Flashback Friday-What I Learned This Week

• If you pick up a M&M from the floor of your van, and find you also ingested a hair, you have no one to blame but yourself.

• Your husband will not understand when facebook-messaging your friends  makes you giggle.

• The law of averages as it applies to children and the park- the amount of time your child begs to go to the park will far outweigh the time they want to play there. 

• A splinter, even an eensy-weensy one, can cause an immense amount of pain. This is what I get for trying to do yard work. 

• I took Noah to McDonald's for lunch. It made me want to write a letter, this is what it would say,

Dear McDonald's,

Congratulations. Making the Happy Meal french fry teeny-tiny, and adding three slices of apple, totally balances out the nutritional value of the meal. 

Way to Go!

The teeny box is so cute, I wanted to hang
it from my rear-view mirror.

• Large, Elton-John-type glasses will help you read books to your little brother. (Also, being dressed in only underwear is a bonus.)

• Mother's Day flowers make me smile. All week long. 
  

One Word Wednesday- Lottery

The Powerball jackpot has reached $360 million.

Three. Hundred. Sixty.

Million.

I'm thinking that might be enough for me to live on. Comfortably.

I'm also thinking about what I could buy with that much money.

I'd like a new car. I know, I know, I just got one. And I love it, I do. But, even my new-to-me Sienna has a few drawbacks. Like the fact that three kids have to sit next to each other. This results in the whole- "He's touching me" issue. Forget that they will fall asleep on the same couch, arms and legs draped over faces- even the slightest graze of a finger in the van is horror.
I'm thinking something like this-

Then, the kids get, not their own seat, but their own row.

Of course, with that kind of money, we'd get a new house. Eight bedrooms would be nice. And a bathroom for each one. But, there's no way I'm cleaning that many bathrooms that are used by boys.   I'll have to have a maid, or two. One to do general cleaning, one who's job it is just to clean the toilets-- in, on and around. It may take most of the $360 million just to pay her. It'd totally be worth it.

I'm not sure what else I need. I could probably get some ideas from those who already have loads of money.

I heard once that Oprah gets a daily massage. Yep. That's on the list.

Celine Dion bought a $2,000,000 humidifier. If it made me sing like her, I'd get it.

Johnny Depp and Leonardo Dicaprio both own islands. I'm not sure I need an island. "But, you could walk around naked," you might argue. Yea, unless my money can also buy me a swimsuit model's body, I don't even want to do that on my own private island.

Donald Trump has a mobile champagne cooler. Seriously? I'd use mine for diet Coke, of course. Ice cold carbonation whenever I want? That's luxury.

Mariah Carey has over 1000 pairs of high heals. I have one. One pair. And, I can only wear them for the three hours I'm at church. I would, however, love 1000 pairs of socks. All the same color, so I never have to match them again.

I guess my needs are pretty basic. And, since Utah doesn't take part in the lottery, there's no chance I'll win. I'll keep my dreams of a spacious car and a maid in my head.  They're about as likely as me sounding like Celine.

What would you buy?

Manic Monday- My Dating Advice

The Handy Man took me out for dinner on Saturday. Cafe Rio- my favorite. We went a bit late, and I expected the line to be short. Ha. But, if you've ever had Cafe Rio, you'd know, it's worth the wait. (If you haven't had Cafe Rio, and they're in your city- What are you waiting for? I recommend the grilled chicken salad with the house dressing. I could drink the house dressing. But, I don't, because they have diet Coke.)

Anywho, we were standing in line right behind another couple. I nudged the Handy Man, "Married or dating?"
He squinted at them. "He's talking awfully loud."
I nodded, "I know. And look at her. Smiling VERY big and laughing at everything he says."
We agreed.
Dating.

After we got our food, we ended up at a table next to this couple. Because the gentleman was so loud, I was able, without much effort, to hear pretty much their entire conversation. I wanted very badly to walk over and give both of them some dating advice. But, because it would have horrified my husband, and because he was buying me dinner, I restrained myself.

Till now.

Now, I will give you my top five dating tips. As a woman who used to date, and one who managed to snag the most wonderful guy alive, I believe I'm qualified.

Jewels Dating Tips for the Young and Restless (or the not-so-young and desperate)-

1- Don't spend the entire evening talking about yourself. I know. You think you're wonderful. Maybe you're right. But, your date might be wonderful, too. Only, you'll never find out because she can't get a word in.
How do you know if you're talking about yourself too much? Here's a clue- if you're date is done with her dinner and your plate is still full- you're talking too much.  Or, if you notice her cheeks are sort of paralyzed in a smile and she can't seem to relax her face? Yep. You. Talk. Too. Much.
Hey, you're pretty lucky that this girl agreed to go out with you. She probably has some great qualities. So, shut up for a minute. Ask her about herself. Then, listen. Take mental notes. Nod your head. Smile.

