Good thing he's cute.

Maybe you remember the lovely note I had to send to James's teacher back in January regarding a certain brick. This was the note I had to send in this morning, unaltered. Yay.

Hi, Mrs. Yarrington.

We had a little issue with James's final literature circles project. He finished it late Saturday night. Some time Sunday afternoon, my three-year-old Grant got a little water on it. No big deal, just some sprinkles. James put the pages outside to dry. Then Kenny sent Grant out to play and turned on the hose for him, not realizing James's papers were outside. Grant watered everything thoroughly: the plants, the skateboard ramp, the patio furniture . . . and James's papers.

We dried them out and reconstructed the really messed up stuff as best we could. Kenny and James were up really late last night working on it. They're legible but still a total mess, I know. If you don't mind sending him home with another packet, we'll have him fill it in again so it's acceptable. We're making him bring in the packet in its current condition just so you know he really did complete it.

Sorry about all this. We seem to have some kind of curse on long-term projects around here. (Its name is Grant.)

Sincerely,

Melanie  

P.S. The winner of the last copy of The List is Jaime from Polka Dots on Parade. I'll get it on its way. :)

TV Guide

If I don't stop by your blog today, don't take it personally. I freaking hate April Fools.


I will hold my peace on the subject because I know many, many people LOVE it. I do not. That is all. (That's not even close to all, but that's all that really matters.)


In other news of things I don't hate, I don't think I've mentioned our neighbors. We like the peeps in our new 'hood, but we're especially close to the ones on our right. We share so many things in common, like . . .


Well, mainly TV. And honestly, it's a one-sided relationship. Because we just watch what they watch. We sort of have to.


The thing is, my clever husband met me a year-ish ago at the door to our new house that was in the dusty throes of a remodel. Instead of, "Hello, light of my life and my reason for living. I love you. How are you today?" he said, "Do you trust me?"


Uh, yes. In terms of the children's lives, my life, etc. But when you meet me at the door covered in drywall dust and looking anxious . . . less so. Much less so.


He led me to the family room wall. Or the shadow of its former self. What I saw now was a wall full of holes. Big gaping holes. Big gaping ragged holes with teeth and bad attitudes. Kenny went on and on about future-proofing and coaxial cables and  . . . 


Well, in the interests of preserving marital harmony, I tuned him out and decided I'd never seen the wall int its current state. I would refuse to see the wall again until it resembled it's old wall-y self. Then Kenny said something like, "And this way Grant can't press the buttons whenever he wants any more."


Wait, what? No more crackers in the DVD player? No more fingerprints and peanut butter smears across the face of our fourth child, the television? My faith is restored. Carry on, husband.


Turns out he'd run the wires for our EVERYTHING media-related through the walls into our laundry room so we could stick all of our gadgety entertainment-type doohickeys in a cabinet in there and NEVER HAVE TO SEE THEM AGAIN. This was made possible not by magic. Not by house elves. Not even by Steve Jobs or Bill Gates.


Nope, it was good ole radio frequency. See, most remotes work off of infrared which is why your remote has to be pointed at the object it's trying to communicate with. Most people (who are not me) know this. Most people (who are not me) do not stare at their "universal" remotes in befuddlement when it turns out that their remote controls DO have limits. These remotes do not change the channel on crying children. They do not mute screaming toddlers. They don't even start the washing machine from a distance.


Seem kind of useless, if you ask me. 


Anyway, most remotes are infrared and can't work through a wall. But radio frequency remotes do. They're pretty unusual because they're a little expensive, but when your husband is a huge tech nerd (but a very, very sexy one) and can do all the programming, then it reduces the price to the cost of a new entertainment center which we would have had to buy if we didn't do it this way, anyway. Behold, the result:

Yes, there is clutter on my mantle. Yes, I just barely took this picture. So yes, I could have cleared it before taking it. And, no. I don't care. And yes, I just spent more time defending the cluttered mantel than it would have taken to just clear it. 

