"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.)

Sweatin' to the Oldies, Part 2

Just in case you were thinking to yourself, "Self, what kind of crazy cool moves has Jennifer been doing during her workouts these last two days?", allow me to present you with this:



I kid you not, I did some of those very dance moves at the stake dances in high school. Especially the ones during the "gimme, gimme some lovin'" part. Be jealous.

All of a sudden, I understand why I was 1) ridiculously sweaty and 2) never surrounded by swooning menfolk during the dances. Eh, their loss.

(In case you were also wondering, Jacob and I did not meet at a dance. And he has yet to see me work out to this video. I'm afraid he might judge.)

Update: I may or may not have watched this video clip, oh, five times in the last half hour. It brings me joy. Also, I added a poll for you to vote on what we should name our unconceived firstborn son, just for kicks. (Also, I apparently don't know how to spell Leif correctly.)

I am not ashamed. Okay, maybe just a little.

This may shock you, but I am not an exercising fiend. In fact, the most exercise I usually get is when I, um, walk to the library a few times a week. Which is across the street from our apartment. Which would only take 2 minutes to get there if I jaywalked. (But, as a law abiding citizen, I walk all the way down to the stoplight and all the way up to the library, so it takes more like 10 minutes each way. Go me.)

ANYway, I've been watching The Biggest Loser as of late, and as such, I've been feeling like maybe I should stop sitting around eating bon bons (read: Little Debbie Cosmic Brownies) and start exercising some more. And by "some more" I clearly mean "period."

Every now and again I go through these phases where I'll start running outside several times a week to get my exercise in. But seeing as how the temperature has been hovering around freeze-your-buns-off degrees (I know, I'm a whanny), it hasn't really been a tempting option.

What has been an option, however, are exercise videos.

My mom used to be (still is?) really into aerobic exercise videos. She would get up ridiculously early to work out before getting ready for the day. My sisters and I used to tease her about some of her video choices. Then, once upon a time, my sisters and I joined my mom in an ab workout routine. There we were, groaning in agony (okay, maybe I was the only one groaning), when my dad came in with a camera and started taking pictures of us.

We were not amused.

Fast forward a few years. As a sophomore in college, I had some roommates who wanted to do some more ab workouts (but this time, they were on DVD!). We'd get together in the evenings and I, always keeping up with tradition, would groan in agony as we completed them. One time, we decided we wanted to lift weights. Lacking weights, we used bottles of water and cans of refried beans. (I tried finding the picture we took with our makeshift weights for your viewing pleasure, but was unsuccessful.)

As you can see, I'm no stranger to workout videos. I'm just a stranger to working out consistently.

(I promise I'm getting to the point eventually.)

So I had decided that I need to start working out with some fun, aerobic type DVD. I did a little research online, wrote down the call number of the DVD I wanted, walked down to the library, and checked out . . .

. . .

. . .

. . .

. . .

(Cue the horror music.)

I know, I know. Judge away. In fact, I almost lost my nerve to check it out when I saw the label "Staff help at checkout may be necessary for this item." I didn't want some librarian to know I was actually planning to -- gulp -- "Sweat to the Oldies" with Richard Simmons! But, I decided I would at least try to use the self check out with this vibrant DVD. If it didn't work, I reasoned, I could put it back on the shelf and get a more respectable workout DVD instead.

Thank my lucky stars, I was successful. And then I immediately shoved it into my purse so the other library patrons wouldn't see.

And when I got home and started the DVD, you better believe I grinned like a silly idiot for the first five minutes of the warm up.

Meet the family

Yesterday at church I was examining the program when I noticed there was a spot for new members to fill out their information so their records could be retrieved from their old ward.

