Monday, May 10, 2010
Smashly ( once again I would link to her, but I still haven't gotten that far on the computer yet) sent me a text and wants to petition me to blog again.
I see blogging like this ... You know how you drive around in your car and you think you're in your own personal little world? You can sing as loud as you want. Sometimes a little dance breaks out. And for some diggers, you think it's the perfect place to stick your finger in your nose up to the second knuckle and dig. While we are on this subject ... People can see you in your car. Which brings up a story. A friend of mine pulled out in front of a car in the neighborhood. She was busy chewing gum and thinking at the same time, so she wasn't thinking. The car had to slow down a little, not slam on the breaks, just move a foot slowing from one pedal to the other. This apparently is the worst thing that a person ever has to do, because this person was swearing and flipping off said friend. Here's the funny thing about this. All of said friends kids were in the car, and watched as a teacher from the local school was swearing and flipping their mom off because she had to slow down from 30 mph to 20 mph. I don't think this teacher would ever walk down the halls of the school with her middle finger up because a 5 year old turned into the hallway in front of her. But, somehow as soon as she got in her car, she didn't think anyone could see her and proceeded to be stupid. So.....
Well, when I was pregnant I was a digger. People irritated me and I would get on my computer and write, with no thought of who may get on the computer and bust me. Now that I have a little more control of my brain, it has crossed my mind that people can see me on my blog, just like they can see you in your car picking your nose (yeah I said you, don't act like you haven't done it). I have no problem posting for people who won't take offense, but you would be surprised who gets offended at what and why. People are seriously crazy, and sadly I know a lot of these people. I'm not sure that they have what it takes to read about themselves (even though I cleverly disguise names) on my blog.
So, the short answer, Smashly, is ... give me something to write about that won't offend anyone. I could write about your broken box springs and how they got broken. That may entertain a few people.
P.S. I made Maxton pose with his finger in his nose. He wasn't really about it. Even a 5 year old knows that they shouldn't stick their finger in their nose. Great picture though. Wow, I should go pro.
Friday, May 29, 2009
What? My canvas's are being held hostage? Fine I'm coming up with a story. I'm all about blackmail. I have a couple of really good delivery stories (that explains the picture of the baby) (I don't have a picture of my VAGINA or I maybe would have put that up)(How funny is the word VAGINA?)
On with the story... So a week before I had the baby I was in the Dr's office and the nurse wanted to know what I'm going to be doing for birth control. To me this is getting a little ahead of yourself... geez I haven't even had the baby. Give me a few minutes people. Anyway, I said I planned on having an ectomy. Not the appen kind, I already had that one. I don't want the tonsil one either because Blarin couldn't talk for a week, that wouldn't go over well with me. I want the hyster one. Why not? After you're done having babies the uterus is just about as useless as the appendix except the appendix doesn't act up every month. So, I'm thinking I should rip out the old uterus and get a nice nip and tuck on the ol' bladder. Maybe get Dr. 90210 to do a vaginoplasty. While I'm on that... why would they show a vaginoplasty on T.V. the whole entire thing is blurred out. It's just bad T.V. And all those Dr.s on Dr. 90210 are a little creepy... what Dr. says "let me make that look better?" How bad can a china look that you need to have plastic surgery on it? Who came up with this?
Back to the story at hand. I'm going to get some ritalin and then what will my stories be? (besides readable, or understandable) So, the nurse says well you can't take out your uterus after you have the baby... ummmmmm... I certainly can't take it out before? Funny. Remember the post that I said if you have to tell someone you're funny, then you aren't? Disregard that.
I have another really really funny story. But, sadly now that I'm not pregnant I'm feeling generous and don't want to rip on people publicly. If you're bored call Blarin.. I'm sure she will tell you the story. These things only happen to me. Here's a teaser... it involves boobs. Boobs are always funny.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Jimmy's in Texas for four whole days. Probably golfing, but pretending to be at a medical conference. That's the life. Except for golfing it lame, and Texas doesn't have any snow (not that we do either), and you have to sit in classes all day...
That means I get the bed all to my self. I sleep on about 6 inches of the bed. I know you are thinking that's not possible because I am at least 50 inches wide, but I am telling you the truth. I sleep on the very edge of the bed and I rarely move. So, why do I like the bed to myself? I have no idea. But, every time Jimmy leaves town, the first thing I think is --- yeah me, I get to sleep in my big fat bed all by myself.
