Who's Kid is This?

I think it's been well established that Josh is kind of a peculiar child.  For example, his first real babysitting experience was sometime last year.  I left him with a girl from the neighborhood, before I had Aunika, so I could be somewhere (makes sense.  Babysitter needed so I could go somewhere...hmm...).  The babysitter made him macaroni and cheese for lunch.  Nothing out of the ordinary.

Ever since that experience, he insists that EVERY babysitter make him macaroni and cheese.  EVERY time.  Doesn't matter what time of the day it is.  One morning we left him with a babysitter to go out for something or another.  She called in a panic at about 9:30 am.

"Josh is insisting that I make macaroni and cheese.  Is that okay?"

"Sure.  Why not?"

Now, I just tell the babysitters "listen, he has to have macaroni and cheese.  I know it's 7 am, but it's better for everyone involved that you just make it and call it good."

Except for that I forgot to tell the babysitter on Saturday morning.  But, I came home to find a half eaten pot of macaroni and cheese on the stove, so she must have gotten the memo.  Most likely in the form of "I have to eat macaroni and cheese.  It's what I have to eat.  My belly and my arms and my legs will DIE if I don't get macaroni and cheese."  No 12 year old wants that hanging over their head.  Mac and cheese it is.

I think it's OCD.  And it's genetic.  And I don't think it's from my side of the family.  But maybe it's just being four.  I'm sure genetics plays a role somewhere though.

So, yesterday, I was doing finances, which involves, among other things, an excel spreadsheet.  Josh was watching me, fascinated.  I closed everything when I was finished and handed control of the computer over to him.

He played a few games at pbskids.org and then called me into the room.

"I'm looking for the page with the windows."  He told me.

"Windows?"  I asked.

Josh gazed over to our window (the computer room is, in fact, our bedroom.).  "Not square like that one."  "Like this shape." He said, tracing what looked to be a square in the air with his finger.

"Hmmm..." I responded.

"Follow me, mommy."   He said, getting up from the chair and running into his room.

We stood in his room and Josh tilted his head to the side so I did as well.  Everything had a sideways view about it. 

"Shaped like this window, mommy."  Josh replied, glancing at his retangular window.  "Lots of them."

"Oh, an excel spreadsheet." I said, returning to the computer and opening up a blank sheet for him.

"YES!" he excitedly exclaimed.

Why he wanted an excel spreadsheet, who knows?  I don't ask questions.  But he was happy playing around on that for an hour.

This morning, after I got back from my run, I noticed a bunch of paper retangles cut out on the computer desk.  Upon further examination, turns out he made a "manual" excel spreadsheet.  Complete with numbers and everything.  Do they teach you this is preschool now, because I was a junior in high school before I even knew what an excel spreadsheet was?

Man, this kid cracks me up. 

And for the record, geniusness runs on MY side of the family.

Book Review Friday 9/11/09

Last year, I wrote a book review every (well, almost every) Friday from a book that I read that week.  After I had Aunika, I wasn't reading as much, so I quit doing the reviews.  However, I've been reading a lot more now that she's a little more independent.  I thought maybe I'd return to the book reviews next year, but I decided to start today--some random Friday in September.  

So why do I do these reviews?  Well, aside from making me look incredibly smart and astute, I think we should all be reading more.  Perhaps, maybe not me, because I have read three books this week, and now I'm bordering on "recluse" and "neglectful" and other not-so-nice adjectives, but we--as Americans--should be reading more.  Maybe something I say in one of these reviews will prompt you to go out and read the book.  Or steer clear of it.  Or pick up that book you've had on your nightstand for the last three months.


And it's one more chance for you to read my (very witty) writing without me actually having to come up with some random topic to talk about on those weeks when it's the same daily grind.

But, most importantly, it's my blog.  That's why.

