All growed up. Today, anyway.

Mostly I'm glad I have common sense, but sometimes it can suck the fun out of things. 


Like for example, let's say I wanted to tell you, a hundred of my nearest and dearest girlfriends, a hilarious story about how I ran into my husband's boss and his wife out at dinner the other night. It's hilarious because I made a startling and embarrassing discovery about my clothing an hour after I left them, but it's the kind of thing I probably shouldn't share on my blog. I'd tell you if it was just you and me goofing off over a plate of something delicious at our favorite local taco dive. So that makes me want to tell you here, too. 


But in the same way I might be mindful of the nearby company when I told you my story at dinner, I realize I need to do the same thing here. It's the whole principle of "there's a time and a place" for everything. I wouldn't go on a breastfeeding rant with a table full of my husband's friends. I wouldn't start a political debate in relief society. I wouldn't offer a breakdown of my aches and pains to the grocery store checker or an overview of my innermost feelings to the bank teller.


You know what? I probably would go on a breastfeeding rant at a table full of my husband's friends if I thought it would be funny.


But there I would know my audience. Here, I hit "publish" and I'm not always sure who will be stopping by and I have to think about who I'm putting my stories in front of. It's not that I want to self-censor, but for sure some filtering has to happen. So I guess I'm not going to tell you my funny and possibly inappropriate story because danged if I didn't turn into a grown up when I wasn't looking. It only took, like, thirty(ish) years.

Bite me, Crest.

Obviously, based on my last post, you can tell I like a good bargain. I spend lots of money so that I can get lots of good bargains. Then I roll around in all the invisible dollars I saved and wiggle with happiness. This approach doesn't make a lot of sense to Kenny, but that's because he's too busy earning the money to understand the joy of rolling around in piles of invisible dollars.


Sometimes, though, I spend money and it's not such a good bargain. For example, in the last six weeks, I have spent $7,800. Want to know what I got for it?


$7,800 will buy a 2001 BMW 525.


Or a one week stay at the Ritz-Carlton on New York's Central Park with first class air fare and four star restaurants every night.


It will buy this Bottega Veneta handbag:

If you are asking why anyone would pay that much for a handbag, the answer is: I don't  know. They're bored, maybe? Or they suffer from "more hair than wit" syndrome?


$7800 will buy this camper:

And Ralph, the hairy and (if truth be told) musty smelling caretaker of said trailer.


Which still makes more sense than the purse.


$7800 will buy six-and-a-half years of piano lessons.


It will furnish my house four times over.


It will buy this tractor, which I suddenly really want:

It's shiny and red!


Or it could get you this art, in case you can't find something similar at the next weekend garage sale you stalk:

But did I get any of these things?


No, I did not.


This is what my $7,800 bought me:

A whole bunch of quality time with the dentist. Two root canals, three crowns and eight cavity fillings will do that to you. YES, I BRUSH AND FLOSS, thanks for asking.


But hey, it was a bargain at 5% off since I PAID CASH. OUT OF POCKET. FOR EVERY LAST STUPID CENT.


And I got a whole lot of QT with my hygienist, Ray, who calls me "Buddy" and complimented me on "actually washing" my van.


Oh, and I got a free toothbrush.


So I got that going for me.

I swore I would never do this . . .

Dude.


I've turned into my dad. And I'm not just talking about the obnoxious chin whiskers and single crazy eyebrow hair that lurks and lurks and then suddenly stands up and dances the Electric Slide right when I'm trying to make a good impression on someone. Thank goodness my husband already loves me because that might be a deal breaker.

Anyway, I'm not talking about crazy hair DNA. Nor am I talking about his penchant for fastening a fancy trouser belt around his ratty red bathrobe when he couldn't find the tie that belonged to do it. I'm also not referring to his tendency to cry during dramatic episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation. I share all of these traits with him, but I've known about them for a long time.


No, I'm talking about a new realization that struck me as I gave people a tour of our house on Sunday. (Doesn't that sound grand and not like it's just a modest house on a slightly small lot in a new-ish planned community?) 


Anyway, I pointed out a sofa and I was like, "Yeah, my mother-in-law found that sectional brand new for $320." And then a moment later I was all, "Kenny fixed these bathroom cabinets with spray lacquer for $60 instead of paying the painters $1500." And then I pointed out the three-year-old washer/dryer I scored on Craigslist for $200. And then I sat down to write an email on the refurbished laptop my husband bought me last week for $400 because my old one gave up the ghost.


Yeah. I turned into my dad.


I miss him.


But it might have been a good thing that he passed away before he discovered Craigslist. He'd have gone broke saving money.

BFFs 4-Ever

I think I may just have experienced the least stressful move in the universe. Totally weird, considering how much we had going on. 


We had a new house to repaint and retile and other cosmetic stuff that took a lot of time. Kenny was gone a lot in the evenings trying to take care of the new house while I took care of the kids. I made countless runs to home improvement stores and bought at least two dozen different paint samples in search of the colors we could live with because WE'RE NOT DOING THIS AGAIN ANY TIME SOON! 


There was the finding of a tenant for our condo and all kinds of Craigslist escapades wherein I scored a commercial freezer and a washer and dryer. I'm still hunting for the right bed for James's room.


