FunnyBlog

Who You Are

Another poem (kind of) for LG. 
Don’t expect any of you to make it all the way through. 
And LG may hope that you don’t, as it gives away all his secrets.
Heck, LG may not even make it through this one.
It’s a doozie.

Who you are
To me.

You are choice between diet mountain dew or A&W rootbeer.
And an empty bag of BBQ chips.
You are love that is better than ice-cream.
You are sunrise, sunrise,
I can see it in your eyes.

You are kisses all around.
You are always kind.
But never kind enough to yourself.
You are sometimes down.
And sometimes crazy.
But I am the only one that knows that.

You are the guy

with great teeth
and you don’t even have to floss.

You are the man
who I love by my side
in the bed,
on the trail,
and
at the movies.

You are amazing calves
that can still dunk
any day.
And a bad ankle
that keeps you
grounded.

You are a little boy
I want to hug.

You are let it be
and sunshine on my shoulders.

You are fall leaves,
and rain on the metal eave,
open windows
to let in the sound.
You are the one
who holds me
in a Southern Storm
or watches in awe
the Western lightening
scrawl across the sky.

You are a child of God
who deserves unconditional love.

You are a mighty man
who holds the priesthood of God
and can move mountains.

You are the equivalent of a PHD,
even though you say you aren’t
and that you think PHD’s are stupid.

You are all tough
and swerve to hit the squirrels
and say you are gonna get rid of
that damn dog
and I catch you 
scratching and loving
the pet
and cuddling with the cat
while simultaneously
trying to shoot the crows
and you are a wonder to me
because I know you can handle
all the heartaches that I can’t.
And you can bury the pets
without shedding a tear,
yet you remain gentle.
You are a living paradox.
And you love smelly candles
and massages
yet wear the same old ratty T-shirt
because you don’t want to be a
metro-sexual
but a truly heterosexual
manly man.
Which you are.
But you love smelly candles.
And fondue.
You are in the wink of an eye

and Mormon Tabernacle choir.
And listening to you
listen to music
is like a spiritual experience.
Listening to you talk to your kids
about music
is like heaven to my soul.

And I haven’t even got started
about how sexy it is
when you play the piano
or quote Robert Frost.

You are dirty blonde,
and a toehead,
and mostly bald.
Your stubble up top
makes my hands tremble.

You are a fast typer
and a fast thinker
and fast with your
jokes.
And that’s about all you do fast.
Unless we count when you fidget.

You are a slow kisser.
A slow driver
and a slow reader,
but not to me.
To me,
you read the fastest.

You have perfect timing.
And against all odds
you have learned to be a good gift giver
which means everything.

You are a blinker
and a concentrator
and either do
one or the other.

You are the guy
who reads kids’ books
and plays video games
to bond with your kids.
Or they do it
to bond with you.
Not sure which
would be more accurate.
You totally own it
when I catch you laughing
at
The Wizards of Waverly Place
or Ponyo.
And you are proud of it.
And that makes me proud.
Because you are the best dad.
The best.
Anywhere.
You are the maker upper of games
that you like to play
with your buddies
in the front yard.
You are goof-ball
and I am one of the only
privileged ones to know 
that side of you.
And I love it when
you let others
see the part of you
that is fun and carefree.
You are a strong strong spirit
who fights every day.
And loves your God
and your Savior.
You are an amazing
teacher
that can explain
the most
complex
things to
a person
of any age
or
IQ.
You are the forgetter
of where you left your wallet.
And the loser of
at least 7 weddding bands.
One for every other year
just to keep things
new
fresh
and
exciting.
You are the best district leader
to the bold kisser
to the man I married.
And you were so handsome.
And still are.
You are my Matt Damon.
You are the handler of taxes.
And computers
and TV’s
and DVD players
and anything
with a cable.

You are hiding
away your change
so you can one day
buy an I-pad,
which you may want 
even more than that newest phone.
You are
the lover of
electronics.
All
electronics.
Even the remote control watch.

You are the disliker

of make-up,
and girls in immodest clothes,
and boys
who like your girls.

