Why...

So, Candice, why do you read "A Christmas Carol" every single December? I mean, everyone knows the basic plot. It's been done to death in dozens of film and stage adaptations. What's so special about reading it? And again, WHY oh WHY would you want to read it year after year after year? Isn't once enough? 

First of all, have YOU ever read it? Have you ever experienced the masterful hand of Mr. Charles Dickens? Have you met any of his unforgettable characters? Have you personally experienced the way he weaves a masterpiece of a tapestry with his words in every single story?

It is almost impossible to describe the way that I feel when I read Dickens. It's as though I've been transported back to a different place and time. A place where even the most seemingly insignificant character at the beginning of the story becomes a key figure in the fate of the protagonist, having affected their life in any number of vital and irreversible ways. 

Not only is Dickens a great storyteller, he has a brilliant and subtle sense of humor. The very first few lines of the story illustrate his humor perfectly: 

"Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it. And Scrooge's name was good upon 'Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail.

Mind! I don't mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about a door-nail. I might have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade. But the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile; and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or the Country's done for. You will therefore permit me to repeat, emphatically, that Marley was as dead as a door-nail."

If you didn't at least smile while reading that, you have no sense of humor whatsoever. I'd be willing to bet that most of us have wondered the very same thing: "What, exactly, is so dead about a door-nail?" Very funny. 

Oh and please excuse me while I praise to the skies the way that Mr. Dickens works with language. He doesn't just describe a person's appearance in detail. He doesn't have to. Take our introduction to Ebeneezer Scrooge at the beginning of "A Christmas Carol": 

"Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Scrooge! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze his old features, nipped his pointed nose, shriveled his cheek, stiffened his gait; made his eyes red, his thin lips blue; and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice. A frosty rime was on his head, and on his eyebrows, and his wiry chin. He carried his own low temperature always about with him; he iced his office in the dog-days; and didn't thaw it one degree at Christmas.

External heat and cold had little influence on Scrooge. No warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty. Foul weather didn't know where to have him. The heaviest rain, and snow, and hail, and sleet, could boast of the advantage over him in only one respect. They often came down handsomely, and Scrooge never did."

In these two paragraphs, Dickens gives us just enough physical details about Scrooge's appearance to give the reader a good picture of what he might look like. But look at how much he adds in this description that goes well beyond physical appearance, yet brings so much more to our mental picture of the character! Dickens not only tells us what Scrooge looks like, he tells us who Scrooge is. It's brilliantly done, and it's just the way he wrote. He makes it look so effortless, and yet I'm sure that it wasn't. No one has that kind of respect for words anymore. Everything nowadays is all about efficiency. No one seems to care about writing or speaking in a way that is pleasing to the mind. And I won't lie, that makes me pretty sad. 

Another thing that I love about "A Christmas Carol" is probably the very reason that its story has endured for so long and shows no signs of going anywhere anytime soon. It's all about second chances. It's about taking a good, hard look at ourselves and the choices we've made and having the courage to make a real change. Scrooge was well known by the people in his life as a heartless old miser, someone that people avoided entirely if they could possibly help it. And then, one Christmas morning, Scrooge has become the most generous and kind-hearted man alive. How difficult must it have been for that character to make such a complete, sudden change--with no regard whatsoever for what other people might think about him. Second chances. It's something that all of humanity has had to ask for from someone at least once in their lives. And this is a story about the last man on earth who might have been considered deserving of the second chance that he gets, but he takes it and makes the very most of it. Isn't that a story we can all relate to? 

This story. This book. Every time I read it, I cannot describe the joy that fills my heart until I almost feel as though I can't handle it anymore. It is a story that speaks to my very soul, and it means a lot to me personally. The characters, the words, the joyous and painful moments that the reader experiences right along with Scrooge himself...it's almost as though I am going through the transformation process right along with him. That is why reading the story is such an important part of my year. It becomes a personal journey for me. It's my chance to be a little more introspective and decide to change the things in my life that might be holding me back. 

I hope that this little explanation has given you a good picture of why I am so looking forward to being done with my finals this semester. Not only because it means I can enjoy a few weeks off from classes and enjoy the holidays, but because I get to pull this wonderful book off the shelf and savor it for a few days. And once I read those last few lines of the story--as I do every year--I will close the book and hug it to my chest, heaving a deep, peaceful sigh and wiping the tears from my cheeks. 

