Friday, May 27, 2011

My Love for Air Conditioning is Boarding on the Inappropriate

My internal temperature has risen significantly. I LOVE that it's been cool here for the last week or so because our heater is broken and so the inside of our house is delightfully chilly. They're not kidding around when they say pregnant women get hot flashes. They strike at the most inconvenient times. (i.e. when it's completely inappropriate to strip your shirt off. Grocery shopping, sitting in church, sitting in a movie theater, etc.) basically makes you feel like you want to jump out of your skin and if you're unable to do so, you will slowly burn to death in the raging inferno that is your body. And with that pleasant thought, I'd now like to turn the time over to a completely unrelated photo:

So, about 900 weeks ago, we went to Thanksgiving point to meet my grandparents, Aunt, Uncle and cousin who were visiting. It was the most beautiful day in all the land. The tulips were taller than some toddlers I know. It was amazing. Believe it or not, I'm actually much larger now than I was when this picture was taken. Holy guacamole. Also, dig my husband's faux-hawk. Word.

(Interesting side note: "Faux" is one of my very favorite words in the English language. Savor that knowledge, ladies and gentlemen. Savor it.)

I don't know why I'm even publishing this post. It is the unfortunate love child of my boredom, my inexpressible exhaustion and the convenient location of the 'publish post' button. Forgive me for this, blogger world. I promise more compelling works are forthcoming.

Sunday, May 22, 2011

Reasons My Husband is like Snowy, the Albino Echidna

Okay, first of all, can we just talk about the fact that the above picture displays the cutest creature to ever walk the face of this planet? Can we also mention how fabulous it is that the caption under the original posting of this picture reads, "Rare as rocking horse poo." ? Um. What. Best. Caption. Ever. I love every single thing about this picture. And Snowy, the Albino Echidna. Which offers a lovely segue because I also happen to love every single thing about my husband. (Except arguably his gas )

Earlier today I was having two conversations simultaneously with two AMAZING ladies who had recently had rather negative encounters with members of the opposite sex. I won't go into gory details, because they're not my details to be gory with, but I will say that in the case of one of the girls in particular, I relate entirely too much to everything she's going through right now. To the point where my heart is broken vicariously. My husband is gone right now, and it's basically KILLING me inside slowly, so naturally, I have turned to my blog in this time of need to dump all of this thought pollution.

Adding to the two heart-breaks previously mentioned, I also had the privilege of getting together with some of my favorite people in the world last night and had an amazing time giggling and talking with them until way past my bedtime. Where is the heartbreak, you may ask? All 5 of these ladies are not only drop-dead gorgeous, talented, sweet-natured, funny, exciting, and pretty much fabulous in every way, they're also all single.

These two different experiences that I've been witnessing over the last few days have me wondering just one thing: Why...why, oh why, are boys so dumb? Why? What is going on, here? And how is HEAVEN'S name, did I find one like Shem? Where are the rest of the Shems? Where are the boys who are preparing themselves to be worthy of these amazing women who want so desperately to be wives and mothers? I honestly am baffled. I am baffled at boys who string girls along, only to lie to them and break their hearts. I am baffled by returned missionaries who decide they have better things to do than get married or decide that their mission has turned them into Captain Moroni and they just can't find a girl 'good enough' for them. I am baffled by the almost-30 year old men who can't date women their own age and choose, instead, to go for the 18 year old 'hotties' with whom they can play around with without the added 'pressure' of possible impending nuptials. I am baffled by boys that decide to choose girls who will lower their standards for them over girls who keep their standards high and ask them to do the same. I am baffled by men who act like boys. Who can't make decisions, or who make all the wrong ones and then leave these smart, capable, worthy, BEAUTIFUL women single, lonely and wondering what they're doing wrong.

I am SO ANGRY about this lately. It's been a recurring theme in my life the last couple of days and I just cannot get it out of my head.

And then I look over at my sweet husband who I am so crazy in love with and I wonder how in the world I got so lucky? Maybe one of the reasons that I've been blessed with this little infuriating recurring life theme, is so that I can REALLY appreciate what has been given to me, here. I HAVE to believe that there are more of him out there. He can't be the only one. I have to believe there is one like Shem for my little sisters and my beautiful cousins and all of my single friends. I have to believe it. Or I'll go insane.