You are asleep
by 10 p.m.
and a snorer all night
on your back or side
but never on your stomach
and up at the 
beep of the alarm clock.
Up and at ’em.
It never seizes to amaze me.
Until I hear
the shower running
for at least a 1/2 hour.
Every morning.
And then I realize
why you are happy 
to get up early.
So you can sit in the bathtub
while the water runs
over you
waking you up.
You are the lover
of a hot breakfast
and rarely complain
that you didn’t marry
your mom
but instead a woman
who would
only cook for you
in the morning
on your birthday
or on Father’s Day
or when we have company.
You are the 
I can do without dessert
kind of person
but bring on 
the wings.
You are the man who is still
waiting for his BBQ grill out back
and his honeymoon
and his Cadillac
and his dreams to come true.
Yet you are usually content.
And worry about giving more to
your family,
then you take for yourself.
And that is such a turn on.
It makes me want to give you
that flat screen T.V.
that you still can only dream about.
You are the misser
of Atari
and your own
Pop A Shot
and
the days when
things were simpler and
your game boy
was in pristine condition
and you knew where
all the games were
at all times.
Instead of having to look
through the couch cushions for them.
You are the player of
Pretty Pretty Princess.
and completely honest
when you say you don’t 
need a son.
You have the patience of Job,
which makes you the best dad.
But it also makes your life hard.
Because I guess God knows you 
can handle hard stuff.
You are a hater of 
sand in your craw.
And mean girls.
And injustice.
And you are
just like me
and always on the side
of the underdog.
You are a perfectionist
even though you won’t admit it.
You are an avoider
of things emotional
or overwhelming
or out of your expertise
because you are perfectionist.
You are a jumper off roofs
and you are the man
who could only
stand or lay on his back
for a whole year
of law school,
but you never gave up.
And you still help people
move their furniture
even though you’ve had a disk
surgically repaired.
You are an appreciator of foods,
and always up for
trying something new
and the hole in the wall spot.
And never order the same thing twice
unless it’s
chicken fried steak.
Or that salad
that your age
has forced upon you.

You are always anxious
about change
and you don’t like uncertainty.

You are empathetic
and loving
and overly accommodating
to everyone but yourself.

You are a guy
who can lose 50 pounds
in two months
when you put your mind to it.

You are the kid
who thinks that there
is always something
better on the other side.

Your weakness does not define you
as neither does your strength.
What defines you
is you.
And I want you to know
that more than anything
this me
wants that you
to see you
as I see you.

You are self conscience
and self deprecating
and I want you to see
who you are
to me
and
who you are to Him

so you can
see who you really are.

Because who you are
is so much better
than who you know.

Two-Fers
Did you know that the toothbrush was invented in Tennessee?
Yes it was. I know it seems odd after all those Tennessee teeth jokes. 
“How do I know this”, you ask?
If it was invented anywhere else it would have been named the teeth-brush.
For the past several years I have been having a reoccurring dream that all my teeth are falling out. Or sometimes I have a bunch of junk stuck in my teeth and I am trying to in·con·spic·u·ous-ly (yes, I had to look that one up in the dictionary) rid my mouth of the sticky gum-like substance without anyone noticing. Of course in my dreams everyone is always looking at me and I can’t do anything inconspicuously. (Wow, I got the word all by myself the second time around.)
Well, my curiosity got the better of me. I finally googled the meaning of my dream. And, oh my goodness, it’s spot on. 
My dreams have been trying to tell me that:
1- I have anxiety about my appearance.
2- I fear rejection, especially regarding my sex appeal and femininity.
3- I am worried about making a fool of myself.
4- I have a sense of powerlessness.
5- I have malnutrition and a poor diet.
6- I have a family member or close friend who is very sick or near death.
7- I am putting my faith and trust in what man thinks instead of God.
8- I am lying according to the Chinese.
For me, all of the above are true, except for the lying. Unless we count lying to myself, which I try not to do, but I believe we are all guilty of it.
I wonder if when I quit residing in this great state of Tennessee if my nightmare will finally go away. And I think the answer may be yes. Why, you ask?
Well, it’s a simple answer really:
For the first time in 8 years I am going to have dental insurance.
I am so totally lucky that I have only lost one tooth while living here, and even for that one a permanent cap fixed me right up, but, oh how I felt old. I have worried ever since about having to get dentures. I think I have done well since only having one casualty while residing in the land of famous hillbilly teeth. I wonder if my new dentist will be able to do anything with this mouthful of plaque? I really don’t want to look like this photo for the rest of my life. 
Oh yeah, that’s not me. 
Tennessee may have some ugly teeth, but usually the women with the ugly teeth don’t also have a 5 o’clock shadow. And I am really not lyin’ when I say that it’s true that there are a lot of people here with some jacked up teeth. You’d think that I would at least be able to overcome #1 and #2 for the simple fact that I still have a full set.
I think you all should google your reoccurring dream and blog about it. I will do a post linking to you all with your story and we will see if Freud knew what he was talking about. Whose in?

