I proceeded to whimper in a girly, high-pitched manner, as is the only appropriate reaction when coming within a foot of an unidentified bug.

Once Jacob gathered that there was a bug in the apartment, he directed me to get the fly swatter, which was not in its usual place as he had to use it just minutes before his shower to dispose of a spider. During the time it took me to walk to the living room and back, the bug had disappeared and Jacob had finished his shower.

Jacob: Where'd it go?

Me: I don't know. I think it's under your pants. [Yes, his pants were on the ground in the hallway. Don't judge.]

Jacob: You let it get to my pants!?

Me, thinking: Well, I certainly wasn't going to TOUCH it to prevent it from doing so.

Me, speaking: I don't know if it's there for sure. But that's the general direction it was heading.

Me, again: You might not want to use the flyswatter on this one.

Jacob: What kind of bug is it? A stink bug?

Me: I don't know! But it's big and black and crunchy looking!

At that point, the bug decided to emerge from its hiding place (yes, under Jacob's pants) and I hopped back to bed so I wouldn't have to be there when Jacob disposed of it. But he did kindly announce to me when the deed was done, so I wouldn't have to worry about coming across it later.

Let's just hope its relatives don't decide to send out a search party for it. . . .

Death of a Salesman

Before we return to our regularly scheduled post, I need to give a shout out to Kip (whom I've finally met after all these years) for identifying the mystery object as a moldy bagel. And let me give a double shout out to Emily, who recognized it as a cheesy bagel from Costco. I found that little gem tucked away by our water heater in the kitchen closet. Estimated age: 2 months. Jibblies.

Now, as you may or may not be aware, I was a Girl Scout in my elementary school days. For the most part, I enjoyed the program. However, one aspect of it caused more angst to my soul than my little self could bear. The cause of dread, year after year? Selling Girl Scout cookies.

I hated it. I was painfully shy, and I dreaded having to -- gasp! -- talk to adults and ask them to buy some cookies. One year I think I only sold cookies to two people -- and one of those people was my mom. Another year, I was determined to go door to door around my whole block to improve my abysmal stats. I made it to three houses, was rejected each time, and walked home in tears. The reason I finally quit Girl Scouts was because my poor soul couldn't stand to be crushed by cookie sales one more time.

With a background like this, I've become kind of a sucker to children salespeople. Oh, you're selling bars of chocolate for your baseball team? I'll buy one. You're selling subscriptions to the local newspaper? I'll pass, but have a dollar for your trouble.

The past two days, some neighborhood children have knocked on our door, trying to sell -- get this -- rocks for a dollar apiece. They're trying to raise money so they can go to the fair at the park. While I admire their pluck, it's a very good thing that Jacob has been answering the door, because otherwise I'd probably be staring at a nice little rock collection right now.

Let's play a game

Guess what this is. Go on, guess. (Except for you, Heather, since you already know.) Winner gets a shout out on my next blog entry! (Whenever that will be . . . )

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Around 2:00 this afternoon, I decided that I should probably get around to making the bed, so I sauntered into the bedroom. Before I was able to "tidy up the nursery," if you will, I noticed something moving on the sheets.

It was a spider -- no bigger than the eraser on a pencil, but a spider nonetheless. In my premarriage days, I probably would have been able to take care of it. Now? Not so much. I hurried off to get a glass from the kitchen cupboard and trapped the spider on the bed, to make sure it didn't get away before Jacob got home from work so he could get rid of it. Naturally, I had to check up on it every 10 or 15 minutes to make sure it hadn't escaped its makeshift cage.

Then -- then! Not 45 minutes later I decided to pull out our sleeping bag for us to take on our upcoming trip to California. I carried it from the spare bedroom to the front room and set it down, and guess what popped out at me, much like the Huns popping out of the snow like daisies? Another spider. But this time it was a fatty one.

Reader, I screamed. And then I hopped around looking for some protection for my feet. In hindsight, perhaps flip flops aren't the best protection.

