Earthlife

Blog Blah Blah

What is your blogging philosophy? I had a conversation with my brother today who told me that I needed more pictures on my blog. I am purposefully not putting a picture here. I love being passive aggressive, or just aggressive. I am never passive, even though it is my goal every year of my life to learn to be passive.

My blogging philosophy is this….Do whatever you want with your own darn blog. That is why you have it. Blogging allows you to actually control something in your life all by yourself. My favorite blogs are the ones like mine, that actually have some commentary. The more personal the information the better (few people dare to live their life as an open book and people who do dare have my utmost respect – as long as they can actually talk about something besides themselves)

I like to read people’s opinions and love the internet for bringing them all to my very own house. I can get millions of opinions with a few clicks. How is that for someone who still has a market research bug somewhere deep down inside? I loved calling and bugging people for their personal information when I was telemarketer, but I am now the first one to hang up on them. I don’t need them, I have blogging now. And, I now get my high from the comment click. Woo hoo.

And while I am sharing my opinion, I am not a huge fan of blogs that have only one purpose…to chronicle and scrapbook one’s own family. C’mon give me some substance. Every Mormon family blog looks exactly the same. I don’t care how cute your kid is! Although I am giving my kudos to Meagan for at least admitting that her blog is what I don’t like. (I like it all the more now that you were willing to openly talk about it.) he he – Now I know that I just ticked some of my blogging friends off. Sorry. I do still read all of your blogs, or should I say, I do still look at each and every picture. But, if you would like some other comments from me besides “cute picture” then do something daring and give me some juicy stuff.

And, just for the record, here is the official definition of blog: a Web site that contains an online personal journal with reflections, comments, and often hyperlinks provided by the writer

I think you will be surprised at knowing that most blogs don’t fit the definition, including mine. I don’t really journal all of the details; I never link often enough, I talk too much, and evidently I don’t have enough pictures either. Oh well, I gave up a long time ago trying to please my brothers.

I like this blogger.com’s definition better:

A blog is a personal diary. A daily pulpit. A collaborative space. A political
soapbox. A breaking-news outlet. A collection of links. Your own private
thoughts. Memos to the world. Your blog is whatever you want it to be. There are
millions of them, in all shapes and sizes, and there are no real rules. In
simple terms, a blog is a web site, where you write stuff on an ongoing basis.
New stuff shows up at the top, so your visitors can read what’s new. Then they
comment on it or link to it or email you. Or not.

So, happy blogging everyone, even you family people!

Skipping Christmas

Call me Scrooge, but I hate putting up the Christmas tree. Yes, of course, I am always happy when it is done and we are greeted by twinking lights in our living room for a whole month! (two, if I never get around to taking it down in January) But, c’mon what sadistic Martha Stewart came up with the tradition of putting away every knick knack in your house just to unload 6 huge boxes of junk. Is this really a necessary part of enjoying the holidays?

One of these days I will get the courage up to skip Christmas as I read about in John Grisham’s book.

Here is a picture of LG enjoying his Thanksgiving holiday. I am not trying to make him feel bad; I really am glad that he was enjoying some down time.

But, shouldn’t we all be able to enjoy our holidays, regardless of our gender?

We need an ACLU Christmas. We need to keep all of our National Holidays, yet, the week after we celebrate, we should have the ACLU version where the men do all the work that the women usually handle and the women act like the men (ie. sitting on the couch reading a book, playing football with our friends, watching sports on TV)

Think about it. Who does the work? We’ll start with Easter for the pure delight of making a point. Who buys the candy, who shops for those cute Easter outfits? Who makes sure that they get up at the crack of dawn to stage the fact that the Easter Bunny has visited (Abigail does read my blog now and so I have to be careful what I say here – I know she doesn’t believe in the Easter Bunny any more)

Next holiday – July 4th – Who buys and prepares the food and plans the outing? Really, all the men have to do is set off the fireworks..and is that really work?

Halloween – Who buys the candy, who tries to keep everyone from consuming the candy when you bought it the week earlier? Who makes the costumes? Who runs around like a mad woman on 10/31 making sure that all the preparations are accomplished for trick or treating, including the dinner, and making sure that you can somewhat tell what the kids are dressed up as, even under their coats?

Thanksgiving – who combs all the adds looking for the cheapest turkey? Who bakes the pies and the rolls and the, do you really want me to finish the food list? Who has to clean the house like a turkey with her head cut off to accomidate all the company? And, who is that actually sets that darn table? If all of that isn’t enough. Now, in American culture, we are expected to get up at the crack of dawn the day after Thanksgiving to make sure we get the best deals for the next holiday coming up.

and Christmas … I don’t think I have to explain the thought process.