Hooray! The same husband who can do all the tech stuff also repaired the wall (he's already taken, ladies)  and we were ready to rock and roll. Or Nick at Nite. Or stare at a neverending parade of freaks on TLC's evening programming. Everything came together beautifully. Until . . .


We turned it on.


It was actually day two before I realized the TV was possessed. I was trying to watch the VH-1 video countdown. It kept flipping to Penguins of Madagascar. I shrugged. New systems are always buggy. Then I was trying to watch a Say Yes to the Dress marathon. And it kept flipping to a CSI marathon.


And then, after several days of trying to figure out what the new "universal" remote was trying to tell me about myself based on its programming selections for me, I had a little light bulb moment. It happened on a Saturday morning when no matter what I did, my TV rejected Property Ladder and flipped back and forth between Penguins of Madagascar and The Wizards of Waverly Place. We don't watch those shows. But you know who would? The nine-year-old girl next door.


So I sent Kenny to investigate.

Guess who else has the only other RF remote in the neighborhood? Yep. The neighbors to the right.


Sigh.


At least they don't watch porn. And I've learned to make my peace with the QVC jewelry channel.


Oh, and today is your last day to enter to win a copy of The List by commenting on this post from Monday. 

Crazy--like a fox.

(Click here and comment on the post for a chance to win The List and rules for winning other cool stuff.)


I'm going to tell you another crazy online dating story in a second, but first, Erin at If You Give a Mom a Moment emailed to let me know that TODAY only, if you order The List online from Deseret Books (just click that link, it'll take you there), you can get 25% off. Just enter MARCH25 in the check out. That way, even with shipping, you'll still pay less than full price. There! Problem solved for those of you not near an LDS bookstore. Yay!


Once upon a time, in a fuzzy space/time bubble that hypothetically existed before I knew Kenny, I used to date. It was unfortunate this had to happen over the space of many years, but let's all keep in mind that I didn't know where Kenny lived and vice versa or I'm sure many of those dates could have been avoided. All of them, in fact.


Anyway, my friend Brita offered to set me up with an acquaintance of hers, Chris. He sounded good. Most single people my age had some sort of LDS online dating presence, so it was easy to find him on one of the sites and decide the details were okay. My age, solid in church, good job, near by. So I said sure. I didn't contact him or anything. I just waited for the date to roll around. And then the afternoon of the double date came and it fell through because this Chris guy went scuba diving with his brother out at Catalina and wasn't going to make it back in time.


Wait, what? He stood me up? 


I don't think so.


This next part will sound stalker-ish. I promise, I'm not now, nor was I, a stalker. But this is what I did next. I decided to go visit my friend Nate at his singles ward. Where Chris happens to go. Nate thought this was very funny. Chris had no idea I was coming. And when he wandered over to meet me after sacrament meeting (I looked good, guys) a flicker of recognition showed in his expression, followed by a a dawning expression that said, "I can't believe I passed on HER to go scuba diving."


Which was really the point of me dropping in that day. 


But neither of us said anything. There was no acknowledgment of the date that never happened. We just exchanged hellos and chatted like I did with several other people that day, and then I went home.


Sure enough, it took about one day flat for a message to reach me from Chris via the same online dating site where I'd found him. The rest of the story is not important so here's the gist: we ended up going out. It was fine, not spectacular. I would have said yes to a second date but he didn't call for one. However, our lack of connection aside, this guy was a good catch at a lot of levels. So I did something half crazy.


I honestly can't remember the details, but I'll reconstruct this next part the best I can. What you need to know before reading it is that I'm an INCORRIGIBLE matchmaker and I'm pretty good at it. Two marriages to my credit, thank you very much. And I don't mean mine. I mean, two friends I set up with other people are now married. 


So this is what I did. I knew Chris and I were not a fit, but it seemed a shame to let him go to waste out in Podunk, CA. I did a little snooping on the dating site and found a profile for a girl that I KNEW would hit it off with him. And I sent her this crazy email. I was like, "DON'T DELETE this even though it's going to sound bizarre. But there's this guy  you should check out . . ." so I pointed her in his direction and warned her not to let him know I was behind it because he would definitely think I was a psycho. 