Book: The School of Essential Ingredients
Author: Erica Bauermeister
Pages: 240

This particular book is on the Reader's Choice List from the Salt Lake County Library system.  Twice a year, they come out with a Reader's Choice List that runs for three months.  The books are picked by the librarians and then the readers choose their favorites.  They give out awards to the people who read the most or some random thing, the only stipulation being that you live in the county.  Which I think is a crock since I pay them $80 a year to be allowed the privilege of checking out their sainted books.  So I should be given a chance at the $15 gift certificate to Barnes and Noble too.  But, that's for another day.

I read this book--surprisingly, since after doubling my workload with children, I haven't done this--in one day.  (I'm a fairly fast reader, so this doesn't mean that I sat in bed and read while my children ran amok.  Maybe.)  I was fascinated.  My only complaint is that I wish it were a longer book.

The story follows eight students in a cooking class held one Monday a month.  It begins with Lillian, owner of Lillian's Restaurant, and class instructor.  Then, each chapter is one of the students in the class; how they came to be in the class, certain key points in their lives.  Each person--as in real life--has things they're hiding. 

Intertwined in the storyline are these incredible dishes they make in class.  Though the recipes aren't in there, since Lillian doesn't use recipes, I'm sure you could follow what she's saying to the class and duplicate the meals.  You know, if you were into that sort of thing.

All in all, I thought it was a great story with a lot of interesting material.  I just wish there were maybe 15 students instead of 8.  The book served as a reminder that no one is as they seem.  We are all hiding something.

Gone Bowling

I recently embarked on my third season on a bowling league. This is a little out of character for me. I'm not really into the whole organized fun-time. But, it's turned out to be a lot of fun. Hence, why I keep going back.

Each season starts when the kids go back to school and lasts until the end of May. It can kind of drag on at the end...like maybe it goes on for 5 or 6 weeks too long. But, during the winter, it's a great activity to get me out of my house. Otherwise, I'd probably just stay in here and stew in my own juices until springtime.

For $8.50 a week--frankly, the BEST $8.50 I spend--I get three games of bowling and a daycare to put Josh (and eventually Aunika) in for roughly 2 hours. I bought my own bowling shoes at the beginning of last season and my own ball at the end of the first season.  I'm a bonafide bowler now.  Even have a towel and everything.

Last season, I was in charge of the daycare and I hated it. It was stressful and took the fun out of bowling. People, even adult women--maybe, especially adult women--can be so petty and unbelievable.  I just want to show up, play my three games, and go home. I'm asked to vacuum the nursery every once in a while, but that's a small price to pay for 2 hours of "freedom".

There are six teams comprised of three members each. Each season, I've been sort of the "last man picked" person. I'm not really picky about who I play with as long as they're reliable. I'm certainly not there to win anything. I'm not even that good.

Or I wasn't. Until somehow, I've become a bowling-semi-diva.

The first season, I averaged close to 100. It was pathetic. But, I was having fun, and that's all that matters. Last year, I averaged around 120. Not bad. I was an exceptional bowler when I was nine months pregnant (go figure) but each week, I'd have to come home and soak in the tub because it hurt so bad to bowl. After I had Aunika, I never really could match the kind of awesomeness I had at the beginning of the season.

Last week was our first week of the new season. I didn't, as usual, have a team.  But luckily, two ladies from the ward scooped down and picked me up.  Nevermind that they're both older than my mom.  That's immaterial.  They're still a fun group of ladies and I keep them young.  One has been on a bowling league for 20 years.  She has the second highest average in the league (out of 18 players.  I'm number 5, thank you very much.)  The other one is in Alaska right now, but she's not such a great bowler.  She has a lot of fun and that's all that matters anyways.  She'll be back next week.  Maybe she'll have improved over the summer.

During the first week, you set your average and your handicap. The handicap is used to level out the playing field. The lower your average the higher your handicap. The unwritten goal of the first week is to try to sandbag your score but make it look like you were really trying. I did pretty good the first two games, 112 and 113. But the third game, I went crazy. It was strike after strike with a few spares thrown in. I came out with a 172. That hosed my handicap and my average, now a 134. I left kind of disappointed. That's a lot to live up to every week when you're really only a 120 average kinda gal.