Tennessee Bridge
Please excuse my boo-hooing. This is going to be a very sentimental post.

I’m already crying and I haven’t even started writing yet. I’m a mess.

When my father in law e-mailed this photo, he had appropriately named it “looking west”.
 Maybe I should also get him to send me the other side entitled “looking east”
 as I am sure there will always be a part of me that will do both.

In 2003, LG and I, with our three little daughters crossed over this bridge for the first time as a family. The girls were so young: 4,2, and newborn. We had come across the country for law-school and Grandma Gold’s empty house was a perfect place for us to crash while we house hunted (an hour and a half away) in Knoxville. It was two doors down from my in-laws, which is about a mile beyond this bridge. We didn’t know it at the time, but we started a tradition. It had been a long trip, where we learned all sorts of car sanity games. We challenged Abigail to a Tennessee Bridge off. She must suck in all the air support she could and holler “Tennessee Bridge” as we drove over. She should not stop hollering until we safely reached the side closer to grammy’s house.

Well, here we are, almost eight years later. LG’s employment is going to drag us back to where we came from. We can’t complain. It’s a great job. We love Utah and we know it’s what God wants us to do, but it is very emotional…especially for a big sap like me.
My mother in law just posted a picture of the bridge on facebook and said they are closing it down. They have built a bigger and better bridge off  to the other side. All I can do is cry. And reminisce. And scream, “Nothing can be bigger or better.”
So many trips and holler contests are flying through my brain. Abigail is 4, then 5 then 11, ever increasing in volume and intensity. Sophia was 2 and couldn’t quite pronounce the words, but still hollered right along with her sister and now she quite possible has some of the best breathe control. Bella was probably just crying that first trip across, but her volume was likely as loud as it is today, even though the words now come out loud and clear: TENNESSEEEEE BRRRIIIIIIIDDDDDDGGGGE. 
Sometimes the girls were in soccer uniforms or church dresses. Sometimes the car was loaded down with winter gear and Christmas presents. Or food that we didn’t want to go bad in our fridge at home. Sometimes we had a cat with us and a dog. But never both the cat or the dog. Thank goodness. Sometimes they were in bathing suits and we may have even had the occasional birthday suit in there. I can smell the homemade loaves of bread that Faye sent home with us and the Thanksgiving leftovers. I am blinded by the black of most of the nights when we were headed back home while I calculated which caffeinated soda I would purchase at the corner gas station just beyond the bridge. The kids would already be falling asleep and wouldn’t even notice the bridge.
LG and I got really good at driving across that bridge super slow while the kids’ faces turned bright red and finally gave in to the need for oxygen. A parent has to do what they have to do for the occasional win. We would have to remind ourselves not to slow down if it was at night and the girls weren’t paying attention. The girls have now turned their attention to teaching baby Caroline the tradition.
I am not sure how many times LG told me of his trips to the little market close to the bridge while we drove by. “I always got my gas there when I was a teenager.” “Dad and I used to stop there for worms when we would go fishing.” “We used to drive our bikes down here when we were kids”, to which I would reply, “Are you kidding me? This highway is frightening.” The response would always follow, “Yeah Alice, I’ve told you a million times, we would take the back-roads; they are so much safer.” I would laugh inside because I don’t think that there are really any safe back-roads in the whole state of Tennessee; I have personally puked while trying them out in the car. That’s when I started driving everywhere so I could avoid car sickness.
But back to the bridge. They are tearing it down. They are tearing down a piece of our family. And I can’t stop crying, but I guess it is kind of fitting since we have to move forward. We can’t stay here forever.But even if we aren’t going to be Tennessee residents and even if we aren’t going to get to visit grammy and papa as often, we now know that at least a piece of each of our hearts will forever be floating down the great Holston River. I think I can hear it as it faintly rolls along to the tune of Tenneeesssssseeeee Briiiddddgee.
wah wah wah.