The truth of the matter is that it's all in the Lord's hands. There is no way that I could have been led to Shem without His guidance. I give credit for our marriage entirely and unequivocally to my Heavenly Father. He is a rarity among men. Here's how:

-At 22 years old, he wasn't afraid of committing to marriage.

-At 19 years old, he gave up two whole years of his life in dedication to serving the Lord on a mission for the church.

-After 1 month of marriage, he found out his wife was expecting a baby and has immediately stepped up to be the provider he knows he needs to be now AND is moving us away from his family and friends so that I can be closer to MY family and friends while I raise this baby.

-He WANTS to be a dad. He's excited about, not dreading this huge change.

-He is endlessly patient.

-He is (almost annoyingly) honest.

-He is kind, generous and always looking for ways to serve ANYONE.

-He is maybe the most selfless person I have ever met.

-He conducts Family Home Evenings every Monday night aaaand it's pretty much the cutest thing you'll ever see. With a smile under his breath, he speaks like he's conducting General Conference and always expresses his gratitude that Luke was able to make it that night.

-He has a way of making me feel worthy, loved, appreciated and beautiful ALL the time, but especially when I'm feeling particularly like garbage.

-He studies scriptures with me, prays with me, attends church with me, sings hymns with me while we get ready for the day, has spiritual discussions with me which always blow my mind because he's basically the most in-tune guy ever and attends the temple with me regularly.

So, you understand now, don't you, that I married the human equivalent of Snowy, the Albino echidna, right? Guys like this don't just litter every street corner. There aren't droves of Shems in this world. And how I got so blessed to meet and marry him at 21 years old is absolutely beyond me. I'm floored by the magnitude of this blessing. And when I look around at these stunning single women who are absolutely deserving of a man like this...I have to say: Step it up, guys. Seriously. You don't know what you're missing.

Friday, May 13, 2011

In Which I Recount a Sad Tale

...which may or may not conclude in my burning the house down.

Once upon a time, there was a girl named Bean. (Though some would argue that since she'd recently married her one true love, her name was now Hawks and not Bean at all.) She lived a charmed life in a cottage (starter apartment) with her prince (husband) and unborn baby (Luke?) whom she loved. While her husband was hard at work, Bean made it a daily goal to be a good Mormon house-wife. She cleaned, straightened, organized, dusted, looked up do-it-yourself projects so that she could develop every good intention of being creative someday, and occasionally, she cooked. (She cooked more often than occasionally if we're being honest, because she was kind of a foodie. But I digress.)

One day, Bean wasn't feeling too hot because she had a womb-dweller kicking her in really unfortunate locations. (She has since forgiven said womb-dweller and is still somewhat fond of him, though she has every intention of kicking him out in the next few months) Evening fell and Bean's most recent dinner plan began to slowly lose appeal. It began to look daunting and unappetizing despite it being one of her husband's favorite dishes. For the intention of pointing out a cruel irony later in the story, I should mention that the original plan for dinner was something called "Chicken Bundles" which take about 15 minutes to throw together and 20 minutes to bake and involve opening a can of crescent rolls as one of the most tedious steps. It came down to the fact that she'd forgotten to previously boil the chicken and now she had not the energy to do so. It started looking like Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwiches might be on the menu again that night. (Did I say again? oops. Pretend you didn't hear that.)

So, Bean, begrudgingly peeled herself off of the floor where she'd been laying in attempts to make her head stop spinning and her baby child to stop head-butting her in the cervix (this was a fruitless attempt) and made her way groggily into the kitchen to see if she could scrounge up something simple but tasty. She was thinking maybe tuna melts with a can of soup. So, being short in stature, she pulled a chair up to the soup cabinet to check out her stores. Alack! No soup. Nothing but chili and chicken broth (with seasoning!). Not having remembered ever buying seasoned chicken broth, and not knowing exactly what seasoned chicken broth was, she became intrigued and looked at the back of the can. There it was! A dinner idea! A recipe for garlic mashed potatoes. And she'd just bought a 5 pound bag of Idaho's best. Eureka! Excited, she started wracking her brain about what would go well with garlic mashed potatoes and she remembered her husband mentioning how fond he was of fried chicken. Bean knew she'd never before attempted that dish, but hey! it involved egg wash, flour and a whole heap of hot oil. How hard could it be?

