ch-ch-ch-changes

We are moving.

Really soon.

And somehow my mom has conveniently booked at trip to the District "to see my sisters" next week.

That is code for "heaven help me, I can't handle helping you move..."

Just kidding.

But not really.

It's ok. I know where I rate, and it is understandably below the cute little grandbabies.

Anyway.

We are moving.

Tonight I spent some time pulling out nails and washing walls, trying to erase the evidence that we have lived here for almost 17 years.

And it makes me melancholy.

Oh well.

as sands in the hourglass ...

holy cow. I just scrolled down a little on my blog and I encountered a post from the last day of school, 2010. And here we are on the last day of school, 2011. how in the world did that happen?!!!? I am afraid. Very afraid.

In just three short months, the Middle Carrotstick will be entering Junior High. And the Oldest Carrotstick will be a Junior in High School. The thought just makes me want to weep. At least my baby (dramatically pronounced: bayh-bee) will still be safely ensconced in Elementary School.

I remember when I was first put into Young Womens. I looked at my girls who were Juniors in High School and thought they were so old and so mature. Now I look at my daughter and I think "She's just a baby. She's not old. She's not mature. She's just a child."

Earlier this year, in this never-ending spring, the Oldest Carrotstick went to a Stake meeting to start planning Stake Girls Camp. Before they got down to business they did some team building and get-to-know-you activities. One question the girls were all asked was: "If you could be guaranteed success at one thing, what would you do?" The girls went around the room and shared their responses. One girl said "I would convert the whole world." Another girl said "I would cure cancer." and so forth. Then it got to the Oldest Carrotstick. And what was her dream?

"I would fly."

See what I mean. Mature? Junior in High School? Not so much. Junior High? Possibly.

I just wish I could make all three Carrotsticks stay my little babies.

Unfortunately, they are all too eager to grow up.

Curses.

what's in a name?

Hey look! It's May and I'm actually posting! It's only been 4 months since my last post. Ah-maz-ing. Enough of your sarcasm, people. Read on for the story!

In our morning scripture study today, the boys and I were reading Alma 54 -- the correspondence between Ammoron and Moroni, negotiating the exchange of prisoners. We try to read every morning, and we take turns reading so that no one falls asleep.

It was the Middle Carrotsticks turn to read. He read along, in not quite monotone. The Youngest Carrotstick and I followed along (the Oldest Carrotstick was at school already -- enduring 4 weeks of 5:30 am drivers education -- and PB&J was off in southern lands). Eventually, the Middle got to verse 23. And he read:

" I am a Moron, and a descendant of Zoram, whom your fathers pressed and brought out of Jerusalem."

instead of "I am Ammoron, and a descendant of Zoram...."

And boy, how those boys laughed. Some things will never change -- little boys and their sense of humor being one of them.

a fairy tale

once upon a time, many many months ago, a little princess named Oldest Carrotstick (called Carrot for short) went on a journey with her sometimes wicked mother to a far off land called the District.

the journey to the District was a long and tiring one. it involved an early morning ride in a horseless carriage, flying through the clouds for many many hours, and then, before the journey was done there was a frantic sprint through a unfriendly and confusing train station, through which the poor princess had to drag her own bag -- heavily burdened with a weeks worth of outfits, accessories, and shoes.

finally, Carrot and her mother, the lowly Lunch Lady, were met by a beautiful Farm Girl. she smiled happily at them and embraced them and they were overjoyed (especially because the Farm Girl was with child and it was very exciting to see her little baby bump). without delay, Farm Girl whisked the two weary travelers out of the oppressive labyrinth, onto a speeding subway train, and finally to her awaiting carriage. shortly thereafter, the gentle and congenial Farm Girl delivered them to a calm, clean, and quiet room on the 7th floor of the Marriott castle. it was a wonderful thing.

After a delightful dinner with the Farm Girl and he who is of Beaver Mountain fame, and a strange and disappointing cupcake by the name of "Peanut Butter Bacon", Carrot and the Lunch Lady retired to their rooms, to rest their weary heads.

Alas, all was not well for our dear young heroine. The Oldest Carrotstick declined her mothers generous offer to share her lovely king-sized bed with its down comforter and generous selection of pillows-- for which the Lunch Lady was deeply grateful -- choosing rather to sleep on the hide-a-bed. But how could our fair princess sleep when the bed had but one thin blanket and a mere two pillows!