None of this was easy with a two-year-old and a three-month-old and trying to get the ten-year-old through all the end of the year school activities, plus Cub Scouts. Oh, did I mention four, count 'em FOUR, major dental procedures? By rights, I should have lost my mind. It's a small miracle I'm not on my sofa blithering and gumming Cream of Wheat.


But I'm not. Why?


Why am I not freaked out that we moved 45 minutes away from family to a totally new neighborhood, elementary school and ward? 


Because I just know this is where we're supposed to be. I'm excited. It's been fun. Everything about this is good. We're moving into a larger space that already feels like home, with a cul-de-sac full of kids the same ages as mine. We're putting our mark all over this house and making it ours. We're on the verge of new friendships and adventures and I feel blessed to see this in the moment that it's unfolding. It's a tender mercy Heavenly Father grants me from time to time because He understands my limits.


So that's part of why.


But not all of it. The real reason I'm not stressed about any of this is because of Kenny and blogging. Why would I worry about being anywhere new when I can take all my best friends with me everywhere I go?


And with Kenny, I have the best friend in the whole wide world. We get sleepovers EVERY NIGHT. How cool is that?

Wasssssssup????

I have been gone so long, it's like I barely remember this place.

Have you ever dug really far back in your closet and found a shirt or skirt you used to love but had long-forgotten? And then you put it on and you're all, "I'll never forget about you again!" and then you wear it out?

That's how I feel about my blog.

It's been so fun today to snatch moments where I could drop in on blogs I haven't been able to read for a few weeks. I needed the blog hiatus so I could stay focused on remodeling the new house, packing and moving, but we've moved and I'M BACK, BABY!

To answer the fifty million questions I've gotten on the subject of "How do you like the new house?" let me just say:

LOVE IT. With all my whole heart, from head to toe, including ligaments, tendons, bone marrow, and fast twitch muscle fibers.

I will definitely post pictures but they are currently being held hostage in my husband's camera which is currently under detainment in an undisclosed location, most likely a box labeled "Kids' Underwear" or "Nursing Pads" because these are perfectly logical places to pack a camera.

It's made for a great family activity every evening, this guessing where things may have been packed. Actually, we've given that sport up because it was too advanced. We play a more beginner level where we unpack a box and try to figure why on earth it got the label it did based on the contents. For example, I pulled my white noise machine (I use it to sleep and since my husband doesn't like me to say he snores, let's just say the machine drowns out our astonishingly loud air conditioner and simultaneously saves our marriage nightly) out of a basket of winter sweaters. Why was it there? There are a few possibilities. The first and most obvious is that the sweaters invited the noise machine over for a party. The second reason isn't nearly as interesting as the first so I won't even bother with it. And so the game goes.

Anyway, we're unpacked enough for me to feel perfectly at home. We have a dining room table now and no longer have to eat off of the coffee table or off of plates balanced on our knees. And I no longer have to base my area rug color choices off of what kind of food we spill most often.

It's the little things, people.

Anyway, I'm returning (for better and more likely far, far worse) to my regular schedule of blogging and I'll be coming around to your places far more often. You've been warned. This should give you just enough time to go private if you're quick.


I am now going to go indulge my new summer past time of helping James invent and sample new popsicle flavors. (Why doesn't the spell checker recognize popsicle as a word? It's not because I'm spelling it wrong, surely.) Today we've tried pineapple chunk mango, pineapple mango smoothie, rootbeer float, and Kool-Aid. So far Kool-Aid is winning, which is sad because I had high hopes for rootbeer float. Anyway, it's important that I go do this because when James was six, he told me he wanted to be a popsicle man, so this is me trying to encourage his dream. Also, when I asked him if I would get free popsicles from him, he said, "Maybe, if you're not dead." So this is also me trying to get in good with him and score free popsicles for my golden years.

Still standing

I miss blogging so much!


I miss all of you even more!


But things are crazy here getting ready for the move. Still, I'd probably sneak in a blog post here or there if my laptop had not offed itself.


Don't buy a Dell Inspiron, 'kay? You would not BELIEVE the problems I've had with mine and it's only two years old. My husband finally declared his contempt and disgust for it and he ordered me a refurbished laptop of another brand (maybe an IBM Thinkpad?) that should be here any day now. Maybe then I can be a little more on top of my game.


Until then, I shall amuse myself with rounds of, "Yes, James. I really do mean that you can't take EVERY toy you've EVER owned with you to the new house so make the hard choices, son" twenty times a day. And also, "Grant, that is NOT a toy!" And "Eden, help me out here . . . I don't know what that cry means."


James has declared that he doesn't want to throw any of his toys out because "they might be worth something some day." Well. Number one: He's not allowed to watch any more Antiques Roadshow with me. And number two: Seriously? He's overestimating the appeal of his one-of-a-kind Lego pieces that mysteriously don't belong to any of his OTHER Lego pieces. But they're worth something. Just ask him. I bet we'll be able to pay for his college if we even just sold, like, three of those on eBay before he takes off for school. If he goes to community college. On an all expenses paid scholarship.


It should be a week-ish before I'm back to a semi-regular program of blogging but I'll be dropping in on your blogs as often as possible.


Don't forget me while I'm semi-gone, okay? Please?


(Just for fun, I'm going to time how long it takes Kristina P. to comment on this after I hit publish.)

I'm just sayin'.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: The problem with America is that we have no indigenous monkeys.