This week, I was late thanks to a four year old who was being a brat (the story of my life) and a telephone call just as I was leaving, and so I had to bowl fast to catch up. I hit my average of 120 the first game and raised it slightly to 128 the second game.  By the third game I hit my stride and emerged with a 162.  We BLEW the pants off the other team and are currently sitting in first place for the league.

Look at us--we're the Nine Pin Wonders!

New Name. New Look

I decided to change things up a bit here.  I hope you likey.  Let me know if something is too hard to read or what not.

East Side vs West Side

Sunday, we celebrated our 7 year anniversary in this house. By celebrating, I mean to say that we stayed up until 6 am (yes, 6 am) to finish prepping our basement to be primed. But THAT story is for another day.

(Remember the basement? I know. It's been like a year.)

But seven years?!? Where does the time go?

Almost eight years ago, we were looking at buying something when we were somewhat led to this location. Our families and friends thought we were nuts, living so far away. Most of them still do. As though it doesn't take the majority of them the same amount of time just to hit a freeway entrance as it does for us to get to our destination in Salt Lake (30 minutes--pretty much anywhere in the Salt Lake Valley). But whatever.

Tooele County sorta gets crapped on by the rest of the Wasatch Front. It's like the red-headed step child of the tri-county area of Salt Lake, Utah and Tooele Counties. It's true there's some unsavory people in Tooele. They're a little strange. But, I contend that the same goes for Salt Lake and Utah Counties, but since the population is greater in those two areas, it's not as noticable. But Tooele is an afterthought for many people.

We were initially led--by God or intution or whatever you want to believe--out here. When we bought our house, we were starving college students, but the mortgage was less than what we were paying for our one bedroom apartment on the "east side".

Time out. The East Side vs. the West Side debate.

I grew up on the "West Side". West Valley. I went to one of the poorest, lowest performing high schools in the district. I survived. Even managed to get a full ride scholarship--to CEU, but at least it was paid for and bonus, that's the only school I applied to anyways. I got an incredible education by some incredible teachers. Teachers who did not start out as teachers, but rather as professionals who made it big--we're talking millionaires here--who then went BACK to school to get their teaching certificates and give back to the community by teaching in the ghettos.

My dad made pretty good money but instead of buying a bigger house in a "better" neighborhood, they took us on trips and did things with us, educating us that way.

Over the years, it seems like I've been branded as a West Sider. As though my very existence as a human being can be tied to what side of State Street I lived on. Still to this day! Seriously, grow up! I've been told that "your parents have a really nice house." As though we all lived in shabby tents on this side of town. And I've also been told, astonishingly, that "I would never have married someone from the West Side." Seriously? One of the traits that your potential mate has to have is that they had to have been raised on the other side of State Street? Wow! Let's not worry about the little things like morals and values and common interests. Heaven forbid we're compatible. One block west of the blessed State Street and it's over, baby.

Sorry...seems, I have a lot of pent up hostility centering around this issue...

Geosnobs--a term I call those who only see the location and don't pay attention to the details, or the people--have always driven me crazy. You are no better than me because you happen to live east of State Street or the freeway or on the other side of the tracks. Wade's brother's girlfriend--a fellow west sider like me--put it best when she said "actually, when my parents moved from our home on the "east side" (2100 S and 500 E) to Magna (way west), my life improved quite dramatically." I love it when people claim to be East Siders when they live two blocks from the division line.

This is not to say that location isn't a major player in where one should choose to live. It's only saying that by putting yourself up on a pedestal--or worse, looking down on someone else--because of that location only makes you look petty and insecure. News flash: Child molesters and pedophiles live on the East Side too (and they go to church. I know. Shocker.). Drugs and violence creep over there as well. You could make the argument that since there's no East-West-Germany-like wall separating the two classes of people, the unsavory characters are merely trespassing on your side from my side. But, I could argue differently.