Never fear, dear reader. For the OCS is a maiden of great courage and fortitude. She reached for the awaiting phone, and without further ado, she called the Housekeeping Staff and importuned,

"Um, hi. This is room 727. Can I get 5 more blankets and 7 more pillows?"

I kid you not.

And she slept happily ever after for the rest of her spring break trip.

cougar pride

Proud to be a Cougar because of brillant commercials like this:



The Middle Carrotstick pretty much has this memorized. I suggested he could be the Old Spice guy wearing the towel for Halloween, but he's not going for it. "Look at your costume, look at mine ...."

what? you're still here?

Good old blog. Neglected soooo very long and still hanging around, wishing I'd give it a little attention. Blogs are nice that way. Very loyal. Like PB&J's crazy dog.

Here's a little awesomeness I saw floating around the blogosphere.

Thought I'd share it with you.

Seriously, it is awesome.

Take some time to watch it.

Now, sit.

Press play.

Good blog reader, good blog reader.

And no, I won't give you a treat, because this video is treat enough. You will be happier after you watch it. Happier and possibly slightly jealous. I know I am.




Enjoy!

(and yes, I've been told I'm bossy once or twice. but that's it.)

just so you know

Netanyahu is pretty much my favorite name ever.

Just say it to yourself over and over: Net - an - ya -hu.

See? It's fun!

And today is the last day of school.

Fun for kids. Sad for me. 'Specially since it means my daughter is no longer in Junior High.

I am really REALLY sad about that.

I have to admit I have driven by the High School more than once and felt overwhelmingly depressed by it.

If you see me wandering the streets muttering "Netanyahu" over and over you'll know why. I'm just trying to find my happy place.

what's the count, blue?

For those of you who had to endure the rigors of teen-age-hood-ness-dom/dumb without the aid of a cell phone and unlimited texting, let me just tell you: you missed out. Texting makes the teen experience a team sport.

For a teen, texting is an ADHD kids dream come true. you can have multiple meaningless conversations all at once. And you can get instant feedback on the dramas of your life from your 10 BFFs simultaneously.

Take for example the following "game" that occurred just this evening.

Let me set up the play for you.

In the texting line-up, Oldest Carrotstick is texting one friend from cheer, one BFF (thankfully a girl), one boy she flirted with last summer but in whom she currently has NO interest, and two boys she has met in the last two weeks with whom she is doing the preliminary do-i-want-to-like-you? get-to-know-you's.

Suddenly, out of the blue, boy #4 "Jack" texts her. Up until Saturday, Jack was the top contender in the possible love interest competition, but then Jack dropped the ball -- by letting approximately 45 minutes to 2 hours pass in between several texting exchanges Saturday night. Which is unforgiveable since he is a really good baseball player -- in real life. Error. He then had the audacity to not initiate any texting conversations at all on Sunday. Strike 1. Or Monday. Strike 2.

Finally, at 8:30 Tuesday night, Jack checks in, knowing full well that the Oldest Carrotstick's evil and over-protective mother turns off her texting at precisely 9:00 on weekdays and 10:00 on weekends. A move OCS found to be cowardly. It's like jumping out of the box cuz your afraid the pitcher is going to hit you. Strike 3.

The bases were loaded, but he struck out. Hence the following conversation occurred between the hitter -- Jack, the pitcher -- OCS, and the ump -- OCS's BFF:


8:30 Jack: Hey! :)

8:32 OCS to Jack: oh hi. whats up (note the absence of exclamation points & emoticons. very telling.)

8:32 OCS to BFF: JACK JUST TEXTED ME!

8:32 BFF: what did that kid say?

8:32 OCS to BFF: FW: Hey! :)

8:32 BFF: wow. seriously? who does he think he is?

8:32 OCS to BFF: I know right?

8:33 Jack: (blissfully unware that the ump -- BFF -- has just called Game Over) just sittin here

8:36 OCS to Jack: O cool

I guess the same advice applies to teens as it does to kids up to bat -- keep your eye on the ball, wait for the good ones, and make it be there.




(Yes this post is very confused. I'm not sure where I am going with it. Obviously. Maybe I'll rewrite it later this afternoon. Sorry. But, in other matters of important business, I will soon be posting on my recent trips to DC and Chicago. I know you are dying to see all my vacation pictures, so check back soon!)

these shoes weren't made for walking

the Oldest Carrotsick and I are visiting my sister in DC for spring break. this is a picture of our feet on the Mall. one of us made poor shoe choices for this trip. can you guess who? also one of us is sorely disappointed there are no stores on the mall. ;)

why the number 7 is dead to me

Recently, the Youngest Carrotstick's baseball team was charged with the arduous task of choosing their "number". The number 5 seemed to be a favorite.