Thank you, Mr. Dickens, for writing this story and sharing it with the world. Those of us who allow it into our hearts will always be glad and grateful that you did.

Yesterday's Adventures...

So yesterday morning, I must have had some sort of target on my back for all of life's little, but oh so exasperating inconveniences, because I certainly encountered each and every one of them.

First, I woke up later than I ought to have done. I got the chiddlers up and moving, and then I went to get myself ready. At this point, I looked at the clock, and things were looking pretty good timing-wise. I finished getting dressed, and that's where things went wrong.

The chiddlers both were taking their sweet time eating their breakfast, and it took a lot of motivation on my part to get them back on track. And then I started remembering all of the things I had to do before we left, and I had done none of them. Making CT's lunch, getting his homework signed, combing and styling AJ's hair and helping her get her boots and coat on, making myself some breakfast, certain papers that needed to be found and packed up...And there were probably more, but I can't remember them now.

Anyway, the point is that by the time we all finally got out the door, we were already running late. And, to add injury to insult, I smacked the side of my head on the frame of the van door as I was getting into the driver's seat. Hard. I may have used a few "holiday words" in response to the pain, but no one will ever be able to prove that...

Anyway, I got the chiddlers dropped off to their respective before-school sanctuaries and headed to my own class. While on the freeway, I heard a little nagging "ping" and looked down to see a red light on the dash, shaped like a thermometer in some liquid. Overheating, right? Well, I may have used a few more holiday words at that point, but again, no witnesses. Luckily I was within 5 minutes of the next exit, where I knew there was a Chevron station. I finally got pulled in there and popped the hood. My first instinct was to check the oil levels. It was a good thing, too, because it was bone dry. I ran inside and got 3 quarts of oil, and since I'd explained my predicament to the cashier there, he was kind enough to hand me one of those paper funnels. A good thing, too, because in my flustered state I would never have thought of such a thing and probably would have ended up pouring half the oil all over the engine.

Anyway, I got the oil tank filled up, turned on the engine, and the little red light was no longer lit up, so I hurried my little butt down the freeway and got to campus. Where I nearly ran over some poor pedestrian because I was fuming about my lousy morning. After that little adrenaline rush, I parked the car and finally rushed into my class. 10 minutes late. And crabby. Not to mention the fact that the TA who was lecturing didn't have enough material to fill the entire class time, so we got out early. Meaning that after everything I went through to get there, I wasn't even in class for a full hour before I had to turn around and head back home. Just as well, I suppose.

Anyway, as I started driving home, I was just heading up a hill when that friggin' red light pinged at me again. After cursing that stupid light and all the halflings, I turned around, back into town and pulled into another gas station. I checked the oil again, and it was still full. So that's when I considered the coolant levels. (Hey, I don't know a lot about cars, okay?) But I couldn't figure out how to check it. I saw that the canister was just transparent enough to see how full it was, but I couldn't be sure if what I was seeing was the coolant levels, or just dirt. Finally, I called Ty. After consulting with him for a few minutes he finally said: "I'll just come over there and see what's going on. Give me 20 minutes." (Luckily, his workplace is in the same area as where I was.) He came and determined that the coolant levels were indeed quite low, and we went inside and got some coolant and water to fix the problem. He then followed me home, just in case anything more sinister might be going on. Fortunately, there were no further issues, so we got home and went to lunch, since both the kids were in school at the time.

While at lunch, I found out that Ty had been having a pretty crappy day as well. So in calling him to come and rescue me and giving him the chance to leave work early, I had rescued him too. Yay Teamwork!

Anyway, yesterday wasn't as catastrophic as it could have been. Not by a long shot. But it was just filled with a whole lot of little, irritating, exasperating things happening in rapid succession that pretty much made it a really lousy day from the minute I decided to get out of bed.

Have you ever had one of those days?

Happy November!...

Ah! 'Tis the season. The season for wearing hoodies and drinking mugs of hot tea. Chilly, but not too cold. I know the calendar technically states that Fall officially began over a month ago, but we all know that the calendar is a big freaking liar. Now it really feels like Fall. My favorite season of the year. And it never lasts long enough for me. I've always agreed with this description of Utah's season changes: "Almost Winter, Winter, Hotter Than Hell, and Construction." One could easily get away with calling what we're currently going through the "Almost Winter" season, but I'm calling it Fall, dang it! FALL!