I think I would really be willing to give up the two Woman holidays of the year (Valentine’s and Mother’s Day) to eliminate all the other holiday work throughout the year.

I know, I know, I am a whiner. It’s all about the memories we are making. I can’t help it that I prefer to make memories without working myself like a horse.

Not that you care, but I really wanted to add a picture of me in here of decorating the tree last night. Guess why I didn’t? I spared you the trauma of staring at my big fat bum. Every picture that was taken I was leaning over and picking something up, moving furniture, or plugging something in. Yep, you got it….working.

And were you wondering what LG was doing through all of the Christmas festivities – you got it – not working – unless you consider taking my picture work – which come to think of it – maybe he was working – staring at my bum really can’t be considered enjoyable. HAPPY HOLIDAYS EVERYONE!

Oh, and I just added the bonus picture of Kitty Bear. I think she may feel like I do about this whole tree nonsense. Check her out; she’s staring it down.

The Your Nighted States

Today, between the 1pm kindergarten pick up and the 2:45 end of the day, two of the girls and I stopped by the post office to mail a Christmas package to my parents. The postal worker kindly gave the girls the post office’s coloring book. It is entitled “Greetings from America” and teaches U.S. historical and geographical facts. It’s pretty cool and of course the girls are always delighted to get a special surprise that breaks up the monotony of running errands with mom.

On the way home, this was the comical conversation.

Bella talking to herself incoherently, “So people sleep at night and they live in the states.”

I was figuring that she was making 4 year old reference self-talk to the fact that we live in The United States and we have our night while my sister-in-law’s family has day in Korea. We have had that conversation with her a few times.

I keep on eavesdropping. Bella: “So it’s you and states.”

Sophia, “Yes Bella, it’s The United States.”

Bella, “Yeah, The Your Nighted States….we sleep at night.”

When I commented that it was great that we live in The Your Nighted States we all had a good chuckle. The girls also loved being surprised by mom listening in during the mundane and long car rides home from school.

Then Abigail gets in the car and starts looking through her book and says, “Mom I can tell you the United States Presidents.”

“Oh really, all of them?” “No, not all of them, just George Washington, John Adams and Abraham Lincoln; I am not sure of that guy in the middle with the glasses.”

Sophia, “That’s Teddy Bear Roosevelt.” Abigail, “Oh yeah, and Teddy Roosevelt.”

My response: “Abigail now we live in The Your Nighted States, didn’t you know?”

P.S. It’s not John Adams, that’s Thomas Jefferson.

California Fires

So, LG and I took the girls for a getaway to the Atlanta temple yesterday. It’s a three hour drive each way. We left very early to get a jump start and it was a typical Southern Fall foggy morning.

Between navigating for LG, taking care of the kids in the car, and making the 7 soccer party calls from my cell phone, my mind wandered from the road. I looked up to see a wall of “smoke”. I exclaimed, “Honey, there’s a fire, slow down.”

Yes, I’m a Californian and grew up among frequent fires. LG turned to me and said, “Go home hippie.”

He didn’t really say that but that’s not the point. Our conversation just now went something like this.

Me: “Well, aren’t fog and smoke from the same element anyway?”

“No, Fog is water; smoke is pollution, you hippie.”

“What are you talking about you redneck, smoke is not pollution.”

Stray Snowball

This is a picture of our cat Kitty Bear and her archnemisis Snowball. Snowball is a neighborhood stray who can hunt a bird down like no other. Snowball also hunts down Kitty Bear.

How did the neighborhood stray get a name, you ask? Well, from a little girl, of course. If it was named by some boy its name would be dumb cat or something like that. Our former neighbor, Hailey, adopted this stray and named it Snowball. The cat looks nothing like a snowball, but it does have a destroying affect and so I guess that name is appropriate. Snowball will never let a human anywhere near it and so I guess technically he was never adopted…especially since Hailey moved away over a year ago and has never come back for the cat.

One thing snowball does have in common with snow is only the yellow stuff. The cat pees everywhere. It is so annoying. For a long time, she would pee on our porch. She used to sleep under our window until we got Kitty Bear. One day I went outside with the kids and the next thing we know there is a catfight going down right before our eyes…..can you say the word trauma?

Now, whenever the cat gets within 50 feet of our home, the kids will spot him out our big bay window and run out and holler at him. It is always the same words, “Get outta here Snowball!” So funny…they have learned to copy me. On their way back in the house, all three of the girls will mumble under their breath, “Stupid Cat”.