Out came glass number two. But this time I had to shake it into the glass, as it was stubbornly clinging to the sleeping bag. And once I had captured my prey, I hopped around some more until I set it on the table and set a piece of paper over the top.

A surefire, sealed cage for sure.

Upon further inspection, I thought it might have the markings of a brown recluse spider, so I decided to Google some images of such spiders. But the results included pictures of gangrenous flesh as a result of such spider bites, and I quickly closed out of that window.

Jacob won't be home for two more hours (he's working late so he doesn't have to take paid time off for our vacation). Every time my phone vibrates or I feel a stray hair brushing against my arm, I jump a little.

I may not be able to sleep tonight.

"I feel a little crispy."

Last Friday, I took a last minute substitute job for a third grade class I was vaguely familiar with (as in, I covered for the teacher for approximately three hours one day a week or two ago).

As it turned out, the entire school day was dedicated to a field trip with the rest of the third grade. Not only that, but we had about fifty billion parent chaperones turn out, so the amount of supervision I did was minimal.

Essentially, I was paid to walk to a park, supervise four games of kickball over a period of about an hour and a half, eat a lunch that was provided from the cafeteria, and pass out popsicles after we walked back to the school. It was glorious.

The weather was also glorious -- not too hot, not too cloudy. Unfortunately, my face ended up getting quite sunburned. (Skin cancer, anyone?)

And now I'm peeling. I hope the flakiness runs its course by the time we go down to California for our family reunion this weekend. Heaven forbid I look like a leper in the family photos!

This is the story of a girl

Every so often (read: between five and twenty times a week), I ask Jacob to tell me a story. Usually, his stories go something like this:

"Once upon a time there was a beeeautiful girl. And this girl [insert random activity I've recently done, like "read lots of books" or "body slammed her husband"]. The End."

Sometimes the stories are about a boy instead. (That's Jacob, in case you were wondering.) And sometimes, they're even about the boy AND the girl! Ho ho!

Today, I want to tell you a different kind of story. Here goes:

Once upon a time, there was a girl. (That's me.)

This girl went off to college her freshman year and had a beeeeautiful roommate named Kristin.

Kristin did many important things for this girl, like instructing her to part her hair to the side instead of the middle, expanding her musical horizons, and -- most importantly -- refraining from killing her roommate when her shoes mildewed after going puddle jumping and she had to stick them in the freezer to try to kill the smell.

After their freshman year, Kristin and the girl went their separate ways, but they still stalked each other's blogs and facebook pages and such.

Kristin married a handsome man named Cameron.

Image stolen shamelessly from Kristin's facebook. Hope that's okay!

Kristin and Cameron want to start a family of their own, but it's going to take some pricey medical treatments for that to happen.

Here's where you come in.

They're holding an online auction on June 24th and 25th to help raise money to cover the $25,000 price tag for the treatment. They're looking for people to donate items for the auction, and I know some of you are crafty enough to have your own Etsy shops or small businesses and the like. Would you be willing to donate for a worthy cause?

Or, if you don't think you have anything to donate, would you be willing to prowl the auction site instead?

You can read all about it here: Go Team Call

Let's help make their dreams come true!

The End.

The DI special

Yesterday, Jacob and I visited our local Deseret Industries, which is Jacob's Happiest Place on Earth. He talked me into buying three pairs of jeans there, which I suppose are just fine but not exactly what I envisioned when I was planning to put my graduation money toward a new wardrobe. He also talked me into buying this shirt:

The only problem is, I can't decide if the shirt is stylish or just plain tacky. A quick glance in my closet reveals that almost all of my shirts are one solid color, and that the closest I get to any actual "style" is sometimes having a collar on my shirts. Impressive, I know.

So before I start pushing all these crazy buttons, I need your input. Is it stylish? Tacky? Should I refrain from wearing it in public? Only wear it on Halloween? I don't want to commit any major fashion faux pas. You may cast your votes on the poll on the right.

Many thanks.