Knowing the fried chicken would be the dish that would most give her grief, she took the most care preparing it. The mashed potatoes would be nothing. She'd done them a million times. And sure, she'd never used this particular recipe, but let's be honest, it involved throwing the can of seasoned chicken broth in with the potatoes as they were being whipped and then tossing in some pepper, so she really wasn't concerned. So she peeled, washed and began boiling the potatoes before beginning the nerve-wracking process of making fried chicken without a recipe.

Bean carefully tossed in tasty seasonings with her flour and made a delicious breading for the chicken, she then prepared an egg wash and started thawing her miraculously still frozen chicken which she had thought had been thawing for days now, but apparently had just been pretending. She poured a boat-load of canola oil in a pan, got it hot and began the process of dipping, coating and frying her chicken. In the meantime, she was wrestling with her oh-so-simple potatoes.

Everything had been going smoothly until it came to the pepper step. At which point, Bean lost her mind. (Frequently this happened to Bean...particularly when she had some sort of seasoning in her hand and was adding it to a dish) She's still not sure what happened, but looking back on it, she thinks she entered what she likes to call a 'flavor trance' in which she began to highly over-estimate the amount of potatoes which were in need of pepper. In short, the potatoes began to turn a startling shade of gray before Bean realized what she'd probably done. In the desperate attempts to neutralize the ample pepper flavor which just about caused her ears to burn off as she tasted it, she momentarily neglected the sizzling chicken which was now on it's second side.

With a jolt, she remembered to check the chicken and for one heart-breaking moment, she thought they were lost. She sprinted to the cupboard, grabbed a big plate, covered it with a paper town and ripped the sizzling hot chicken out of the now boiling hot Overcome with relief, she again momentarily lost her mind and thought that no harm would come of leaving the boiling oil on the burner as the range cooled down from 'high' to 'off'. She turned her attention, once again, to the lost potatoes and the vegetable dish which has until now gone unmentioned because sticking sticking frozen veggies in a microwave is too boring an element to be mentioned in a story as intense as this one.

As thick vapors of smoke began to surround and suffocate her, she realized, too late, that there actually had been harm done from leaving that hot pan on the burner and she jumped to her feet and attempted to throw open the back window before anything horrific could happen. But sure enough, the fire alarm had had enough. It screamed in protest. At that moment, Bean was very grateful that she didn't have a sleeping infant in the next room because holy CROW that thing was loud. And shrill. And piercing. Luckily for Bean, her husband had just gone on break and as he fanned the smoke away from the fire alarm, he calmly suggested that she take the smoking pan off of the oven so that it know...stop smoking. It was then that Bean revealed her naivety when it comes to crises. She grabbed the pan, hung it out the open window and watched smoke continue to barrel from it's burnt contents. She then looked at her husband helplessly as her arm hung out the window, "Now what?" I'm sure it took every ounce of self-restraint for her husband not to roll his eyes.

A few minutes (and a pot holder to put the pan down on) later and some of the smoke had cleared. They breathed again. Bean surveyed her somewhat destroyed kitchen realizing slowly how much easier her original dinner idea truly would have been. She was pretty sure she'd used every single bowl, utensil, knife, cup and rag she owned during the creation of the dinner and it was all currently sprawled out on every surface of her kitchen, including the dinner table. The smoke still hung low despite both fans and all three windows and a door being flung wide open. She looked at her almost burnt fried chicken and her pepper with a dash of mashed potatoes and made a sad, sad face at her husband to whom she declared, "I will never cook again."

He, being a prince, graciously took his helping of pepper-potatoes and blackened fried chicken and nuked broccoli and corn and said, "Mmmm! Looks tasty!" (All princesses everywhere scoffed with jealousy at this prince's gallantry) They decided to have a 'picnic' in the living room, which really just meant that they ate on the floor since the table had smeared egg yoke and other such undesirable messes strewn about it.

First bite aaaaand....a genuine 'yum' came from Bean's handsome prince. She could scarcely believe it. She tasted the chicken. It was yummy! Hallelujah! A miracle had occurred. It wasn't so burnt after-all. She thought BBQ sauce might compliment it. Sure enough, it was somewhat delicious!