Why do we keep Snowball around. Sure, we could catch him and take him to the pound. But we feel like Snowball is giving Kitty Bear character. The real reason though is I am terrified of mice, and I have never ever seen one since we have moved in four years ago. Snowball is good to keep around!

Kitty Bear

Our newest addition. LG has been bugging me for the past year to get a cat. He just likes to think of ways to give me more work. Between his pestering and the girls’ begging for a “pet”, I finally conceded. I had forgotten how much I love animals. She is a lot of fun.

A woman that works with LG is a huge animal person and rescues a lot. She had two little kittens that she was trying to get find a home for and kept on my husband about it. He kept on me for several weeks, and, there you have it, we are now the proud family of a little kitty.

LG told me that there was an orange cat and a black one. I was still waivering quite strong as to whether or not I wanted to take on another responsibility. Every five minutes I would change my mind. I finally gave it a 50/50 chance and told him that if the black one was a girl, we would take her.

Sure enough, she’s a girl…just like all of our other kids. So, LG told this advocate for animals that we would take her. (Come to find out, she hadn’t rescued these animals, they were from her own litter) What kind of advocate for animals doesn’t have their cat spayed? Doesn’t she watch The Price is Right? Maybe she is an advocate for feminist animals and doesn’t want to take her cat’s right away to procreate. blah blah blah

So, LG calls me and tells me that he was going to go and pick up our new cat. He had been so excited because her name was Bear and he thought that was a cute name for a cat. LG then threw in for good measure: by the way, her name is Bear because she doesn’t have a tail. I thought he was pulling my leg. I really had been suckered. I was now stuck with a tailess cat. You can’t tell the animal advocate that you don’t want her flawed cat.

Well, she doesn’t have a tail, but I found out that this wasn’t a birth defect. Some breeds of cats don’t have long tails. (Who knew) She has a short stubby tail and looks just like a little bear when she gets up on her hind legs. As soon as I investigated and saw that her stump of a tail was covered with fur, I was o.k. We are all in love with this cat. She kills the crickets that used to love to breed in our laundry room. She is riot at night when she goes crazy. And our girls now love to tell everyone that they finally have a pet. They say, “She is a cat; her name is Bear; she doesn’t have a tail!”

100% Cotton

The touch, the feel: of cotton!
Alright! My last entry, Farts and poops, leads me straight into this one. As you can read, a woman commented that she started her daughter in pull-ups at 17 months, to avoid the plumber’s bum thing. I replied with my philosophy on pull-ups. In a nut shell: THEY ARE A RIP OFF! See the comment if you want to read the numbers involved.

So, I got philsophizing(isn’t that a cool word, I made it up) about diaper duty. I can remember having to take my little brother’s diapers to the toilet to rinse out the poop. What awful memories. When I potty train, I get to relive the grosser than gross ritual of rubbing cloth together to disengage sticky poop from cotton. YUCK!

I just read one mother’s account about Cloth diapers on the internet. All I can say is I can’t disagree with this mother any more passionately. Yes, disposable diapers do fill land fills and they cost a pretty penny ($50/month x 3 years x 3 kids = $5400, not including wipes or diaper medicine or powder)but disposable diapers are worth every penny. That is why the art of cloth diapers is OUT and Kimberly Clark is IN!

Did you know that you can buy diaper coupons on e-bay?

Take it from a mom that knows though….Luvs are the best. You don’t need coupons because they run about $5 cheaper than Huggies or Pampers. And, Luvs are way more absorbant. Wow, I should be paid for my shameless plug.

Well, no matter what kind of disposable enviroment hating diaper you use, it’s ok. Even generic brand are better than cloth. Thank goodness for the diaper baby boom of the 70’s. I should praise the name of the diaper inventor,Marion Donovan, daily! Here was a mother with a head on her shoulders. Did you know her son, James Donovan, M.D, grew up to be a urologist. How funny!

Little Jack Horner

Introducing “The Young Jack Roberts”

Little Jack Horner sat in the corner
Eating his Christmas pie,
He put in his thumb and pulled out a plum
And said “What a good boy am I!”

This ryhme has a great history, that includes Horner, a thief, being rewarded greatly. Horner was obviouslly rewarded unworthily, inspiring the political rhyme and Horner’s own political taunting, “what a good boy am I.”

What do Little Jack Horner and Little Jack Roberts have in common you may ask? Both the theif Horner and the misbehaved Roberts think that they are “good boys” when in actuality they are far from it. And of course they also share the name Little Jack.

The young Jack Roberts lives in another dimension, just like ALL other children. This was demonstrated wonderfully during the President’s press conference, announcing the nomination of his father, John Roberts, as a candidate for the Supreme Court bench. Click here and scroll down the page to the bottom left hand column and click on “Young Jack Roberts steals the show” to see the video clip. SO FUNNY!