But anywho, back to me and my house.

Because it's MY blog, that's why.

So, yeah, we've been living in this vast, barren wasteland for seven years now. And you know what? We love it. We've looked at moving back to the valley, but then we hear the stories of how it takes people two (2!!!) hours to get home from work on a Friday night and we're glad we don't live there. (I hear, a lot, that it's quite rare, but it seems like every time I'm out and about during rush hour and I'm listening to the traffic report, it doesn't sound so rare. It sounds like a daily nightmare). But more importantly, we don't fit in in the valley anymore. When we were seriously looking, we felt out of place. As though everyone could see through us and instinctively know we weren't made from the same cookie cutter as them.

But the best part--in a few short weeks (end of September? end of October? Christmas?) we will have a five bedroom, three bath house that we are paying less for a month then our one bedroom apartment. And since we're no longer starving college students, that house will be paid for in five or less years. And that, my friends, is a deal and a half.

The Low Maintenance Friends Plan

About a year ago, I adopted the Low Maintenance Friends Plan. This has revolutionized my life considerably. Mainly, by dropping (more or less) those friends that drained me emotionally (High Maintenance Friends) I am more capable of dealing with the trivialities of my own life. And I'm happier. And I'm wealthier. And I've lost weight. And I'm gorgeous. Drop dead gorgeous actually. I even tan now. And my hair's gone blonde and it's chic and long....

Note: If you are reading this, you're most likely on my Low Maintenance Friends Plan. Maybe. Perhaps you're just family, in which case, I can't boot you anywhere (except for, as the case may already be, you can stop inviting me to family functions. In which case I will just continue to make biting remarks here on my platform. I'm, of course, not referring to last weekend's debacle since that didn't turn out to be a "party" I wanted to be at anyhow. But, so you know, for future reference, pass the word along that it's a secret party without us or prepare to pay. [cue evil laugh]. Now back to our regularly scheduled programming...)

Low Maintenance Friends (LMF) are just that. They're there if you need them. Or not. Because they have lives too. And you understand that about each other. Some had crappy--really crappy, not just oh-I-couldn't-stay-out-past-10 pm crappy--childhoods, but they've risen above it and are functioning members of society. Some, like me, had great childhoods. We all have skeletons in our closets, but we don't use them to garner attention or pity from those around us.

When you agree to do something, as a LMF, you do it. Whether it's a race or a bake sale or subbing for my class in primary on Sunday. You know that whatever your LMF has agreed to do, it will be done. Even if it kills them. Or nearly kills them. A commitment is a commitment is a commitment.

There's no need to call and check in with your LMFs. If they decided to go camping this weekend, great! If they're going to their mom's house for the day, even better. LMF's remember that you spend every Tuesday with your mom and so they don't ask why you weren't home when they came over. In fact, LMF's never ask why you weren't home. They assume you had something better to do.

You know that your LMF has many obligations and roles in her life to fulfill--just like you--and that she can't always be "there" for you. But, you also know, that if life was getting painfully tough, she'd drop everything and come get you for some ice cream, diets be damned. At the very least, they'll talk to you on the phone and agree that your husband was being a dork.

LMFs don't have someone else call you--or worse, text you--to relay a message that they could've easily told you themselves, but feared your reaction. In short, they've actually graduated from Jr. High. They take responsibility for their actions. You and your LMF understand that sometimes promises have to be broken and things have to be said that aren't polite or nice, but that once the air is clear, everything is much better.

LMFs don't whine incessantly about things they can't change. Or worse, they don't whine incessantly about things they can change. They change them. LMFs don't get so caught up in other people's lives that they don't realize their's is falling down around their ankles. They especially don't get caught up in your life because they know they don't belong there. They can be themselves around you and know that you'll love them no matter what. They don't put on airs or try to be someone they're not to impress you.