2- Eat like a human. I'm not just talking about using a fork instead of your hands. I'm talking about not eating like a cow. Need it more clear? Close. Your. Mouth. No one wants to see what you're eating after it goes in your mouth. And, no one wants to hear you chew. If you think this doesn't matter, ask yourself- does he want to spend his life with me if he cringes every time I take a bite? Probably not.

3- Hygeine people. Shower before your date. Use deoderant. Brush your teeth. Got a big ole white zit on your face? Get rid of it. Clip your nails. Clean your nails. And, bring gum. (Also, perfume/cologne is a great idea, just don't go overboard. Ten sprays? Too much. Two, maybe three. After you put on your fragrance, walk past your roommate or mom, if she's gagging or passed out, you went overboard. Go shower and start again.)

4- I know we already addressed the talking thing, but this one needs its own number. Do not, under any circumstance, bring up your past girlfriend/boyfriend/spouse/crush.  Your current date doesn't want to hear about your 'really great girlfriend'. She doesn't want to know how heartbroken you were when she dumped you. Don't ever, ever, ever say the words, "Well, when my ex took me out we used to..." I will cut your tongue out of your mouth. No one wants to hear how much you miss your ex. They don't even want to know how lousy your ex might be. Don't bring it up. Maybe after a few dates, you can talk about your heartbreak, or your baggage. Maybe.

5- Be polite. Guys, open doors, pull out chairs. Try not to burp loudly (this goes for girls, too.) Say please and thank you. Don't be disgusting- no nose picking/spitting/ear cleaning/scratching. And, if you brought the gum I told you to bring, refer back to #2- chew it with your mouth closed.  When the date ends, thank your date. If he paid, thank him for that.

6- I know I said five, but I realized I missed one. Cell phones. Just one rule. Turn. It. Off. Don't text, make calls, or take them. Your date could end up as your mate, which means he's the most important person right now. Give him all of your attention. You can text your friends about it later.

That's it. I'm not giving you advice about kissing at the end of the date. For that, you're on your own.

**

When we finished our dinner on Saturday, I kissed the Handy Man and thanked him. For the dinner, and also, for marrying me and sticking with me so I don't ever have to go back to dating again.

P.S. If you're past the dating scene, you might want to check out my marital advice.

(I was not paid for my opinions of Cafe Rio. But, if they want to send me a free meal card, I won't complain.)

At Zion's National Park- one of my favorite dates.

My Mother's Face

"You're so much like your mother."
I am often told that. In looks, mannerism, even my laugh.  As a teenager, I didn't see it. Didn't want to. Mom was, well, mom.  I wanted to be me. Wanted to look like myself. I distinctly remember the first time I did see.

I'd just gotten a hair cut. Chopped it all off in a fit of anger after a break-up. I sat in my car and glanced in the mirror. My mother's face looked back at me.

My mom and me.

My mother's face. The first face that welcomed me into the world, and into each new day for years after.
Hers was usually the last face I saw before going to bed at night.
Hers was the one I missed when I fell off the swing at school, right into a mud puddle that covered my pants.
The one I called out for in the night after a bad dream.
Her kind eyes were the ones I longed to see when my heart broke for the first time. And the last.

Mom with one of my brothers. Marc?

My mother has a way of 'lighting up' whenever she sees her children. It's a welcome the pierces to my very soul. No matter what the world says or sees in me, she sees only the best, and it is reflected in the smile that is just for me.

Mother's Day 1975
L-R: Ellen, Heidi, Me
Seated- Mom holding Matt, Dad holding Marc

My mother cries easily. This, too, I have inherited from her. Tears mark her face for the sad and the joyful. Her heart is there, mirrored in her face. She is an open book. One that is filled with a love and commitment that has spanned a lifetime.  Her face may not be youthful, but the lines are evidence of the chapters of her life. Chapters that she has filled with beautiful memories and adoration for her family.

I am like my mother. It shows in my face.

My Style is a Nightmare

Occasionally, I have this dream. I'm on a stage, the curtains are down. I'm surrounded by other dancers, who are stretching, chatting and preparing themselves. I look down, I'm dressed like them. I'm one of them. And, I realize--

I don't know the choreography.

I can hear the audience on the other side of the curtain and I am freaking out. I'm so stressed, I can't even think about the fact that I am rocking this leotard. Dancers take their positions, music starts, and I am a deer in the headlights as the curtain rises.  If I started dancing, I'm sure I'd look like *Napoleon Dynamite.

I wake up.

Lucky for me, I never get to the part of the dream where everyone dances and I stand there like an idiot. If I had a therapist, I'm sure she would tell me this is a sign that I'm feeling unprepared for something in my life. Or that I really wish I could still rock a leotard.

I did not have this dream last night.

While I am performing tonight for the first time in over two decades, I'm not worried. I am prepared. I'm not dancing (which the audience will thank me for!). I'm reading a piece that I wrote. It's part of me. Though there is the chance that I will mess up a word, or that my voice will catch, I feel okay about the performance itself.