Now, I am not about to rip on Jack Robert’s parents or nanny or whoever raises the kid. My kids have done far worse than this to embarass me (O.k., maybe not really…as they have never shared air time with the President of the United States and turned it into a circus), but if you are a parent, you will know what I mean about being embarassed. Kids can be outright humiliating, no matter how good of job you are doing.

I will say this; I would not even attempt to put my four year old in front of cameras in such a stuffy setting that late at night. I can only think that the reason Mrs. Roberts was talked into it was for “political gain”. She had to know that she was setting herself for a disaster. According to critics, Jack’s misbeavior really will make people “sympathize” with Roberts. The “people in the know” have said so much in the positive towards the child’s bantering that you would think that they put Little Jack up to his misconduct.

So, what am I trying to say here? I don’t know. I am just rambling today. I had a rough day yesterday. Remember the linger longer that I attempted yesterday, at the urging of my husband. Yeah, well, I couldn’t do it! I left 15 minutes into it when he never showed up to help me with my three children who live in another dimension! He was in taking care of his church duties and I was left trying to figure out how to fight my way through a Disneyland style line to gather three plates of food without either dragging my three young children with me or leaving them unattended. Well, I never came up with an answer and I left all upset feeling like a loser because I cannot emotionally handle a stupid potluck.

An announcement was made to let people with small children and the elderly get in line first, but I guess the majority of people in our congregation feel they fit into those two categories. (Or, their manners go out the window because after years of conditioning that the only way to get any food is to get at the front of the line, so, they don’t regard other people) I’m not even mentioning how I felt about being forced to leave my jellyroll pan of brownies, two loaves of french bread, and two large fruit salads behind that I had worked on for two hours the day before, ONLY to go home to eat ramen and toast.

Hey, I have an idea. Maybe it isn’t the children who live in another dimension. Maybe it is all the rest of the world that doesn’t understand that children are wild animals in the process of being tamed? Would you leave three starving and wild tigers in a room full of frantic starving people to fend for themselves while you stood around waiting patiently to get them some substance? NO! I guess I spend enough time with the wild tigers to understand them. I guess I also understand, me, their trainer, enough to know that I can’t even attempt to do certain things with them….such as, a late night press conference, or a linger longer full of inconsiderate people. In fact, if I had it my way, I would tap into their dimmension completely…it’s got to be a lot less stressful.

Jellyfish and June Bugs

an underwater wonder

Alright, so a few entries ago in Sisterhood, I tattled on my sister Shannon for forcing me into a spanking that I didn’t deserve. I guess there really is something called Sisterhood because my other sister, Renee, has gotten all over my case for making Shannon feel bad. I think I am o.k. with Shannon, but just to make her feel better, I will now pleasure you with a confession of my own.

As you know, I am the middle of seven. At the top of the line-up there is Erick. Four years later came Adam, then a year later, Shannon, and I came a whopping 18 months after her. Shannon was always the little princess. I found my way by NOT trying to be like her. I guess I realized at a young age that I could never compete with the first most perfect daughter. So, I settled into the fun-loving, somewhat tomboyish, “throwing caution to the wind” girl. I am still so glad that Shannon took the princess role; I am so much more fun than those prissy girls. Just ask LG.

As you picture Shannon, the princess, you can imagine her feeling towards creepy crawly things. She absolutely detested any kind of insect, and would scream at the top of her lungs for someone to save her whenever she spotted one. I can’t tell you how many mornings I would have to fish spiders out of the tub before she could shower.

Well, I always thought that Shannon’s fear was unfounded. (I still don’t understand it when girls are afraid of those little creepy things – you can squash them between your fingers, for heaven’s sake) I determined at an early age that I would be the one to cure my girlygirl sister of her irrational phobia.

In California there was an insect called the JuneBug (it usually surfaced in May, NOT explaining its common name, at all). These bugs are much like the South’s Firefly, except they lack any kind of cool “light”. JuneBugs were more apparent at night and would attach themselves to our window screens (because the light is so pretty). They looked like a teeny brownish version of a beetle mixed with a bee. My sister hated those bugs, and just the sound of their buzzing would scare her enough that she would have to run from shelter to shelter, as to not be attacked.

Of course, the sight of my sister sprinting from the house to the car was absolutely ridiculous. Whenever I would trail my sister, I would always collect a few JuneBugs on the way. I would then proceed to throw them at her, with or without warning. Those bugs would be crazed from being trapped in my hand and would fly full-speed ahead at Shannon. I would get one really good laugh every time from her agonizing reaction. Shannon would always go nuts, and she provided unlimited entertainment for me and my brothers.