I've got my afternoon class today, and a few spare minutes right now, so I figured I'd stave off Bryan's hatred (he has recently made threats in that direction) and write a post. I know. I'm such a generous person.

So the other night my dear friend, Leesha, came over to hang out, watch movies, and eat junk food. In flipping through the movies that Netflix had to offer, we just happened across one called "Strictly Ballroom." This is a film that we both watched during our time in high school, and all we could really remember about it was that it was absolutely crazy, and that we found it to be hilarious at the time. So we watched it.

We laughed so hard the whole time. Not because of any particularly clever comedic writing. Not because of hilarious situations and characters, but because it was just. so. crazy!

The acting is over the top, the film in and of itself is so unbelievably campy and cheesy, but we just couldn't bring ourselves to turn it off. It was like a horrific car wreck. You want to look away, but you just can't! Anyway, Leesha and I were laughing and mocking the movie generously all the way through. But Ty--the innocent bystander--was forced to sit, horrified, through the entire thing. I think he's lost at least 90% of any respect he ever had for either of us. Sad, I know, but maybe I can earn it back with a long and intelligent speech about the historical significance of the wheel or something. Or maybe he'll just choose to pretend it never happened, and only betray his knowledge of the truth with the occasional sidelong glance and shake of the head.

AJ and CT had fun this Halloween. They each got plenty of candy for Mom to sneak out of their bags at night after they've gone to bed and she has to study for a test. I didn't dress up this year. I just didn't think about it until it was too late to really put anything together. So I went as a Mom, complete with jeans and hoodie.

Anyway, I feel good about November. It's a pretty good month, and I'm looking forward to the holiday season. I'm a bit nutty when it comes to decorating for Christmas, though. Not until after Thanksgiving. Period. Ty isn't a fan of this rule, but he goes along with it. Good man, he is. But maybe I'll let him put up Christmas a week earlier than usual this year, if only to make up for the whole "Strictly Ballroom" incident...

I Know it's Been Forever, Don't Hate Me!...

Okay, I normally don't write posts in the middle of the day, but I've got a few moments to spare right now, and I figured it would be a good time to catch you all up on what's been going on. So...here goes:

The Good:

1) I was asked to help some of my professors to help gather data for a study they're conducting, regarding children's speech and listening skills. My job? To go to elementary schools and gather language samples! I love working with these kids, and the Professor in charge gave me a huge compliment. At my most recent session, I was one of the first finished and I was gathering up my equipment. Dr. A. came up to talk to me and I said: "This is really fun. I love doing this!" And she said: "I'm glad. You're really good at it, and you've got a great way with these kids." Needless to say, I was rather thrilled by that.

2) I took my first exam in Hearing Science--the class I've been most worried about since before the semester began. I managed to scrape through with an A. Woot! Still alive! Now I just have to get through the rest of the semester!

3) CT and AJ are doing quite well in school thus far. They love their teachers and classes, which is always a relief. Having had to deal with (and drastically remedy) a major problem with one of CT's teachers in the past, I am relieved that all is well right now. I just hope we can all work together to keep it that way!

4) Ty was made the "Manager of the Quarter" at work! He's so fantastic, and never fails to amaze people with his crazy awesome work ethic and ability to lead and learn from others. He's the bomb. Yep. I said it!

The Bad (or less good, anyway):

I dropped my phone last week. I've dropped it many times over the past 2 years, with no major consequences, but this time...it hit at just the wrong angle and the screen cracked. Not the outer glass screen, the other one. The one that makes it so my touch screen phone is completely useless. I could get calls and messages, but I couldn't look at or answer them. It was very sad. My poor phone!

I had to go to my Mom and borrow her phone so I could call Ty at work and let him know why I couldn't answer any calls should he try to call me. When I told my parents (independently) about the misfortune of my phone, they each held up their phone and said: "You need to get you one of these!" (showing me the protective cases they used on their devices.) In both instances, I thought: "Yeah, hindsight is 20/20, but a fat lot of good a protective case will do for a phone that's already broken beyond repair!" Sigh. Parents, amirite? Don't get me wrong, my parents are awesome and I love them to pieces, but they do have their moments when I just have to look at them and think: "Really?" This was one of them.

Needless to say, I had to go and get a new phone.