I jokingly suggested that Jacob fill it out with our information, as well as the information of our unborn children. He took up the challenge, and resulted in something like this (with my asides in parentheses, of course):

Husband's name: Jacob Erickson
Wife's name: Jennifer Erickson
Child: Leif Erickson (after the explorer)
Child: Jacoby Erickson (this is pronounced Ja - KO - be, as in Kobe Bryant)
Child: Dmitri Erickson (after the character in Anastasia?)
Child: Obi Wan Erickson (from Star Wars)
Child: Gimli Erickson (from Lord of the Rings)
Child: Donald Erickson (this is Jacob's dad's name, but I think I'd prefer to use Donald as a middle name myself)

I'm not sure which is more alarming -- that Jacob is planning to have six sons in a row or that he's planning to name some of them after fictional characters.

Just the claps. Just the claps.

Few things bring me more joy than my cell phone recognizing jibblies as a word.

"We hide our flaws until after the wedding."

Texting conversation I had with Jacob this morning:

Me: You should be pleased to know that I cleaned out the shower drain. You should be even more pleased that I resisted the urge to put the hair ball on your pillow.
Jacob: Oh you would. Nasty!
Me: Teehee!

And you, dear readers, should be the most pleased of all -- I could have taken a picture of it to put on here, but I do have some standards.

And little lambs eat ivy

Every now and again I go through these phases where I feel the compulsion to play Solitaire whenever I have some down time. And as I'm waiting for that husband of mine to come home from class (checks watch -- what's taking so long?), I have time to spare.

Miraculously, this was one of the few times I won a game on the first try. Because as much as I like to play Solitaire, let's be honest -- the percentage of times I win is probably hovering in the teens. Life is so hard sometimes. ::dramatic sigh::

Anyway, the reason I bring this up is that every time I win a game of Solitaire, I have to watch the entire deck of cards fall to see if they'll cover up the entire screen. It's something I picked up from my mom when I was younger. And that little top left corner of green is what gets missed most of the time. Naturally, when the fallen cards cover up all the green space, it's a special occasion.

It wasn't meant to be this time, though.

And . . . that's all I have to say about that. ::darts eyes furtively:: Look! Pictures! Yay!

"Do you know what fell from the sky last night?" "Santa?!"

Just now, I attempted to make some mashed potatoes. Not the real kind -- I don't have the patience for all that mashing -- the stuff from a box. I know, all of you real domestic goddesses are probably cringing at the thought.

Anyway, I decided I couldn't possibly wait for water to boil on the stove, so I decided to follow the microwave instructions instead.

Something must've not gone well, because the resulting dish has the consistency of gruel. Or at least, the consistency that I imagine gruel must have. (I, myself, have never experienced that delicacy before, so it's hard to say for certain.)

Not quite the vision of fluffiness I was going for. Alas.

"On a scale from 1 to 10, how full is your bladder right now?"

I don't think I've ever judged a movie as much as I judged The Hunchback of Notre Dame II last night.

I want that hour of my life back. (Well, on the plus side, at least it was only an hour.)

I knew I shouldn't have let Jacob check it out from the library.

Live and learn.

Labor of Love

When I was a wee chap, my mother had this hare-brained idea of cross-stitching stockings for all of her darling daughters, as well as for her husband and herself. Now, she didn't simply buy premade stockings and personalize them by cross-stitching the name. Oh, no, she cross-stitched the entire front of the stocking. Six times over. Each stocking took between one and two years to complete.

13 years ago, she completed mine:

Isn't it lovely?

Well, about a month after Jacob and I got engaged, I got the hare-brained idea of making him a stocking, too. I informed my mom of my wishes, and lo and behold, I received a stocking kit for my birthday.

I toiled away at the stocking. I pulled it out while watching television. I worked on it for hours on the weekend. I even ::gasp!:: stitched away a time or two during sacrament meeting like an old woman might.

Approximately . . .

13 months

34,000 stitches

175 French knots

2 lost needles (one of which was later recovered)

1/3 yard of green velvet fabric

and countless hours later, I came up with this:

I finished it December 23rd. Just in the knick of time, eh?

Of course, I may have fallen into a trap. Because now I'll have to make stockings for my children. Good heavens!