My mom or dad would always come behind and instruct me to stop the torture. I would collect up the JuneBugs and say sorry. But, Shannon knew that the torture would never end: whenever the JuneBugs were out, she was on guard.

While we lived in Alaska for the summer of ’81, to my disappointment, there were no JuneBugs. I had to find a new source of entertainment. And, so I did. It wasn’t hard to do; there were all kinds of creepy crawly things to choose from. Of course I chose the thing that intimidated Shannon the most…..jellyfish.

Jellyfish always lingered in the ocean close to the house. They washed up on the shore every day. Whenever Shannon and I would venture out to play, I would hide myself in the tall grass out in front of our shanty with a dead or dying Jellyfish in hand, waiting to be put to use. Just like a crouching tiger, I would wait for Shannon’s approach and then I would attack. I would use my good arm (I was quite the softball player in my day) always aiming for her head.

I usually hit the target and she would be so petrified that she would freeze in place and beg me to come and retreive it before it killed her. She was always the smart one and would remind me every time, “Alice, jellyfish are poisonous; they can kill you.” I usually beleived what she would try to teach me, but not about the poison because she never got stung or poisoned. What would I do in response to my sister begging for mercy? Do I have to answer that question? Of course, I would retreive the jellyfish, tell my sister that I just couldn’t resist the fun, apologize, and wait for the next opportunity to attack. Shannon always forgave me for my abuse; personally, I think that she should have beat the crap out of me. To this day, I still think that she takes too much crap from people.

So, there you have it, Shannon. I definitely think that my ongoing creepy crawly torture, was much less justifiable than your dodging of a spanking with a belt. So, really, truly, this time, I am very sorry. I will never scare you again. Promise.

Soccer Moms

Sophia and Bella with Soccer Balls

Soccer moms aren’t what they used to be. Soccer has become something that parents do so that they can put it on their own “parental resumes”. “Oh look at us, we are good parents. We drive our SUV’s to pick up our well-dressed kids from their state-of-the-art daycare. Then we cart them to their private tutor, piano lessons, and soccer.” Whatever happened to actual interaction between parent and child? Now, we pay everyone else to teach our kids the things that we are too busy to do oursleves? Whatever happened to playing soccer so that the family can spend time together?

Soccer started for us on Monday when we went to buy Abigail’s equipment. She wanted the pink ball but the black and white was $4 cheaper. I told her that if she would get the black and white one, I would let her color it with my Sharpies. She always wants to draw with my “off-limits” permanent markers and she totally fell for my ingenious manipulation. Sophia brought her ball to me on Tuesday and asked if she could color hers too. I had to let her. (see the pic above)

Abigail’s first practice was a blast. It was typical of any other like it across the country. You could spot the coach’s kid: she was the only one in full uniform. Then there were the three moms who are so insecure that they kept to their little clique…they are the mom’s of the girls that are the friends of the coach’s daughter.

One of the cliquee moms must have been coerced into letting her daughter play. You could tell because her daughter was the chubby kid who kept interuppting her mom’s “mommy” time on the sideline. She just had to tell her mom that she didn’t like soccer and wanted to go home. Her mom would just embarassingly shoo her daughter back out on the field.

Abigail was the “girly girl” of the bunch. She is taller and faster than the rest of the kids, but doesn’t dare go for the ball. She just kept running out in front of the rest of the herd, looking pretty. LG says that she will be really good at soccer if we work with her to be more agressive. I agree, but, surprisingly, part of me wishes that we could afford ballet instead of soccer. Although, Abigail loved it. She is too young to care about the competitive stuff. She just likes to be with the other girls and squeal as they run.

Bella hated soccer yesterday because she wanted a piece of the action, and wasn’t allowed on the field to play with the sister who she idolizes. As for Sophia, she was traumitized by a fall at the playground. LG and I were pushing her back and forth on this sliding pulley. She hung on to it with her feet dangling 3 feet from the ground. At the end of her longest ride, LG let her plummet to the ground. Sophia screamed in disbelief. She face planted. The poor girl trusted her dad to catch her and all she got was a scraped forehead, a broken ego, and a mouth and nose full of dirt.

I later questioned LG as to why he didn’t catch her. I assumed that if you are a parent trying to let your child hold on as long as she can, that you keep a constant eye on her grip. I assumed wrong. LG said, “I didn’t see her hand slipping, I was waiting for her to tell me when she was going to let go.” He should know better. The kid is as quiet as her dad, if not more quiet. Poor Phia. I don’t think she will ever want to go back to the soccer field.