P.S. This is one of the reasons I need a female influence whenever I go clothes shopping. I texted this photo to Heather asking for her opinion, but she wasn't able to respond before the deed was done. Oh, the angst!

On becoming a respectable member of society (or more photos of my feet than you could possibly ever wish to see)

If you're friends with me on facebook, you may have already seen the announcement that I recently threw away 17 socks that were afflicted with numerous holes. "Big deal," you may be thinking. "I throw away hole-y socks all the time." 

Well, tell me this: Did your socks ever look like . . . THIS?

Yes, that's four (4) holes in one (1) sock.

I had previously kept all of these hole-y socks because, well, I didn't want to fork out the cash to buy new socks. Fortunately for me, my dad was willing to spend a little money when he came up for graduation to help his daughter look a little less like a hobo and a little more like a respectable college graduate. Not only did he buy me new socks, but he also bought me two new pairs of shoes.

Take note of the following pictures: I wore hot pink socks on the "before" shot to more fully accenuate the condition my old shoes were in. Also please note how I am no longer wearing running shoes with jeans in the "after" shot. I know, I'm going to get offers for writing for a fashion magazine at any moment now.







Now I just need to buy some new jeans and I think I'll have the no-longer-a-homeless-bum look down pat!

EDIT: When I texted Jacob about how I threw away all those socks, he responded: "No!!! Not the holy socks!! You  have to wear those forever!" Apparently he had a fond attachment for them. 

Graduation, part II (or the really long post where I brag about my husband and use way too many parenthetical remarks)

Last Thursday was Jacob's graduation from the Police Academy. It was a much shorter ceremony than BYU's, which was appreciated by all in the audience (and by "all" I mean "all the family members on my side who were subjected to attend both").

Getting sworn in. Or something along those lines.

 Jacob's mom and younger brother flew in for the occasion, which ended up being a very short trip for them -- they were in Utah for less than 24 hours before taking off again. It was nice that they were able to attend Jacob's graduation and visit for a little while.

Jacob with the Sergeant

After the graduates all received their certificates, the sergeant presented some special awards. Some awards were for high academic achievement, others for physical fitness. One student -- and I'm not making this up -- even received a trophy for the "fastest gunman award" (which apparently was earned after a contest of sorts involving man-shaped targets and balloons).

Jacob received an award, too: The Most Improved Shooter award. Those of you who are related to us know how hard he had to work to pass his qualifers -- he spent hours in our living room practicing his draw stroke, reloading, and dry firing at a man-shaped target on our wall. This, plus a combined family effort of fasting and prayers, helped him easily attain the required scores on his last chance to take the shooting qualifiers. So naturally, in my biased opinion, he was very deserving of the award.

At least it's a tasteful plaque instead of a trophy.



And while I'm on the topic of my husband, allow me to indulge in highlighting some of the sweet manly husbandly things he's done lately:

Thursday night, after dropping his mom and brother off at their hotel, we were exhausted and headed to bed. I couldn't find my cell phone, which doubles as my alarm clock, but I decided I would just look for it the  next morning. After all, Jacob has his own alarm clock, and I could just wake up with him.

Friday morning, his alarm went off and we both got up. I looked in the mirror and was horrified to discover that my right eyelid had mysteriously swollen up overnight, giving me the appearance of Quasimodo. Jacob hopped in the shower, being the hygenic soul that he is, and I embarked on my search for my cell phone.

I could hear it ringing, because the alarm is set to automatically go off every weekday morning at 5. I looked for it under the couch cushions, where it usually is. No dice. I pulled the couch forward a little bit to see if it had fallen underneath. Nothing.

It didn't take long until I reached the distressing conclusion that my phone had actually fallen inside the couch frame, through the crack between the armrest and the seat. I repeatedly thrust my arm into the crack, desperately trying in vain to reach my cell phone. All the while I was thinking things like "I'm never going to get my phone back. And it's going to RING forEVER and we'll go slowly mad because we can't get it!"  and "We're going to have to chop the armrest off the couch to get my phone!" (I may or may not have already been going mad at this point.)

