in the snow.

One thing that I enjoy about blogs -- other peoples' blogs -- not my blog -- are the beautiful, vibrant, photoshopped pictures of the beautiful, vibrant, edited lives of lovely, articulate strangers. How easy it is to present life as a shimmering orb of perfection. And I like following shiny orbs. Or I like perfection. Particularly the glossy cover-art kinds.

And I think it might be a fun hobby to attempt the creation of a snowglobe life filled with sparkling whimsy and splashy fun.

But I can't write that way. If I did, though, you would now be reading about the crisp evening in a backyard covered in mounds of snow, pristine and untouched. Steam from the dryer vent adding a haze to the cloud covered sky, creating stage effects for our first attempt at throwing ourselves into such perfection.

Small bodies stuck in drifts after each fall, as mother makes her way to save each one from the snow angels holding them hostage. Rolling out the snowman layers, creating snowball machines, eating the productions and starting over again.

Frosty appearing underneath the large tree, without carrot, hat, scarf, or buttons but sculpting replicas out of the excess snow that just happens to be laying at our feet.

And you might imagine an evening of perfection and beauty, within a snowglobe of our own.

Until I admit that this is our first snowman. And I feel bad about that.

And that is where I fall out of the orb, in that I am compelled to admit my guilt and complete lack of abilities of submitting my will to the needs of my children.

a big, fat, piece of cake.

Yes I am. And whenever I feel like dessert I want to eat more. And then it becomes this mad circle that spirals into a slow motion life of little motivation.

That's right, and top on my no-motivation list? Scrapbooking. Hair. Getting out of bed. Showers. Cleaning. Brushing my teeth. Cooking. Dishes.

And then my resentment increases at others for sitting while I have to move. Because. I. don't. want. to. move.

To fight this? I made lemon squares AND Halfway cookies yesterday. Today I plan on making the homemade oreos.

But I have a really good reason. Payment for the substitutes in primary. 36 instructors equals a lot of subs. And the few who actually say yes to subing are getting burnt out.

So my evolution into dessert will be shared, so that the majority of these feelings will not end up in my stomach. But on someone else's doorstep.

And then I will go back to bed.

my own club...

Um, so I don't have time right now to be in a book club. And I'm not supposed to be reading anything except my GRE book. But I cheated and read this:

and I liked it. A lot.

But you may not. Say, if you're my mom. Or my grandma. You won't like it.

Because this will not be the book club selection of choice in my Utah clubbing circles. (if I had them. circles. or clubs. I mean.)

So this post is my own personal book club. With myself.

The honesty was refreshing. I mean the honesty from a Mormon was refreshing. Mormon's are very honest people. I'm not saying that they aren't. But when it comes to personal thoughts and feelings, we're not all that open. or honest.

And the author, herself, admits openly lying to people as she shares her experiences. So she isn't completely honest either. But she admits things that most Mormons wouldn't. Like....um....well things that I wouldn't admit.

I mean I can't even admit questioning my personal faith without feeling guilty.

But reading her experiences was freeing in the sense that I have always been so anxious about doing things wrong. Upsetting people, authority figures, and God. Like in high school, being tardy to class was anxiety invoking for me. So I began to look at it in the opposite light, I acted like I didn't care about being tardy. I would slow down everything. Walking, socializing, putting things in my backpack. And then if I was tardy, so be it. But it took one extra anxiety producing thought out of my mix. And just doing that calmed me down.

I never doubted, only believed what I was told. Smoking was bad? I shouldn't hang out with other people who smoke. I lost some friends that way. Same for drinking. That was the black and white of my world.

And now I question. I don't believe some of what I used to believe. And I wish that it was okay to talk bout it. To address it. Without feeling judged.

I'm not there yet. But Elna is. And I enjoyed reading about it.

random release...

Shoveling the drive twice within 17 hours is nice inspiration. For a variety of blog posts. Only the second that one pops in my head, it leaves. For warmer weather I suppose.

Like I wanted to post about how I can't stand doing my hair right now. And I was about to write it out in my mind. But it went away. And that ended that.

Or about how Millie called our car a genious. Which it totally is. But I can't recall the circumstance, or story surrounding it.

And then this morning, before shoveling episode #2, my period started. And clarity came.

I thought - oh, I should write about this. But then realized that I always write about the beginning of my period. Why must I force my blog to be my calendar?

And that might be gross. For you. If you're reading. But it's not gross for me. (Remember: blood not gross. Stickers and long nails? Vomit inducing.) I like to talk about it. It's a huge part of who I am. Or I guess in how I act. And perhaps it is my one token form of rebellion. (Or is that the dc?)