Girls, I'm not. I am and have always been totally emotionally stable. But the spidey senses were tickling and I knew I had this right. Um, also, I didn't mention to her that I had gone out with him once or she would have that I was a nut job, too. NOT a nut job. Just a good matchmaker.


So she checks out his profile and emails me back. "You're right. He's my type."


Me: Duh. (I didn't type this out loud. It's just that I know these things. I'm exactly like a classy millionaire matchmaker, except totally different.)


Anyway, this girl's name was Angie, and she would email me every now and then to update me. She lived in Arizona, but she was going to come out here to meet Chris. She met Chris. She clicked with Chris. (Duh.)


And then I think my part in everything must have come up with him and it probably came across as extremely odd (it was, I know, but I couldn't help it. The man needed a WIFE and I could tell just what kind he needed so I found him one.)


That's right, IT WORKED. Because the next thing I heard of them was Nate telling me that Chris was getting married to Angie.


Boo-yah! #Winning! Whatever else you want to say for I WAS RIGHT!


And um, of course, thrilled that I could play a small part in them finding joy. Oh, who are we kidding? IT WAS ALL BECAUSE OF ME!


And of course, I have never heard from either of them again because they don't want to keep a relationship with their scary Internet "friend." Or so I assume. The truth is, once they were in touch with each other, I washed my hands of it because my work was done. Angie did ask me at one point why I was doing it, putting them in touch. And I explained. "Sometimes I just know stuff. You guys should date. Believe me or not, but you'll be a good fit."


I guess she believed me.


And though I haven't talked to either of them since, I'm sure I remain an  . . . interesting . . . footnote in their shared history.


And now you guys know I really am a lot bit nuts.

The barbaric yawp.

I've been yawping.


Deep, satisfying, soul-stirring yawps. (See Dead Poets Society. But first brush up on your Whitman.)


I had to put my writing aside for a while to deal with moving into our new home and preparing the condo to rent out. It involved a lot of mind-numbing contractor coordinating, paint picking, errands, and . . . well, you get the point.


It wasn't creative. It wasn't making something new. It wasn't about flexing brain muscles and wrestling words into a shiny, happy flow. It had moments of fun, but not the kind that makes your soul smile.


Now things are settled enough (not completely, but enough) that I CAN WRITE.


Oh, I miss this place, this place where everything is a story and I can't type fast enough to squeeze it all in. I feel like a conduit for wonderfulness. Ideas are hurling themselves at me from all directions, from the community pool to the neighborhood block party. To wit:

Didn't I tell you?


How could I not put this guy in a story? And he hangs out at my neighbor's house a lot, so I'm going to have all kinds of great material.


For anyone who thinks I embellish some of the crazy things I tell you, believe me. Just believe me. I have a combination radar/magnet for wackiness. I don't have time to make anything up when my life is ripe with Pakistani Elvises. (Elvi?)


Just wait until my next post when I reveal the cast of characters I've run into for some future novel that you won't believe. But what did I say? BELIEVE ME.


Also, for all those of you who felt cheated by my wardrobe malfunction non-story, here's the euphemistic Cliff's Notes version, and it's all I'm going to say: Imagine a car with its high beams on whose headlights are seriously out of alignment. You're welcome.

The old man is snoring . . .

It's going to rain in Southern California this week. You know what that means...


People are going to lose their minds.


In fact, it's going to rain a lot. 


People are going to REALLY lose their minds.


I grew up in Louisiana where rain is about as interesting as navel lint. Or maybe something else you experience daily that isn't gross. The first time it rained in SoCal after we moved here, I thought I was living a Twilight Zone episode.


It was bizarre. The panic, the mayhem, the overwrought (and over glossed) on-scene news reporters...you'd think it was blood running in the gutters instead of polluted rain water.


Remember the lead up to Y2K when people bought survival supplies and cans of Sterno and industrial strength toilet paper? That's what prepping for a week of rain down here should look like EVERY TIME because it is that level of chaos.