Sadly, the same could not be said for the potatoes which caused allergies to both parties, but luckily, if you ate the chicken and the potatoes in the same bite, it cut through a lot of the peppery flavor and you could hardly tell that it had once been a risk factor for esophageal burning.

For dessert, Bean had an oatmeal brownie that she had made the night before.

And they continued to live happily ever after.

Until the next mashed potato attempt.

Tuesday, May 10, 2011


Everything hurts today. I blame this growing child. And my sudden massive increase in fiber intake. (Remember how I was gonna eat 'healthy'? Well, apparently, it was too much too soon...this much fiber and my body has turned into a solution to our nation's energy crisis. No more off-shore drilling required, I've got enough gas to get us through the next few generations.)

ANYWHOO...So, I'm in all this weird pain. I called my Mama and was telling her about all my symptoms -- Can't breath, can't move, sharp pains in my belly, sides, lower back and lower abdomen, occasional nausea, ridiculously acidic heartburn, unshakable exhaustion, aaaand swollen ankles -- and she goes, "Sounds like you're pregnant"


Suddenly 15 weeks sounds like an eternity. Especially when I consider the fact that I'm gonna get a LOT bigger and it's gonna get a LOT hotter. Someone tell me how I'm going to survive this. Then smack me for being such a baby about it. Actually, maybe don't do that today, because in general I think I've been doing pretty good about staying positive, so this is my well-earned 'day of whining'. And that's what I'll tell God tonight in my prayers. Think He'll go for that excuse?

So to sum it all up:

Thursday, May 5, 2011

Thought Doodles.

I'm a doodler. I have been all my life. Nary a homework assignment left my hands un-illustrated and I've even had teachers ask me how I can possibly read my notes around all the pretties. (They did not call them pretties. That is my word.) The funny thing about my doodling, is I often "doodle" sentences. It's just whatever pops into my head. It might be poetic, it might be silly, it might not even make sense (I'm going to be honest here and let you all know that it probably usually didn't make sense.) Sometimes I would simply inform myself about how bored I was in that moment and how I wished class, or the meeting, or what have you, would end. But the point is, it was a really, really good way to vent or clear my head or feel momentarily creative. So sometimes, I need a space to 'thought doodle' and I figured, what better place than a blog?

As a female, I have many swirly, seemingly unconnected thoughts swimming in my head 24/7. For all you males out there (for the record, I'm pretty sure a grand total of 0 males read my blog. My own husband doesn't even read it.) you may be thinking to yourself, "Gee. That sounds exhausting." Well, let me let you in on a secret: It IS exhausting. This is the reason I keep a journal. It's the reason I talk incessantly. It's the reason I thought doodle. And now, it's one of the reasons I blog.

This is a 'thought doodle' entry. Because the swirly thoughts are making me tired. And slightly dizzy.

With that said, let the randomness commence:
(Interesting side-note. Apparently 'randomness' is a real word. Blogger didn't put an annoying red, squiggly line underneath it.)

-Last night I had a dream that I was in a hospital delivering my baby, but I was only 24 weeks pregnant and I wasn't in labor. I was trying to tell people that I wasn't having contractions, but no one would pay attention. Next thing I know, the doctor is strapping me onto a gurney, taking fistfuls of my pregnant belly and moving the baby around so he'd be in the 'right position'. THEN, he lathers me (using a baster) with canola oil to 'help the baby slip out'. Sure that this was not going to work, my lovely Hannah kidnapped me and took me shopping in this creeper rapist van and began dialoging with me about whether or not I'd like her to stay for the delivery. Meanwhile, I'm in the passenger seat in a hospital gown and dripping canola oil everywhere shouting desperately, "WHAT delivery?? I'm not even in LABOR!"

I guess it's true what they say about pregnant women and their strange dreams.

-I love reading stranger's blogs. I think this makes me a creeper. I think I should be less okay with that.

-I am both dreading and cannot wait for the upcoming Harry Potter release. Don't know if I'm going to handle this goodbye very well. I realize that this makes me the biggest nerd on the planet, but I don't think you people quite understand the impact that Harry Potter has had on my life and the enormous role it played in my childhood. It's like saying goodbye to one of my best friends.