Rebellious? How can it be rebellious? Well, when you grow up not swearing, or drinking, or sneaking out, or toilet papering, or skipping class, or whatever your token form of rebellion may be...

But sometimes you just need to shock. For shocks sake. Right? My rebellion of choice has always been complete honesty regarding my cycle. (Okay, and screaming at the parentals -- but that's another story. For a therapist.)

My brothers could share some choice experiences. Kyle in particular. But I see it more as one of my life purposes. I completely prepared them for the realities of womanhood. In fact, they probably have it much nicer now that they are warm and cozy in marriage. Because I know that the sis-in-laws are not leaving surprises in the sink.

And I'm sure the brothers are so thankful for their awesome wives. And I feel like I had a hand in that.

grossed out.

There is nothing worse than stickers on skin.

(Well, maybe long finger nails.)

But just looking at this picture makes me vomit a little.

Thank goodness the girls have one parent who allows them sticker fun.

Because I cannot go there.

Ugh.

Just posting this.....

makes me want to close my computer.

Now.

replacing someone.

To all of you who are planning on a move,

Important tip: Make sure that you purchase a house from people that no one in the neighborhood likes. That way everyone will love you when you move in.

We made the mistake of purchasing a house from a family that everyone likes. No, everyone LOVES.

Which wouldn't be that bad, except this particular family still lives in the area. They moved far enough away that no one sees them on a daily basis, but they still throw neighborhood barbecues. And their children still go to the same school.

So they are loved. And if they had moved to a different state, then they would only be a memory of love. But here they are living the love and all we do is hear about it.

Mr. Love helped us put up shelves in our garage.

Mrs. Love coordinated a cruise for 8 different couples in the neighborhood.

Mr. Love was a marathon runner. Do you run?

We were just at the Loves' new house for a barbecue. They are wonderful.

Where do you live? Oh! The Loves' old place. I love the Loves!

We just can't live up to the expectations.

Yeah. So we are not handy enough to put up shelves. That is why we purchased this house. Because the Loves had it done.

Cruise? With neighbors? If we had the funds, we'd prefer family. It's true.

Running? My feet barely know how to walk.

Barbecue....we hide inside whenever we see a neighbor. That way we don't have to remember names. Or say hi. Or get out of our comfort zone.

So. Our poor neighborhood did not get an upgrade when we moved in.

Learn from our mistakes, my friends. Purchase from the most hated neighbors and you won't disappoint.

biased again.

I'm not sure. Perhaps this has come up before. But I would like to admit it again.

I don't like beautiful women. I just don't.

I realize that those of you who I do like are now re-evaluating our friendship, thinking that I just called you ugly. But no. I'm not talking about your down to earth beauty (which I find to be the most attractive.)

I'm talking about those women who are so beautiful that you can't stop staring. Wondering which lab and who they were cloned from?

Have you ever noticed that they seem to congregate together?

I just saw four. Walking, sitting, and clinging to one another.

All in heels and makeup with long, loosely curled hair and banana republic looking dresses. Actually something more than the republic. Only I don't know what it would be.

And I was completely put off. I knew that I didn't like them. Because:

1. They were all together. And the word that came to mind was clique - having no desire to interact with those of us of normal caliber.
   


2. They looked perfect. Per.fect. Really. Who has time for that? I don't. And I guess it's about values. I don't value spending time on such things. Me? I value reading, or working, or sleep. Okay. I really just value sleep.
   


3. Who has money to spend on that? Nude shoes that match a nude dress? How often does one wear nude heels? Money spent on matching bags and matching makeup and keeping that hair blond. Um, I tried blond once and I know about upkeep. Never again. A bit of insanity goes into that. I would rather spend my money on bills, dirt, ballet classes or a PhD application.

So why am I sharing this? Because I thought it. And I am biased. And I know that's mean. I don't think it will ever go away. But admitting it kind of makes me feel better.

photo via Tammy Manet

reading you.

Do you ever read blogs and leave them feeling like an awful, horrible, person, mom?

If you answer no, then you are not human. And I think you're lying.

Really.

I do.

Because today I left each blog a worse person than the one who entered.

And I hope that I never do that. Let you leave feeling worse than you did when you started reading. I want you to say:

Thank goodness. At least I'm not her. I will always be one parenting step above. I've got my act together, and my rockin' mom skilz workin' it in comparison.

And I think that shall be my gift to the world. Maybe not the gift to my children. But to the world? Yes.