So, why the butterflies dive-bombing my gut?

I don't know what to wear.

I'm not kidding. I went through my entire closet yesterday (doesn't take long) and tried on pretty much everything. At one point, I ripped off a jacket and threw it on the floor (I may have stomped on it).  I finally found what I thought looked all right. I tossed the skirt in the wash, because it had a pen mark on it. (My skirts always have pen marks on them. The result of going to church with a 6 year-old who constantly climbs on your lap.) I went to bed feeling good that I'd made my choice.

Then I woke this morning with a rock in my stomach. I thought about the other women in the show--one is wearing a vintage Chanel dress (pretty sure Chanel never made anything my size), another has a polka-dot dress, add some in skinny jeans and I'm feeling exactly like my blog title- frumpy.

Deep breath.

These women are amazing, and I feel so privileged to be included in their group. They are not about their clothes, I know this. They have become my friends. They are beautiful, kind and so stinking smart! They won't care  what I wear. So, I shouldn't either.

Where are my moon boots?

*Just think of me while you watch--

(If you don't know, moon boots are the stylish footwear donned by Napoleon in most of the movie.)

Lessons Learned

My parents had 7 children. I'm number two. That means that I've never been the boss (that's Heidi) or the baby. Unless you count the 20 months before Ellen was born. Funny, I don't remember it. Yep, jipped out of that experience. (I have issues.)

(Me, Ellen & Heidi)

It was a different time and discipline was, of course, very different as well. My mom did have moments of genius, though. One of them was her way to get us to stop fighting. Three little girls, close in age? Oh, yeah, we fought. Slapping, hair-pulling, and, if I was involved- scratching. (What? I had freakishly long nails at a very early age.)

After a bought of slapping/pulling/scratching, my mom would separate the melee. Then, she would make us face each other.

"Now," she'd say, "if you want to fight, go ahead. Hit each other."

Blank stares.

"Do it. Hit. Each. Other."

At which point the two girls involved would dissolve in tears.
"We don't want to hit each other!"

"Why not? You did just a moment ago. Now, come on. Hit."

"NO!" More sobbing.

Genius.

Fast forward twenty-some years and I was a young mother myself.  My two oldest were probably 3 and 4 years old. Now, I figured that my amazing parenting skills and buckloads of patience would mean that my children would never fight. heh.  So, one day, after an unusually strong brawl, I separated my two children and made them face each other.

"You want to fight. Go ahead. Hit each other."

*******
Let's pause one moment. You see, I forgot one thing. My mom used this tactic on me and my sisters. Girls.  I don't remember her ever using it on my three brothers, for good reason.  I forgot that boys and girls are different. And, my two oldest are, you guessed it, boys.
*******

"Go on."

And they did. They hauled off and smacked each other. Tears and screaming ensued (some by me). I sent the boys to their room and sat in wonder at my kerfuffle. Where did I go wrong? How had my mother's example failed me so? The answer was really quite simple.

While we should learn from the past, some tactics are best left there.

Adam and Jacob on a non-fighting day.

Rejuvenation

Our minds are capable of much. Our spirits are valiant and strong. But, life has a way of wearing us down and sometimes, we simply need a tune-up.

 I spent most of last week away from my family. I left on Tuesday and didn't come home till Saturday. During those four days, I spent time with my new, fabulous friends, with my sisters, some time all alone, and two days surrounded by twenty thousand other women.

Want to know what heaven sounds like?
I think it sounds like 20,000 women singing together.

 All of it- amazing.

Years ago, this kind of week would have sent the Handy Man into a panic. Now, after all these years, he understands that sometimes I simply need a break. He knows that I will in fact miss him (and the kids), but I will not call every hour, or even every day. (I texted him daily, so he wasn't completely abandoned.) Most importantly, he knows I will come home a 'new woman'. I will be ready to face the daily task of caring for our children and our home and him.  In other words, the sacrifice is worth the reward.

After my day alone, I went to BYU Women's Conference. This is my fourth year attending, and it never disappoints.  This year, I went to classes about -getting through trials; being an example; being closer to heaven; strengthening the youth. Between the classes and the general sessions, I felt like the overriding theme was simply- HOPE.

And that's what I brought home with me.

Hope that I can be the mother I want to be.

Hope that I can be a better, more supportive wife.

Hope that I can live the gospel more completely.

Hope that I can achieve my dreams.


Here's some pictures from my week-

Me and the quiet house. 

My first taste of bread pudding.
Now, I'm addicted.

There aren't many men at women's conference.
(I thought it was sweet that he was holding his wife's bag.)

Most men's bathrooms were converted to 'women's'.
This one was not.

Did I mention my sister is a fabulous cook?
Quiche for breakfast. The diet Coke was my choice.

Girl Power!
{L-R: Paula (friend), Ellen (sister), Heidi (sister), me, Terah (sister-in-law)}