I soon gave up my efforts and laid down, one arm dramatically strewn across my face. I looked like the Hunchback, I was still tired, and my phone was gone forever!

When Jacob came out of the shower and asked what was wrong, I told him, quite pathetically, "My phone is inside the couch and I can't get it out." And then, I started to cry. Actual tears. And Jacob, being the sweet manly husband that he is, refrained from laughing at me. He just told me not to worry about it, to make him his sandwiches (but not in a sexist, Woman! Make me a sammich! kind of way), and he'd get it for me.

The whole scene, in all its pathetic glory.

So while I tried to keep my tears from mingling in the peanut butter, Jacob set to work at hefting the couch up on its side (which is no small task, as it's kind of a beast of a couch). Before I had even finished putting the sandwiches in a bag, he set my phone on the the counter next to me and walked away without a word. Incredulous, I asked him how he had retrieved my phone. It turns out that our couch has a hole in the upholstery on the bottom, and he was easily able to get my phone through that access point.

Did I already mention that he did not once laugh at my predicament? And that he's clearly much more rational than his wife?

Okay, one more quick story in this already very long post:

Saturday we went on a major shopping trip. We stopped at five or six stores, and ended up not even buying anything until the second to last one. By the time we hit our last store for groceries, we had been shopping for close to three hours. And if you know me at all, you know that shopping is not my most favorite thing to do.

It wasn't too much longer until a switch flipped inside me and I turned into Sir Grumpsalot. I was sick of shopping, and I just wanted to go home and watch figure skating on TV. Jacob was doing his best to cheer me up, but I wasn't cooperating. Suddenly, however, he started humming a little too innocently. I looked in the shopping cart and noticed that he had snuck a package of Little Debbie Cosmic Brownies in there for me. I haven't bought them in a few months because they're overpriced and certainly not very healthy, but I do like them quite a bit. When I looked back at him, I couldn't help smiling.

Oh, Jacob. He's a peach. :)

Pomp and circumstance

So, my mom and I graduated this past weekend. Well, I technically graduated in December, but since they don't have a graduation ceremony in winter, we were able to walk together, which was pretty spiffy.

Good ol' Cosmo celebrated with us.

 A few notes about graduation:

• When they tell you to wear low-heeled shoes for Commencement, they really mean wear shoes suitable for hiking a mile or two. My shoes were already broken in pretty well, and only had about an inch heel, but my feet were killing me by the end of the processional. Poor Mom was in even more pain.
• Females are provided with these little white collars to wear with their gowns, to add a pop of color. To attach these collars, you're provided with three mailing label-esque stickers. Save yourself the 20 minutes of frustration trying to attach these (and subsequently smashing your collarbone periodically afterwards to get them to stick) and buy some safety pins instead.
• Despite instructions to withhold applause until the end of reading all the names, prepare to be embarrassed when your family hoots and hollers as you walk across the stage to receive your diploma cover.

The family, minus Dustin, who had "school." Pssh.

And as a final note: graduation is really boring. I was in it for the pictures. Like this gem:

I love how my tassel went four kinds of crazy on me.

And Jacob graduates tomorrow. Get ready for round 2.

The fuzz, part II

I just spent about 10 minutes trying to salvage the remaining 16 Costco rolls we had by picking off all the mold spots.

If the mold grows back by tomorrow, I think I may cry. And then give it up as a lost cause.

Party like a rock star

You came. You voted. And . . . it ended in a tie. So, after careful deliberation (read: I told Jacob the two finalists and he picked one of them in about 1.2 seconds), I am pleased to present you with . . . :

Why  yes, I am wearing the t-shirt I received for the water balloon fight on BYU's campus last year. And Jacob is wearing something I like to call a "DI special." Don't all rock stars spend less than 5 dollars on their clothing? (And stand in front of a floral couch also from DI?)

Short and sweet

I really, really love my family.

TMI?