This leads me to questions. I have worked hard so that all of my kids have their own space. Devon has a bedroom bigger than most master bedrooms, he has 6 or 7 cages with various creepys in them. He has two closets and a bigger king size bed than I do. The rest of the kids aren't far behind. So... the question is this--- why do I have to share my room and my bed? I'm the parent. I should have the biggest space of all, with all my stuff and my big bed. Why do I have to share a bed? Why do I have to share my bathroom? Why do I have to share my closet? ( I actually don't, but I have before.) Am I wrong in my thinking?
Don't get me wrong. I like Jimmy sometimes, but my bed just feels so much more free when I'm in it alone. What's a pretty girl to do? (I am the pretty girl by the way) Maybe I should look for a few sister wives. They can share their beds. I could be the oprah watching wife. You know, I could have a babysitting wife, a cooking wife, a cleaning wife and I could be the oprah watching, fun shopping (no grocery shopping), sleep in my own bed wife. At the end of the day I could catch all the wives up on the T.V. and the great sales at the local outlet mall and then I could go to my own room, with my own stuff, that no one else touches and I could go to sleep.
I feel like this is a strong plan. The problem with sister wives is the hair and the dresses though. Does any one have any ideas that will solve all my huge problems? Maybe I could say I had chemo and my hair was the only wig that they make? Or that allergies made me not be able to wear creepy dresses... although if you've seen my great nightgown it may nix that one. Hmmmm... These are some real questions I'm going to need to sleep on before I head to Colorado City.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
When Jimmy and I first got married I spent my days asking him what was wrong. If he came in quiet, I'd run and be all over him asking and asking what was wrong. He of course would say nothing was wrong... but I am persistent and I would keep asking and finally he would snap at me "now something's wrong, leave me alone."
So, 15 years later, I've gotten more clever. I ask one time what the problem is and then I leave it alone. Sometimes I'm sure there's a problem and sometimes I just want there to be a problem. Most of the time I hear later that work sucked or someone was a bad driver (it's never Jimbo though).
Most of the time when I ask my short friend Keegan to clean a room and I have asked more than once, he will start crying and saying " why are you yelling at me?" For some reason this really sets me off. Because, I feel that I am the most patient, bestest, calmest, nicest mom ever. I don't beat anyone with belts, scream at them, throw their friends out. I am calm. Okay every once in a while, I yell, but not very often. After 15 years the yell is going out of me. So... when ever Keegan says that I'm yelling. I scream right next to him "I'M NOT YELLING". I understand that this is very mature of me. I feel like he should know the difference though. So, I feel very mature while I'm doing it.
So... to make the longest story ever short. Here's me being mature again... My dad called and wanted Jimbo to sign some Dr. stuff to release Grandma to drive. So, I says to the man "I don't know how much longer grandma should be driving."
the man: "I'm not taking away her drivers license she's fine"
mi: "have you seen her car lately? It looks like she was driving in downtown Baghdad. She has a huge dent in her bumper from last week... she has no idea how it happened."
the man: "I'm not taking her driver's license"
mi: "I didn't say you needed to today, I'm just saying she shouldn't be driving much longer, a 90 yr old man just killed someone because his family felt bad taking his license"
the man: "She's not 90"
mi: "okay a 75 yr old lady killed 5 people last year driving into a post office"
the man: "why are you yelling?"
okay here's the part where I stop for about 3 seconds and think "am I yelling?" Nope, I'm not...
mi: "THIS IS YELLING" (which by the way was at the top of my lungs) and then very calmly "that was yelling, this is not."
Then I promptly hung up on him. I'm not going to lie... it felt great to actually yell and even better to just hang up the phone. Does this mean I'm ultra hormonal or super right? Or should the man just learn what I learned 15 years ago... which is don't make someone mad when they aren't?
Monday, November 24, 2008
mi: Gram what are you doing?
Gram: I'm working so hard. I'm getting this dirt behind the house all flat.
mi: Why? You look trashed. You should go in the house.
Gram: Well, the dirt needs to be straight. That's how I like it. And I'm sweatin' like a colored boy at election.
mi: Gram, I think it's colored boy at a lynchin'.
Gram: No, that's not how it goes.
mi: Gram, why would a colored boy be sweating at an election? Is he afraid Abraham Lincoln might be elected? Don't you think it's more likely that a colored boy would be sweating at a lynchin'?
Gram: Well, I don't care, that's just how it's said.
mi: And by the way Gram, we don't really say colored boy anymore.
Gram: Okay, what do we say?
mi: Well, the p.c. people like to say African American... but I just say black.
Gram: Used to you couldn't say black.
mi: I think that was blackie... but black is fine.