LMFs don't try to "define the relationship". You're not dating. You won't be getting married. There's no need to hash over your "relationship" time after time after time. If you have a grievance, you approach your LMF and let her know. She nods her understanding, tells her side of the story, and it's done.

Now, this isn't to say that I have no HMFs out there. I do. Apparently, lots. But I've limited my contact. I don't get involved with their drama. I offer my support for their life's trials, but I don't immerse myself into their lives. HMFs are still good people, but LMFs are a girl's best friend.

Thank You Notes from September 1

Dear Honest Library Patron,

Thank you for turning in my $10 bill to the circulation desk. I'm sure you remember me. Really, who wouldn't? I was the one with the three-ring circus that following her around. I arrived with a baby in a stroller and an eager four year old and my mom. My mom is kind of hard to pick out because she insists on standing far enough away that the casual observer might not notice that she is, indeed, part of my circus. My initial stop was to pay a fine at the circulation desk with the $10 bill, but then I found out that if I waited until next week and brought in a few cans of food, they'd waive it. So I stuffed my $10 into my pocket at the same time my four year old--who I taught to LOVE the library--was yanking on my hand to go pick out more Diego, Dora, and Bob the Builder books. Which of course I LOVE to read over and over again until my head starts spinning and I'm talking in stunted sentences.

After we picked up his books and I was given a generous allotment of about 5 minutes to pick out books for me, we headed up to the check out computer, where my four year old insisted that he run each and every book--18 in all--through the scanner, despite barely being tall enough to see over the ledge of the counter while standing on his tiptoes. All this while my 9 month old in her stroller was pulling down everything within reach and screeching like a hyena and my mom was looking at the pet rats--I know she HATES rats. HATES them with a vengence usually reserved for murderers and ultra right-wing conservatives. But she was observing them for quite some time while a line of other library patrons waited patiently for my four year old to scan. each. book.

I'm not sure where I lost my $10, but I'm guessing it was at this particular point.

After gathering my trio of circus acts, I left and went to the store, where I couldn't find my $10 bill and nearly took a fit in the parking lot. My mom helpfully suggested that I clean out my purse sometime soon, at which point I might have glanced at her with something resembling a death glare. She then insisted that we drive back to the library and I run in to ask if someone had turned in a $10 bill (honestly, as if!) and so to placate her (and because I felt a little bit bad about the death glare and accompanying comment suggesting that I was well aware of the fact that I needed to clean out my purse), we did just that. As I neared the front door, I thought about just standing inside for a few minutes and then leaving, but I gathered my courage and asked the lady behind the desk. She looked at me like "yeah, as if" but dutifully went to the back room to see.

"When did you lose it?" she casually asked as she returned.

"About 10 minutes ago." I said with a laugh, trying to convey that I knew there was no way someone would turn in a $10 bill but it was worth a shot.

At which point she handed me my $10 bill and a look that said something like "go ahead. Take away the new book we would've bought for some deserving child. Maybe your child even."

So, thank you very much for being honest.


Dear Child Tender at the Gym,

Thank you for taking my overly curious four year old for 45 minutes yesterday so that I could get some peace. Despite the spin instructor not showing up, and some stupid rule saying that I can't leave my less than 2 year old in the nursery with you, I had a wonderful 45 minute workout on a bike, where I got to read in (almost) complete silence. It was a nice feeling that I haven't felt in a long time.

Ah. It was just what I needed to get back in the car with said four year old and make the 15 minute drive home, where he continued to pepper me with question after question. After question.

Dear Neighbors,

Thank you for kindly averting your eyes when I walk by, because I'm pretty sure you can hear what goes on behind closed doors at my house. I would like the record to show that it is my four year old who screams like a girl, and not in fact, me (usually). He's quite unbelievable, isn't he?

Dear Aunika,

Thank you for reminding me why we wanted a second child. You're so easy going and happy. You don't cry a lot. You scream like a hyena and screech like a chimpaneze in public, but other than that, you're perfect.

Dear Josh,

Thank you for reminding me why we should stop at two children.