Speaking of shaving, my legs are currently inflicted with approximately seventeen thousand ingrown hairs. Hacking away at them with tweezers didn't help much, either. Time for a new razor, perhaps?

* * *

I'm currently wearing a pair of Jacob's socks. A pair of his dirty socks. Now, I do own several pairs of socks myself. But 85 percent of them have holes in them, and retrieving them would have required -- gasp! -- opening a dresser drawer. Much easier to just pick up the socks on the floor. So now my feet are warm(er) and I have two fewer socks to pick up in the bedroom! Win-win.

* * *

The other day, Jacob and I attended a game night with my sisters and their husbands. For one of the games, each player had to write down one word that described me. My sisters and brothers-in-law wrote words like "musical," "entertaining," and "easygoing." You may be wondering what word Jacob picked to describe me. Beautiful? Charming? Practically perfect in every way?

Nope. He wrote down "awkward."

I have no clue where he got that idea from.

I'm Roy G. Biv, the rainbow man.

On the way home from work on St. Patrick's Day, I told my friend about how my mom would go all out with our dinner on certain holidays. I told her how she would dye our rice green, make green Jello, and make green cheesecake each year. (Lo and behold, the very next day my mom wrote a blog entry about just that.) I then lamented about how I was a lamesauce wife because I hadn't planned to do any of those fun things for dinner that night.

As it turns out, I ended up being even more lamesauce because I didn't even prepare dinner that night. Jacob came through and made us some chicken-flavored rice combined with Spam. An unusual combination, perhaps, but not bad. And you have to give the man props for effort.

The next day, I decided that we needed to celebrate St. Patrick's Day after all. I knew my mom turned rice green by adding dye to the water while it was cooking, so I wondered if I could dye pasta the same way. And since I was making fettucine alfredo, I might as well dye the alfredo sauce, too! . . . Right?

The end results were . . . scary.

I took a picture of Jacob eating some of the fettucine, and he looked akin to a swamp monster. However, he made me promise not to post it on the blog or facebook (he's worried that one day a future employer will stumble across this site and refuse to employ him on grounds of being awkward or something). But! I am not a girl to let down her loyal fans. So I made a picture in Paint that is a pretty good representation of the original, in my humble opinion:

Not bad, eh? Eh?

I also had the urge to dye our milk green, despite the fact that it looks really foul:

So there you have it. Our fantastic St. Patrick's Day dinner (albeit one day late).

And word to the wise: don't add food coloring to your pasta.

Hairy Scary Monster

Conversation with Heather (paraphrased):

Heather: I'm glad it's Conference next week. No skirts!
Me: Skirts are the bane of my existence.
thinks for a minute
Me: Actually, shaving is the bane of my existence.

Poor Jacob. He didn't know he was marrying a hairy she-beast.

(For the record, however, I do attempt to shave my legs at least twice a week.)

Also, for the Erickson Family Slideshow Extraordinaire, Jacob and I need to come up with a fake rock band name for ourselves. The possibilities are endless! And since it's hard to settle on just one name, I'm turning to you, dear readers, for your input. You may vote on your favorite of several band names on the poll on the right, but I'm also open to further suggestions.

The fate of our band is in your hands.

The fuzz

If I die before Jacob comes home from school, that probably means I missed a spot when scraping the mold off my bagel before eating it.

You'll be sure to spread the message to him, won't you?

"NOW what am I supposed to do?" "Stare at the students?"

As a substitute teacher, I often get asked whether I have any offspring attending that particular school. I suppose it's somewhat understandable if these individuals are envisioning kindergarten-aged young'uns -- if I had been a child bride and started popping out kids right away, I could be old enough to have a five-year-old. (Perish the thought.)

What's a little more disconcerting is when sixth graders start asking if I'm so-and-so's mom, because we happen to have the same last name. Really? Really? Do I look old enough to have a twelve-year-old? I mean, I know I found my first gray hair when I was sixteen, but I haven't found any recently, and I certainly don't have any wrinkles.