-I love reading, but it makes me sleepy. Pretty much instantly, It's like a disease. Anyone have a cure? Actually, it's funny, I considered being an English major for a large part of my high-school career until I realized that I have a legitimate problem staying awake while reading. It's like a weird form of narcolepsy. But it's a really nice cure for sleepless nights. I swear it works better than Ambien. *Can't sleep, can't sleep, can't sleep. Oh. I'll read! "Once Upon a T... aaaand out.*

-So, I was freaking out about this whole gaining weight thing, and then I stumbled upon this article about this woman who learned to love her postpartum body and it changed my life. For some reason it really hit me today: Why am I freaking out about my body changing when here it is, creating a little miracle for me? I should be delighting in the wonder that my body is performing...not cringing about the extra poundage. New goal: No more body bashing! I'm going to eat as well as I can while pregnant while also not depriving myself of occasional treats (when you're this hormonal and apt to tissy-fits it's reeeeally not the time to tell yourself you can't have chocolate now and again) and exercise and then STOP WORRYING. My body is my body. It'll look how it's gonna look. And as long as I'm healthy, I need to quit fussing so much.

-I love the sun. It makes me happy. It lifts my spirits. It takes me out of funks I enter while it is absent. I love blue skies. I love flowers. I love Spring and Summer and all weather that is bright and beautiful. It just makes me flippin' happy.

-I miss singing.

-I love celebrating EVERYTHING. I make up reasons to celebrate. Literally invent them. "Oh, today I fit into my next size up maternity jeans. That's slightly significant. We should celebrate." "Hey, I finished all the laundry. We should have cake to celebrate" "This morning I woke up before 8. Definitely calls for a celebration of some kind." "It's -fill in the blank with obscure holiday- today...tiiiiiime for pie!"

-I have a lot of good friends. I wish I could have them all be in the same place for always.

-I love going to movies.

I'm running out of thought doodles. That's a good sign. I just wanted to introduce the concept of thought doodles here so that you'd all understand these seemingly unconnected and bizarre streams of consciousness that are bound to happen every now and again in this blog.


Tuesday, May 3, 2011

Cloud of Stink

I have a really good 'would you rather' question for you.

Would you rather have ridiculously LOUD farts, or ridiculously SMELLY farts? The conditions are thusly: The loud farts don't smell. Ever. Like anything. But they DEFINITELY came from you. There's just no denying it. Whereas the smelly farts are completely silent. But potent. Maybe they even evoke gag reflexes every now and again.

Things to consider:
With the loud farts, being in an enclosed space with a bunch of strangers would pretty much be the most awkward situation ever. It's not like you can just explain to them all that it won't be smelly. Because I'm pretty sure at that point, none of them care. They're just waiting till they can get out of the elevator and burst into hysteric laughter. On the other hand, being in a small space with the noxious gas from the smelly fart wafting around would be slow and painful torture for you and everyone else on board. You could, however, pretend to be just as mystified and offended by the odor as the rest of the riders.

It's hard to argue this one for either. Pretty much you're done for either way. Unless it's a group date and you can pretend that the horrific odor floating around didn't emanate from your person. But if you're alone in a car with this special person, there's just no recuperating from either a loud or a smelly fart. Maybe if you went with the loud farts, you could both laugh really hard about it and then you could tell your date that your farts never stink...they're just really loud. Depending on the nature of the date, this could either be a terrific ice breaker, or the ultimate deal-breaker. Maybe that'd be a good weeding process, actually. Hm. Maybe I'll recommend this to my single friends who have loud wind.

It's silent. People are worshiping. You are stuffed into one room with many people and are all sharing really uncomfortable pews. The organ is playing a mournful but beautiful prelude song. There are pictures of Jesus. You tell me...loud? Or smelly? Pretty much you feel like you're goin' to Hell either way.

One step up from church. Maybe with an extra helping of awkward if there's an open casket. Ooo! Pick smelly! Maybe the potent fumes will be shocking enough bring the deceased back to life. Then you'd be a hero.

Alright. I'm sincerely interested. What are your thoughts?

I should tell you that the reason I ask is because I have loud farts and my husband has smelly ones. We did not get to choose this. It was chosen for us. But sometimes I wonder if I'd trade if I could. And then he lets one rip. As I inhale, I decide (firmly) that I would not trade under any circumstances. My farts are funny. They induce joy, laughter and seldom clear a room. His induce suffering, offense and burning eye balls.

Secret Fear

Sometimes I'm afraid I'm gonna sneeze my baby out.