Good that was a result of The Bad:

My new phone is awesome. I finally buckled to my innermost desires and got an iPhone. Not the brand spanking new iPhone 6, just the good old iPhone 5s. It's got pretty much the same innards as the 6, but it's a bit cheaper and I actually like the slightly smaller size. It's easier to hold on to!

And, I've officially learned my lesson. I made absolutely sure that I didn't walk out of that cell phone store with out also purchasing a protective case for my new phone!

Bonus: I can finally sync my iPad with my phone so I get all the same apps and stuff on both devices without having to pay for them twice! Huzzah!

Slightly Annoying: It's a rather complicated process to make my own ringtones for the iPhone, whereas with the Samsung S2 I could just go to my songs and set one as a ringtone. Hello, Apple! Wake up and smell the musky scent of "Your default ringtones all make me want to rip my own ears off so I don't have to listen to them!"

Starting tonight I get to start studying for my first Pediatric Speech Pathology exam. Super fun! Don't be too jealous!

Phew! We Made It! (And an Impromptu Rant)...

Well, the first week of school is officially over, and I'm still alive. Go me! My two classes this semester are pretty much guaranteed to keep me busy, but I think--with some extra work and effective studying techniques--that I'll be able to make it through. I know, you were all on the edge of your seats wondering about that, weren't you? Well, you can rest easy now.

Today, we refilled CT's Epi-Pen prescription. He has a deathly allergy to peanuts. It's really kind of terrifying. He's very careful about it, paranoid, really. But you always want to have that epinephrine shot on hand just in case of some accidental exposure. I especially want to always be sure that he has one at school. Well, that prescription has always been pretty freaking expensive, I won't lie about that. Especially since Epi-Pen are pretty much the only people that make this particular device. Well today we found out that the price has NEARLY DOUBLED IN THE LAST YEAR!!! I mean, COME ON EPI-PEN PEOPLE!!! Can't you give us poor saps who have to buy your product a damn break? Do you think this is an optional ailment that we're buying your product for? You think we just buy your stuff for the sheer enjoyment of stabbing a big needle into our son's leg? NO! We buy it because we would never in an eternity of moments even consider allowing our son to go out into the world unprotected against something that could kill him. In our poor son's case, it's peanuts. Do you have any idea how completely prevalent peanut butter is in the kid world? Or the adult world, for that matter.

Peanut butter cups, peanut butter sandwiches, peanut butter crackers, peanut butter cookies, ice cream sundaes with peanuts sprinkled on top...Every single one of these food items might as well have a big skull and crossbones stamped on them so far as our family is concerned. I can't even go to a public park with my kids without watching for potential assassin moms, offering my kids one of these seemingly innocuous treats.

My son came home from a friend's house once a few years ago with his eyes swollen shut, his face covered in hives because his friend's toddler sibling TOUCHED CT'S FACE WITH PEANUT BUTTER ON HIS HANDS. I once ate a peanut butter cup, thoughtlessly, and then kissed CT's forehead--and he broke out in hives just from the residual peanut butter on my lips. This isn't a joke. It's my child's life on the line here, and YOU, Epi-Pen people, are supposed to be helping me in this battle. Has your production process REALLY changed that much in the last year that your product is now this expensive? Well it's NOT okay. It's NOT, but you know that we have no choice, so more than likely you'll just keep jacking up the prices and we poor desperate saps will just keep buying it because it's the only option we have. Well SCREW YOU! I hope you can sleep at night!!! And I hope the monsters living under your beds will come out and scare the crap out of you every single night! Jerks.

The Story of Herman...

In my last post, I told you about my family vacation at the cottage in Wisconsin. I told you all about the peaceful atmosphere, the beautiful lake, and the Mosquito Death Squad. What I neglected to tell you about was Herman.

On the second night of our stay in the cottage, CT and Ty were out with Mickey. I figured they'd be back by 10 or so, so I just put AJ to bed and then decided to take advantage of the peace and quiet and lack of responsibilities to sit and read the book I'd brought with me: "Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children." (It's a pretty good book, in case you were wondering.) Now, as much as I enjoyed this book, it does have some rather dark and intense parts to it, and as the hours crept on and on, I started to get rather jumpy. 