Some students are shocked and appalled when they find out I don't have any children yet. In the immortal words of a first grader I taught yesterday whose name I have already forgotton: "You've been married that long and you STILL don't have any kids!?!"

Sorry to disappoint you, kid. But considering the human gestation period is nine months and we've only been married for fifteen, I don't think that's too bad.

With these recent conversations, I started to wonder if I look older than I really am. Which may be one of the reasons I agreed to sub for a high school art class today for the first time. Maybe the high schoolers wouldn't realize that I am a mere four years older than some of them!

Um, yeah, right. I probably looked like a little freshie wandering the halls looking for the main office to check in, and some of the guys in the class looked like they were in their late twenties. (Well, maybe they were. How many years can you be held back before you're written off as a lost cause or forced to graduate?)

I was flooded with high school memories: students garnished with multiple piercings, hair dyed outrageous colors, and the faint aroma of cigarette smoke all brought me back. As did the students who refused to make eye contact with me and just sat there sullenly instead of working on their art projects (or, alternately, left class for 25 minutes at a time).

Oh, high school.

On a side note, subbing for high school is both the easiest and most boring way to make money. Allow me to give you a brief outline of my day:

7:40 -- Arrive at class and review sub plans. Note that the teacher has a prep period and thus will not have any students in class until 9:25. Hmm. Congratulate self for bringing a book, and commence reading.

9:25ish -- Welcome students to class. Take roll. Pass out worksheets and explain directions. Walk around room to make sure everyone gets started.

9:40 -- Sit at the teacher's desk. Rack brain for something to do that doesn't involve reading a book, as reading during class is discouraged. Oh! Let's practice cursive, shall we? As a prospective teacher, I'm going to need to improve my handwriting. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. The quick brown fox jumps over . . . okay, this is getting boring. Opt to copy the sub plans, word for word, in cursive instead. A slight improvement, but not really.

10:00 -- Walk around the classroom again, encouraging students to stay on task. What's this? One student hasn't even started yet? And he doesn't have a pencil? Direct said student to the pencil can on teacher's desk so he can begin work. Feel slightly guilty for not having caught this earlier, while simultaneously scratching head in befuddlement. You would think a junior in high school would think to bring a pencil to school. Or ask to borrow one. Or . . . maybe he was just lazy.

10:05 - 10:55 -- Alternate between monitoring the room and practicing cursive. Read about what to do during a bomb threat in the sub plans, just in case.

10:55 - 11:30 -- Eat lunch. Finish book. Send a text to husband complaining about how boring this job is.

11:30 - 2:25 -- Pretty much the same thing over again, two more times, except without the lunch and prep period.

Pretty thrilling, eh?

"I think I laid an egg." -- Unnamed husband

A few weeks ago, I ventured out to get my biannual haircut. One of the very first comments the stylist said to me was "Wow, your hair sheds a lot, huh?"

Why yes, yes it does. How kind of you to point that out to me. As if making small talk to the person responsible for cutting my hair wasn't awkward enough already.

* * *

How many butter knives can two people use in 48 hours? Approximately 40 million. Same goes for cups.

* * *

To celebrate Pi Day (3/14), I made a chocolate pie and insisted that we listen to "American Pie" -- all 8 and a half minutes of it. Listening to the song quickly turned into singing it at the top of my lungs and dancing around the living room like a crazy person. (I like to think that Jacob is secretly impressed by my ability to remember all the words to that song.) As I later found out, our neighbors may also be secretly impressed, as our kitchen window was wide open at the time.

 Here's to hoping they were celebrating Pi Day far, far away from the complex at that particular moment in time.

* * *

I have nothing more to say.

"Don't even get me started on the J word." -- Cills

Yesterday, I set out to write a blog post bemoaning the fact that I was sure I had elephantitis of the pinky finger, as it has been mysteriously swollen for the past several days. I mean, I did accidentally strike it pretty hard against the refrigerator a week or two ago, but that's kind of a long time after the injury for the swelling to show up.