It's like living in a horror movie, watching it all unfold slowly, seemingly innocuously. A rain drop strikes an unsuspecting citizen, and by strikes, I mean lands on gently. There is a moment of bemusement as said citizen reaches up to touch his face in wonder, and then as he rubs the mysterious moisture between his fingers, the wonder slowly slides toward horror as the terrible, terrible possibilities unfold. 


His hair is gelled. GELLED. DO YOU KNOW WHAT RAIN DOES TO GEL? Do you? He races for his car, suddenly sure that the only place to ride out this storm and protect his hair is on the nearest congested freeway with hundreds of thousands of other panic stricken drivers who have lost all sense of direction and depth perception.


That's one of my pet theories, actually. That the rain screws with people's depth perception and that's why they suddenly forget to do things like apply their brakes. Or why they randomly steer into concrete medians or drive in the middle of the road.


But we're going to get (brace for it): EIGHT INCHES. In a week. (I know, right? They think that's a lot here. And it is a lot for here. Just not a lot for anywhere else.)


The End is near!


Or, more appropriately, The sky is falling! (Another pet theory of mine. I think they think that's what's happening.)


Rain, rain, go away.

Don't forget to floss.

My teeth fall out on a regular basis.

In my dreams, I mean. It's been going on for years. I have these recurring dreams where one tooth falls out, then another and another and pretty soon they're dropping left and right. It doesn't hurt in the dream, but it stresses me out super bad because I don't know why it's happening. In my dream, that is. Often I'm also stressed about not having dental insurance or all the dental work I have to get done to replace them.. I get all sad about wearing dentures and stuff.

When I wake up, I'm exhausted from stressing all night but REALLY glad I still have all my teeth. And dental insurance.

After years of this, I finally started checking those dream books. You know what it means if you dream about this?

It means your subconcious is trying to work through a problem it can't solve. It's often accompanied by teeth grinding.

Anyway, I have a new problem. Keys are beginning to fall of my keyboard.

Notice the missing control key and the page up key that's been awkwardly jammed back on.

What does this mean? I mean, it could mean that Baby Grant got to my laptop when I wasn't looking. Or it could mean.....?

Speaking of the gym...

If you haven't been reading my blog long, then you don't know my claim to fame: my blog comes up first if you Google "thong bedecked lunatics."

It's because the people in my kickboxing class are crazy, which I wrote about here and here. You wouldn't believe the nutiness that goes on in there. They seem to have a theme just about every week. If it's not a holiday, then everyone's dressing up for a birthday or a bridal shower. Somehow, I never seem to get the memo about the costumes. That's probably a good thing because if I did, I'd rip it up and stomp on the stupid memo. I hate memos.

Anyway, since it's a holiday today, I though I'd share a two minute clip from my class a week ago. It was dress like a leprachuan day or some nonsense. The hyper Japanese girl in front is Turbo Yumi who records and posts these things on YouTube. I'm the goofy one on the left in a light gray tank top, black pants, no green. NO GREEN. Because I didn't get the memo. Which I would have ignored anyway. And every time you see me on camera, I look like I don't have the first clue what I'm doing. Because I don't. Which is fantastic, since you can see me several times. In my defense, this is the first time through this section for the day. We'll end up doing it three or four times and I've always got it by the second go round, but the first time through...well, I just look pathetic. (I show up about 30 seconds in).




After viewing this on YouTube with me tonight, my son said in total seriousness, "Mom, do you think someone some where in the world is watching you and making fun of you right now?"

Happy St. Patrick's Day.

No way

At the gym Thursday, I noticed one of the leg machines had a seat belt attached.

I vow never to use that machine.

I feel good I've made the right choice.

My secret WWF obsession comes out...

I had no idea people loved the word doppelganger so much. Some of you find it delicious to roll around on your tongue. Me? It makes me giggle, especially because I refuse to say it without a fake German accent a la Mike Meyers in Sprockets.

Chaka is one of the people that luuurves him a doppelganger. He put me onto a cool site called Totally Looks Like. Hee, hee. And he said in yesterday's comments that if I did a post on doppelgangers, he'd follow my blog.

Done!

I really want to get to fifty.