As did the number 23.

Number 3 was a close third.

The Youngest Carrotstick got lucky and got 3.

But there was quite a lot of debate about what the cool numbers were and why this number was better than another. Number 5 was a family tradition in several families. Do you know why 23 is so hot?

Here's a hint, in case you, like me, are sports challenged:

I, myself, like odd numbers. Especially prime numbers. 'Cause I'm a nerd like that, I guess. Except that now the number 7 is dead to me.

Why? you ask.

Because.

Within 7 months -- from March to October -- my life will be completely changed.

No. I am not two months pregnant. But thanks for wondering.

It began in March with this:

(These are the baptism pictures that my sister asked for. You can skip them if you want. I know you needed my permission to do so, and now you have it. Skip away, guilt free.)

I was just informed that my 20 year High School reunion is scheduled to take place in July. Don't worry, I'm not going.

And then goes on to the advent of High School for the Oldest Carrotstick.

And ends with the Middle Carrotstick receiving the Priesthood.

I'm sorry.

I can't talk about this anymore.

Curse you, number 7.

I remember when 7 was a good number -- it comes before 8, and 8 is when you get baptized. Now it is just making me feel old. It might as well be 97.

50 randumb things

1. By 9:21 this morning I had already been to Wallies and returned home.

2. I went to go pick up the just-released final book in a series that the Oldest Carrotstick and the Middle Carrotstick have been reading.

3. I may or may not have also read it.

4. I may or may not have picked it up early this morning so that I could spend the whole day with the book to myself and finish it FIRST.

5. But that wouldn't be very responsible. And I am all about being responsible.

6. Which is why, though I wore the Oldest Carrotsticks very expensive jeans to Wallies, I will take them off before she gets home.

7. Because I didn't ask first.

8. I thought about texting her at school and asking.

9. But then I rationalized not asking by pointing out to myself that she took the jeans off, dropped them on the floor in my bathroom, and left them there 18 hours ago.

10. So she doesn't really care about responsibility.

11. Yet.

12. Hopefully someday she will be responsible like me.

13. And do really worthwhile things.

14. Like blog.

15. And spend a whole day reading books and not cleaning the house.

16. The point of the jeans, though, is I wore them not just because they were there and very handy, but because I thought that maybe if I wore them to Wallies at 9 o'clock in the A.M. that I would, in fact, feel Sassy.

17. A friend of ours, whenever you ask him how he's doing, always responds "Fat and Sassy."

18. I like it.

19. At least the Sassy part.

20. Nobody likes to feel fat.

21. Except at Thanksgiving.

22. And then it's only good if it's a temporary thing.

23. Just like Peeps should only be a temporary thing.

24. Only at Easter.

25. Not any of those other holidays.

26. And certainly not in Flavors.

27. Ewww.

28. And can anyone tell me why, for the exact same price, you get only 10 Chick Peeps but 12 Bunny Peeps?

29. It makes it not very fiscally responsible to buy the Chicks.

30. Even though they are better.

31. And you know I'm all about being responsible.

32. Which is why I am having guilt about wanting to read this book all day today.

33. Instead of going to get the oil changed in my car.

34. But getting the oil changed in my car means sitting at the place and waiting.

35. And the place stinks because they also sell tires.

36. I really hate that smell.

37. At least I'm not as weird about smells as the Oldest Carrotstick.

38. The other day she made a disconcerting realization.

39. She really likes the way a friend of hers smells.

40. (The friend is a boy.)

41. And a couple of weeks ago, she found herself sitting in between PB&J and her friend's dad at a BYU basketball game.

42. After the game, she reported to me that her friend and his dad smell the same.

43. It was slightly demoralizing for her.

44. Sometimes you just can't trust smells.

45. They might just come from deodorant.

46. Which is really just covering up stink.

47. But thank goodness for deodorant.

48. Although I love Jane Austen, I always wonder what things smelled like in her era.

49. They probably stunk.

50. Just like this post.

(Do you want me to try for 100? What do you think?)

hair apparent

My sister-in-law just posted this picture of my niece on her blog.

And here is a picture of my daughter from this summer (she won the big hair contest at girls camp):

The family resemblance is striking -- and a little unexpected -- is it not?