And then I googled elephantitis to make sure I spelled it right (I hadn't -- it's actually elephantiasis) and inevitably, some pictures of individuals afflicted with such a condition popped up. Immediately, I regretted my decision. Because there are some images you just can't un-see.

Kind of like the time I read an article about the "Tree Man*" in Indonesia, who has wart-like growths resembling tree trunks all over his body.

Suddenly, the swollen pinky doesn't seem so bad. Jibblies.



*I cannot be held responsible for any emotional scarring of individuals choosing to google either the Tree Man or elephantiasis. You have been warned.

This counts as dinner, right?

In less than an hour, I will be attending our ward's Relief Society Chocolate Appreciation Night.

Win!

What dreams are made of

When my sisters and I were tiny tots, we had a hard time thinking of suitable gifts to get my mom for her birthday and Christmas. My dad, helpful guy that he is, gave us a few suggestions of things she might need.

On one such occasion, we chipped in to buy her a new toilet bowl scrubber. On another, we bought her a broom. Let me assure you, she needed these new items -- her old broom had a wooden handle and the poor soul unfortunate enough to have to sweep was prone to getting a palmful of splinters, and the previous toilet bowl scrubber was an unpleasant shade of orange. But still.

She feigned delight with these gifts, but I'm sure she was inwardly dismayed at opening cleaning supplies on Christmas. If my memory serves me well, she also told my dad to "never get [her] cleaning supplies ever again" as a present.

Naturally, a couple of years ago Heather and I decided to buy her a toilet scrubber for Christmas as a joke. But don't worry, we got her a real gift as well.



Pity you can't see the whole scrubber.

That being said, here is a short wish list of cleaning supplies that I would like (but not for a holiday):

1. A dust pan. The dust pan we currently have came with the broom and unfortunately has a curved edge so it doesn't lay flat on the floor. It makes disposing of floor crumbs tricky.

2. Granular deodorant. The brand we used at BYU was called Pur-o-Mint, and apparently if you sprinkle it on vomit it absorbs the moisture so you can vacuum it up. I never had the opportunity to use it, but it sounds pretty spiffy. And I'm sure it would come in handy once we have children.

3. A washer and dryer. These are items I wouldn't mind getting for a holiday. St. Patrick's Day surprise, anyone?

Confession

Even though I am 22 years old and therefore considered an "adult" by a majority of the population, the sound of the wind whistling through the window (akin to a screaming banshee) unnerves me just a little.

"I'm all chocolate-d out." "You haven't had any chocolate today." "What about those cookies?" "Those were yesterday!"

I just heard an ad on Pandora stating that the average person will have 28 first kisses.

Twenty-eight?! Seriously? I don't think I've even gone on 28 first dates in my life.

* * *

Our light bulbs in the bathroom have burnt out one by one, and for quite some time we were getting by on the light of one lone bulb. We finally bought some new light bulbs a few days ago, and Jacob replaced them. It was awesome for about ten seconds -- and then I looked around and was mildly horrified about how dirty the bathroom was.

Spots on the ceiling! Grime on the baseboards! And our white shower curtain -- did I detect a hint of orange tinge on the bottom?

Today, I buckled down and scrubbed the bathroom till it shone like the top of the Chrysler building. It made me feel like a custodian at UOP again, minus the sweltering heat, the hideously orange t-shirt, and the Spanish speaking coworkers.

Now if only I could muster up the motivation to clean the rest of our apartment as thoroughly (or at all) . . .

This just in!

We're getting a sweet tax refund this year.

Happy Valentine's Day!

"Is rutabuga a baby food flavor?" "It's rutabAga. And no."

Saturday evening I was minding my own business when Jacob walked in with a plate stacked high of cookies.

Me: Jacob. We can't just eat cookies for dinner. We need something healthy.
Jacob: Like what?
Me: . . . Chips and salsa?

And this is why I need to remember to take my vitamins more often.

(And Mom, don't worry, we ended up having a lovely salad in addition to our artery-clogging snacks.)