Well, Chaka, I can go one better on you. How about a whole blog dedicated to doppelgangers? Specifically, my husband's doppelgangers. We thought of this idea in the fall and we haven't quite gotten it off the ground due to technical difficulties, but we (meaning I and my good-natured husband agreed to go along) started a blog called Guys That Look Like Kenny not to be confused with Guys That Look Like Kenny Rogers, another great way to spend an hour.

Now, the previously mentioned technical difficulty with the blog is that I'm supposed to go up to people at Disneyland and other public places and say, "You look like my husband. Can I get a picture of you for a blog we have about that?" And technically, I think that's kind of creepy and I haven't figured out a great way to do that yet which doesn't sound, um, psychotic. So far, all I've got is a Google image of Stone Cold Steve Austin. Him:

Obviously, my husband is FAR better looking.

I'm just saying, Chaka might love him a doppelganger, but I REALLY loves me a doppelganger.

They must have had a little sumpin' sumpin' mixed in with their coffee...

Some of you don't know that my Google claim to fame is that my blog comes up first if you search "thong bedecked lunatics." That's because of this post. I know a lot of you missed it, so go ahead and check it out. It's funny and (I think) short. Actually, it's not that short and it was before I practiced the religion of brevity and I'm too tired to try to use a smaller vocabulary sometimes and that post was one of those days (and so is today), but it's such a bizarre story that it's still worth checking out. You can start with "So that's where I was this morning." Do it. Do it now.

Go ahead. Really. I'll wait.

Did you read it?

Just so you know I don't make stuff up, here's the video evidence. You can even see me at the end (I'm pretty much the only dork with short sleeves), stumbling around because I'm trying to avoid being in a random YouTube clip which I ended up in anyway looking like an even bigger loser than usual.



So now you know you should just believe everything I tell you.

Doing the robot

"Did Nadine like the movie?" I asked my brother last Saturday. His girlfriend went to see The Secret Life of Bees the night after I did. I had told her it was good but that I teared up in the theater a few times the night before while she and my brother watched our boys so Kenny and I could take in a movie on our date night.

"Yeah. But she said you must be a robot because she bawled all the way through it."

I hear muffled conversation in the background, then Jamie (my brother) comes back on the phone. A big sigh. "She said not to make up stuff she said. But she did cry a lot and she can't believe you didn't."

Well, I would have cried more but I feel really stupid when I do that in the theater, even when the rest of the audience is sobbing (which it was) so I just hunkered down, and I think like, two tears escaped. But I didn't bother explaining. I just said, "I'm not a robot," and thanked him again for babysitting the boys.

Fast forward to Sunday, a week ago. Kenny and James have lost their minds. They insist they hear a mysterious beeping every ten minutes or so. They walk around with various electronic devices pressed against their ear, waiting to see what's making the noise.

A noise that I can't hear and become convinced doesn't exist.

They insist it's been going on all day. I think that once, I might have heard it. But then I decide I didn't and that they're crazy.

James comes home from school on Monday and insists that he hears it again, but it's only when he's with me. Never any other time.

And I think about my brother's robot comment and I begin to wonder...

Could it be that I'm getting some weird radio signal through a tooth filling and they hear it? I've seen it in movies.

But I don't hear it.

James is really bugged by this noise. It irritates him all Tuesday afternoon.

Finally, I suggest a theory that's been percolating in my slightly unstable imagination. "What if I was really a robot, James? And I never knew it. And there's something screwed up in my wiring and so it's beeping but I'm programmed not to hear stuff like that?"

I think he'll dismiss this with the nine-year-old skepticism that killed Santa and the tooth fairy.

Instead, he eyes me speculatively. It goes on too long. Finally, he says, "I don't think you could be a robot."

"Yeah, me either."

But we both sound uncertain.

Fast forward a last time to that night when we're eating at a barbecue joint for my brother's birthday. He and I have had a conversation in the car where I ask if he can hear the beeping.

"Yeah. Isn't it your phone?"