We love Ryan
Ryan has been one of Abigail’s best friends since kindergarten. We absolutely adore him and his family. I am the proud carpooler who gets to take him home from school twice a week. Not only has it been an advantageous situation to get all the scoop Abigail won’t tell me herself, I have enjoyed the time I get to talk to Ryan about his life too.
On Friday Ryan said he might cry for days when we move, just typing that is making me cry. We are gonna miss him so much. He is the sweetest kid.
Ryan loves to read. He loves Cheerwine. He loves his mama and his dad, but I would say he is especially a mama’s boy. He loves to play the saxophone and he loves playing video games. He’s a good big brother. He is so thoughtful; he often saves part of his after-school snack to share with his mom or brother or sister.
The other day he cracked me up while relaying his girl problems to his mom via cell phone. I was in stitches. He was like, “Mom, I don’t understand women. I am afraid to get older.”
The one thing I may appreciate about Ryan the most is that he isn’t afraid to call Abigail out on her crap. He and Abigail are almost like siblings. The other day when we were on our way home from school Abigail pulled out a sign she had made to stick on the back of a friend from school. It made reference to the fact the kid was short. I jumped all over her and I couldn’t do it fast enough.
“Abigail, tear that up right now. You never make fun of someone for the height or their weight or anything. That is not nice. How would you like it if someone pointed out your zits? I will tell you right now I absolutely hated it in Jr. High when kids called me fat. Even if you don’t think it’s a big deal, other kids might be really self conscience. You have to be more considerate. Really. Do you think it’s nice to call people ugly or fat. Short is the same thing.”
I was going on and on. I then said something to the effect of, “Do you think it would be nice for people to call other people four-eyes if they have glasses?”
Ryan quickly interrupted with his finger pointed tall, “I resemble that.”
Ryan is super smart and a great speller and reader. I quit my rant and questioned him, “Ryan, did you mean, you resent that?”
“No, I meant I resemble that.”
Laughter all around.
And I will let you decide if resent or resemble was a better choice of word.
I would never call anyone four-eyes, especially not Ryan. I love this kid. If I could adopt a son, it would be him. He’s one of a kind. And he happens to wear some pretty snazzy glasses.

French Toast for the Masses
I hate cooking. No, I should say I really don’t enjoy cooking. I do it. I do it all the time. I’m even good at it. I would call myself a good cook. I am a cook who hates to cook, but I am also a cook who can put a smile on your face. Still I think it is safe to say cooking is just not my thing; it just happens to be a resume builder I have gained while living in survival mode for the past 13 years.
When LG and I got married, I cried when I realized that it was my responsibility to feed my husband and future children and it would be for THE REST OF MY LIFE. Cried would not be a totally fair assessment. I bawled one night while cooking, and I continue to cry inside every time I am magnetically stuck in the room of my house that sports a fridge, sink, and stove. Now I know I am gonna hear it from my naysayer our there who believes in women’s rights, but from the get-go, I embraced my control over things inside the home. I more than embraced it. I, for lack of better words, peed over the threshold between family room and teeny tiny studio apartment kitchen, as my way of saying, “hands off man, this is my territory”. The kitchen would be my domain. 
Man, I was such a fool. LG was more than happy to step aside for food duty, even though we were both working and going to school full-time. And not to my surprise and even to my blame, today the guy only has a handful of choices that he can pull off that involve a wooden spoon and pan, and most of them are in the breakfast category, come frozen, or out of a box. And I am smacking my forehead against my keyboard as I realize how totally stupid I was back then.
So, I live with the stubborn hell I have created. I cook. Even when I don’t want to. In the past few years, while there hasn’t been wiggle room in the budget for enough pizza and hamburgers ordered from other people’s kitchens, I have learned many tricks.
I have very reliable go-to’s. I keep staples in the house for each recipe. One happens to be french toast. It only takes six ingredients that I usually have on hand. My kids love it and so do I. My husband tolerates it, but if he was more worried about eating his favorites, he might ask me to teach him how to cook them. hint hint.
Before I share the flawless recipe, let me tell you two tricks that will make this easy peezy meal turn into 10 easy peezy meals.

One, make a TON at a time.