Random tidbits

Conversation between Heather and I at our former roommate's baby shower:

Me: What do you even use baby oil for?
Heather: I don't know. To oil the babies?
Me: In case they get rusty?

* * *

On the drive home from the baby shower, my feet were itching something fierce. There are few things more woeful than being unable to scratch your itchy feet as you're cruising down the interstate during a 45 minute drive.

Also, if any small children (or small adults, for that matter) were playing Road Trip Bingo and they were looking to check off "Woman singing her lungs out like a crazy person," they should've been able to do so had they sidled on up next to my car. Just sayin'.

* * *

In our apartment, we currently have three man-shaped cardboard cutouts with a bunch of bullet holes blasted through them. In about an hour, I'm sure we'll add another one to our collection. I'm thinking of taping them to the wall to add to our decor in the living room. Go Police Academy.

* * *

Yesterday, I was reminded of just how much I dislike teaching first grade. Well, not that I needed to be reminded, necessarily. It just reaffirmed my belief that I should never ever ever teach anything lower than second. Or maybe third.

* * *

I received my first paycheck from this new job yesterday. First, I rejoiced because it was my first paycheck in about five months. Then, I wept when I realized that I made more money per hour as a custodian. What a blow to the ol' ego.

* * *

Just in case you were concerned about me being able to cook anything properly (thanks to the popcorn post), let me assure you that I made some delicious chocolate chip cookies for the baby shower and I still have a good two dozen or so left over. I'm willing to barter in exchange for other delicious baked goods. Or cold hard cash.

* * *

Six people voted that we should name our unconceived firstborn son Leif, and six voted for Dmitri. This forces me to come to one of two conclusions: Jacob paid off some of my friends to vote that way, or Leif isn't as horrible a name as I think. Dmitri is kind of growing on me, though.

". . . And then you could decorate your second bedroom, hereby called the nursery, all in pink." -- Heather

Last night The Husband and I were feeling a little peckish. After perusing our inventory of foodstuffs, we bemoaned the fact that we didn't have anything delicious to eat. We debated going out for fast food, but nixed that idea because we had to "save our dollars" and, more importantly, because that would require venturing out into single-digit weather.

We rummaged through the cupboards again. I ate a sugar cone (without any ice cream) that we had purchased for the Olympics. You know, the ones that happened a year ago. The Husband ate some cereal.

We were still hungry.

I suggested making some popcorn. We had, after all, four bags that I had been stashing away ever since before we got married.

It turns out that neither The Husband nor I have the knack of popping corn. We burned not one, but two bags.

We gave up and went to bed.

And the worst part about knowing that we will never be World Famous Popcorn Chefs? Our apartment still reeks.

"This shirt doesn't like my chest!" -- Six year old girl

Just in case you weren't already aware, I recently acquired a substitute teaching job at a charter school about 20 minutes from our apartment. I had my first day last Thursday, when I covered for a fourth grade class taught by a girl who lives in our apartment complex. This is necessary background information for the following story:

I typically wash my hair every other day. Not only does this prevent it from drying out too much, but it also guarantees that if I straighten my hair one day, it'll be straight the next day, too (provided I successfully keep it dry in the shower).

Now, it had been a few days since I last washed my hair, and I had all intents and purposes to shower first thing this morning. But, as you may have guessed, I didn't have the chance.

I awoke this morning to my cell phone ringing. Voice thick with sleep, I answered it and determined it was the principal of the charter school asking if I would be interested in subbing for a half day today. Jacob had already left, so I couldn't take the car. I quickly called up the girl in my apartment complex, who had already left for work but graciously agreed to turn around so she could pick me up.

With no time to take a shower, and with hats being against the dress code (not that I could pull off the hat look even if they weren't), my hair was doomed to stay. A glance in the mirror determined that, given the proper technology, enough grease could have been siphoned off my hair sufficient to fry doughnuts in.

At least one consolation is that most elementary school students aren't tall enough to see over the top of my head.

(Also, in case you were wondering, I have since washed my hair.)