Gram: Okay black then. I'm sweatin' like a black boy at election.
mi: No one's sweatin' anymore gram, Obama is President now. Time to come up with a new one.
A Conversation at the Pool
My convo with gram reminded me of the pool convo, which is almost as good. We were at our outdoor neighborhood pool a few years ago. No one was ever there because it was a retirement community and it's wrong for old people to swim. Their hair never recovers.
Anyway, this boy, maybe 7 or 8, comes in with his grandma.
boy to Devon: Are you Italian?
Devon: No, I'm African (because poor devon has no idea what he is, he's so not p.c.)
boy: Wow, do you get to see a lot of elephants and giraffes?
boy: Oh, I'm Italian. That's why I have brown skin too. (which by the way, wasn't even close to Devon's)
Friday, November 21, 2008
(I don't know how to find a picture of Celine, so you can look at Jimmy and Quincy)
My friend, Triss, bought Celine Dion tickets for our birthdays in August. The time finally came today.
I was not in the mood. I have to pee every 25 minutes, my tail bone is not happy, Jimmy has court side seats to the B.Y.U. basketball game (which I didn't want to go to either), Micah had basketball practice that I was supposed to carpool for, Devon was going to Salt Lake, and that Left Keegan babysitting the babies for 2 hours by himself.
So... it was not a good night for Celine. I drove up to Salt Lake with Triss' sister and we met Triss at Ikea to carpool. Traffic was a nightmare. What's new in Utah. They convince me that redwood rd is the way to go. (this story is turning into one long run on - is it every going to end - sentence.) Anyway, by the time we get to the Energy Solution Arena I have been in the car for 2 hours. Buggin. So, I pull into the parking lot right across the street, and there are a million parking places. I don't think anything about it. All the sudden Triss' sister says - "I heard the Celine Dion concert was canceled and was going to be on Sunday instead"
Are you serious? Did you want to mention this two hours ago? Really?
And listen to this part... when she heard that it was canceled, she got on the internet and tried to find out, and then she couldn't see anything, so she called the Energy Solution building, and couldn't find out.
Did you think to call your sister and see if she could figure it out? Is it possible that you are too old to figure out how to use a computer or the phone? (I say too old, but I really mean too dumb, but that sounds rude, so I'm sticking with too old.)
I had to take a shower. I had to put make-up on (which is way more fun now, because I got the vibrating mascara, it does two things at once... it lengthens and thickens) How lazy do you have to be to not want to even move your mascara brush? Apparently as lazy as me.
Anyway, Celine is now scheduled on February 22, 2009... Yep that's a Sunday... in Utah!
Has no one talked to Celine about this? Doesn't the whole world know about Utah? We would prefer to shut down on Sunday. Whatever... my problem is not actually Sunday, it's that I will be 15 months pregnant and not interested.
Now what am I going to do now that I'm a purtied up?
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
My sister, "Panda", had her most embarrassing moment in her 30 year life. So, I decided to record it. (Because, that's the kind of great sister that I am!)
A neighbor has been buggin' and buggin' Panda, and Randa (her husband) to sign up for pre-paid legal. (this is a different blog). Anyway, this lady has called and called. So, Randa caved and told her she could come and give the spill (is it really spill or schpeel?) So, Panda's house is torn up,(surprise), because she is remodeling the kitchen. The lady comes over and is sitting in the disaster, and it must be a disaster if Panda says it is.
Samoa, Panda's one year old, comes in and hands the lady something. She opens her hand and Samoa gives her a bloody pad. Yeah, that's right, you heard me - he hands her a bloody pad. Say it together ---GROSS--- So, Panda grabs the pad as quick as she can from the lady, and proceeds to turn 15 shades of red. Which I think is a totally legit thing to do, except for I wouldn't have grabbed the pad. I would have just turned 15 shades of red.
To the ladies credit, she does not start crying, and she doesn't puke, (which is what I would have done) she washes her hands and takes Randa's check for her pre-paid legal and leaves.
So, Panda goes to pick the girls up from gymnastics and is thinking the whole way over about how terrible this whole ordeal is. She can't figure out where Samoa got the pad. Because she hasn't used a pad for a week. She starts thinking and thinking and realized that the pad was nice and fresh blood.... once again-- GROSS. Then it comes to her. A couple of hours before, she had made hamburgers and the bloody pad was from the bottom of the hamburger meat.
So, Panda goes home and calls the lady and lets her know that it's not real blood, just cow blood. Which by the way is still --- GROSS. But, not as gross.