Stick them all in a gallon size ziplock.
They have lasted for at least a week at my house.
Reheat them as needed in a toaster.
(Note: the toaster trick was discovered by my hubby, 
who is a saint, 
and takes on breakfast duty at our house 
while I am trying to pry my eyelids open)
The other trick is a little easier.
Buy the kind of syrup shown above.
It’s short enough to be heated in the microwave.
French toast are so much better with hot syrup.
I just refill this container with the cheapest syrup I can find, 
saving myself $2 a pop.
Once in a while I will make my own syrup, which is also very tasty.
You can add one last trick if you want. It would be the one where you teach the kids how to wash the griddle. We are still trying to get this one down at our house.

Guess what is the best feature of french toast: LG knows how to make it!!

Here are my recipes for the sharing. Do any of you have any tips on how you keep your french toast from getting soggy? I am usually 80% successful but not sure how.
French Toast
4 eggs
1 + 1/2 cups milk
1 tsp ground nutmeg
2 tsp vanilla extract
2 pinches of salt
12 slices bread
Beat together egg, milk, nutmeg, vanilla and salt.
Heat butter on a griddle heated to medium.
Quickly dip bread in egg mixture and transfer to hot buttered griddle. Cook both sides until lightly browned and crisp.
Homemade syrup
2 cups white sugar
1 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup karo syrup
1 cup boiling water
1/2 tsp maple flavor extract
Boil together until sugar is completely dissolved.

What Mormon College Students Do For Fun

One of the things I am asked often is how I have any fun whilst practicing my religion of Mormonism. As most of you know, we have some pretty strict codes of conduct, including abstaining from coffee, alcohol, and tea.

I, like many others (including millions of recovered alcoholics) understand that there are so many clean ways to enjoy life and have fun while remaining in control of my faculties and praising my God.

Here is just one really good example of a bunch of people having some good clean fun. I love it that the BYU fans were able to support their team in such a unique way during all this Brandon drama.

Just Ask Alice – Inception (Spanking)
Dana and I go way back. All the way back to California in the 80’s, where she thought I was the coolest girl at camp and decided she wanted to be just like me when she grew up. She has done pretty well with that, except to really pass the Alice look alike test I think she will have to put on a few pounds. Like 100 or so.
A few years ago, Dana and I were shocked to run into each other, after 20 years, at church in Atlanta, where we thought it odd that we both had three children (I believe all of hers were girls) and attorney husbands.

Here is a link to her website, where you will see that she is a talented photographer. I  love her style. You can also like her on facebook. And even though her photography is the bomb, let me tell you that Dana is a hoot. I would pay her to take my picture just because I know she could get a real smile out of me. She may not even have to say anything. Just looking at her makes me laugh. She has the vibe.
Dana came up with the idea for Just Ask Alice.
She said she thinks I could give good advice. Little does she know that I have spent my whole adult life-hood learning how to keep my opinions and advice to myself. Or maybe she does know that (or even relates) but she is flattering me and laughing behind my back as she sends me to my own destruction.
But, I like the idea of having things to write about. Things that interest my readers.
Great picture to go with spanking, eh? It was Dana’s idea.
Did I tell you how much I LOVE her photography?
And her sense of humor?

Dana’s question that I will answer:

How do you feel about spanking?
Don’t do it. Unless it’s for your husband. My husband deserves a bunch of spankings right now, but it’s all good cause he likes being spanked.
But really, while raising four children, I have come to realize that spanking is absolutely ineffective.

To show you the proof: My mom used to line us up as kids and spank us with wooden spoons. It didn’t have ANY, not one iota of influence on our behavior, except for making us laugh. And see how I turned out? Good argument, eh?

My mom was a successful spanker. Why? Because she never spanked out of anger. She slapped me as a teenager out of anger, but that wasn’t the question. And in her defense, I pretty much deserved it.

We quit spanking when our oldest was about three, at about the same time we got rid of the pacifier. And while I am writing this, I am realizing that I think there was a connection between the two. Once she was free of the paci and could talk back a whole lot more, I found myself getting more and more out of control with my anger and the more I spanked the more she acted aggressively.

I’ve heard that some children respond to spanking better, but I think I can honestly say that I have many different personalities represented by my children, my siblings, nieces and nephews, and friends’ children and none need to be spanked.

I know I know. Spare the rod, spoil the child. God never said the rod had to come in the form of spanking. We prefer the punishment techniques of withdrawal, torture, humiliation, and time-out.

Keep posted for our children’s future blogs where they discuss all they overcame in therapy.

What’s your take on the subject? Maybe you actually have something smart to say?

Leave me a question for a future Just Ask Alice and I will give you a shout out with the answer.