Nope. And he suggests maybe I can't hear it because as you get older, some people lose their hearing in higher frequencies and I have some scar tissue on my eardrums, so this kind of makes sense.

But as I come out of the restroom to rejoin the table an hour later, James is looking at him with deep admiration and Kenny is looking at him with a mixture of disgust and amusement.

When he was babysitting, Jamie had hidden a little prank gadget in the lining of the baby's carrier designed to beep mysteriously, and let it go on for four days.

Just to clarify: I am not a robot. I only thought I might be for about five minutes.

I couldn't possibly exaggerate this.

I had an out-of-body experience today involving a red-polka-dot thong and mylar balloons and you're now all invited to gawk.

I have debated with myself all day whether I should blog about this or not, because it falls under the category "I feel bad for saying this but I can't keep it in anymore," and I just blogged in that category two days ago....

but.

I can't help it. This must be told.

A tiny bit of background: I live in Orange County, CA, home of the The Real Housewives of Orange County, MTV's Laguna Beach and Fox's The OC. And assuming you live in a beach town (which I do), there's a fair amount of truth in what you see on TV.

If you were to show up to my son's elementary school on any given morning before the bell, you would infer that my city is inhabited by nothing but tanned, toned, blondes and tiny, perfectly coiffed Asians. It would be a reasonable assumption but if you came back day after day, you would find a substrata of slightly overweight brunettes (I'm the one with ten pounds still to lose). We've usually run out of time to brush our hair in between dropping our kids off at school and rushing to our Weight Watchers meeting. Or the gym, because hope springs eternal and all.

So that's where I was this morning, ready to take the TKB class. That's turbo kickboxing to the 24 Fitness uninitiated. Now, I have gone to the Monday class but overindulgence at a soup buffet last night drove me to a Wednesday morning round of shadowboxing that looks suspicously more like an overly aggressive cheer routine. I've taken this class for years at a different gym but that was Inland, which is a totally different animal than a Beach gym.

I walked into the class expecting to find the same overcaffeinated instructor, Molly, from the Monday class. Now I have made my peace that these classes are full of surgically enhanced perky blondes, token Asians, and a handful of moms who are trying really hard (I'm in that handful). But I was not prepared to find most of the class dressed in all white workout gear, ratty "bridal veils" clipped to their heads, white streamers draped the length of the exercise mirror and silver mylar balloons placed (all askew, I might add) throughout the room. Turns out we were having a mini-bachelorette part for one of the students getting married that weekend.

What the....?

I wish the weirdness ended there. But no. Tammy's friends brought a pair of red polka dotted thong underwear for her to wear over her shorts while doing roundhouse kicks. Then, once the class actually got under way (with a sea of bridal veils bobbing and weaving), the instructor and other white clad party godesses would periodically surround The Bride for bouts of suggestive dancing which apparently translates to, "We're so happy for you!" The instructor modified some of the punch and kick combos to include chest pumps and booty-shaking like it was The Club on a Saturday night. And due to the fact that these women have apparently exercised together forever, she didn't feel the need to call out the combos to any newcomers which meant that I spent an hour feeling like an idiot, eight beats behind, trying to figure out whether I was supposed to be on a jab, kick, uppercut or hook. Or maybe hooker. I don't know. It was touch- and-go at some points.

Now I can only assume this is not the usual for this class. And some of you may be asking, "Why not just leave?"

Did I mention eating way too much cream based soup and homemade toffee at Enrichment last night? And of course, there's the whole rubbernecking effect. It was like a huge pile-up on the 405 at rush hour only there's no carnage to go with the damage so you don't feel bad for looking and in fact, couldn't look away if you wanted to.

Ultimately, I did leave, though. When the Chief Booty Slap Dancer took over the mic for instructor duties, I'd had enough. I grabbed my baby from the kid care and made my escape. This afternoon I'm left pondering whether the moral is "lay off the chowder so you never have to go to that class again" or "the elliptical machine might be boring but it's devoid of Pick-n-Save bridal veils and thong bedecked lunatics."

Either way, I'm running the next time I see red polka dot panties at the gym.

Seven comments to move on, y'all....