I don't think it's ever been a secret around here that I'm a bit of a worrier. (And if you know me well, you will also know that that was a bit of an understatement.) So when the hour kept getting later and later with no sign of the boys returning, I started to freak out a bit. This real-life anxiety, coupled with the anxiety and intensity brought on by the book I was reading, made me a bit of a nervous wreck. And through all this anxiety, there was Herman.

You see, as I sat there on the bed in our room, reading, alone, I kept hearing some odd scratching sounds. I got up a few times to see if AJ was awake and wandering the house. She wasn't. So I got back on the bed and started reading again. And then there, again, was the scratching sound--growing louder and more pronounced. That's when I realized that the sound was coming from INSIDE the walls of my room. Oh yes, some poor critter must have crawled up inside those walls and gotten stuck. But from the sounds of it, the little guy was putting up a heck of a fight. 

Scritchitty, Scratchitty, Scramble, Thud...For hours. When I was already on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I kept imagining a huge, rabid badger or raccoon stuck inside those walls. I just knew that it was going to claw its way through and chew my face off. I just knew it! 

Finally, finally. At just after 1 am, the boys came back. Just as I was finishing my book. (Seriously, their timing could not have been better.) I got CT to bed, and Ty came into our room and started getting ready for bed himself. Then the scratching and thumping started up again, and Ty heard it. "Can you hear that?" I said: "Yes, it's been driving me crazy all night!" He said: "It's been in there all day long, too." I nodded, relieved to have another face in the room for the critter to chew off should it ever break free, "I think I'll call him Herman." 

And that became the critter's name for the rest of the week. As I lay there that night, in the dark, trying to go to sleep, Herman kept scratching and scrambling his way up through the walls of our room. Eventually, I heard him directly above where our bed was, so he made it into the attic somehow. And then, as the hours wore on, I heard his little clawed feet make their way across the ceiling and settle somewhere else in the house. Finally, I was able to go to sleep. 

The next day, we found out that Herman was a squirrel. And he was scrambling around inside the walls of the bathroom. I didn't mind too much. At least he wasn't keeping me awake anymore. Poor Herman. We're not entirely sure if he ever managed to escape from the walls/attic of the cottage. I hope he did. 

Also, as a consequence of that night, I finished--on the second night of our stay--the book that I had brought along to last me the whole week. Ha! So I went to a little bookstore and got a different book to read. It was okay, it was interesting enough that I wanted to finish it, but I don't think I'm interested in reading the entire series. (Which now, apparently, consists of 3 books.) 

Anyway, that's the story of Herman. Was it everything you hoped for? No? Well, at least I helped you kill a few minutes, right? 

I'm Back! In More Ways than One!...

Well, we have returned. Yes, on Sunday afternoon (yesterday) Ty, the chiddlers and I returned from a lovely vacation on a lake in Wisconsin. Why were we there, you ask? Well...because Ty's family has a nice little cottage there and they invited us to come and stay with them for a few days. Oh yes. Seven days of listening to the beautiful, haunting calls of the loons (the birds, not actual lunatics--I just wanted to be clear about that) and motoring all over the lake on a big boat, enjoying a culture that one can never experience anywhere else.

You see, this lake is surrounded by cabins and cottages and resorts. It is also surrounded by thick, beautiful trees, and is therefore very secluded and quiet. No cell phone reception. Nearly everyone that you might come across on the lake, in the bars/restaurants or stores, is on vacation. This creates a most wonderful, laid-back atmosphere. Everyone is in a good mood; relaxed, and very friendly.

Time itself passes differently there. It doesn't crawl along, nor does it seem to "fly by". It...meanders. The minutes, hours, and days are in no hurry at all. It's like being in a world outside of time. I'm not saying that in a sci-fi way, it's just the truth. No one really cares what time it is. Oh sure, they'll tell you if you ask, (and they happen to have access to a timepiece), but in the end it just doesn't matter all that much. It's so different, and I've gotta tell ya folks, it's pretty nice to spend time in a place like that, if only for a week at a time.

Ty and I have stayed at this cottage on several occasions, twice when we had no kids in tow, once with a (then) 4-year-old CT, and now with both CT and AJ. The chiddlers had a blast, mostly because Grandpa Mickey has absolutely no qualms about letting them get away with...well...anything, so long as it doesn't result in serious injury to themselves or those around them (minor injuries are fine). He let CT drive the boat many times and took him fishing just about every day. Mickey and Allie spoiled us all to death and now I'm just trying to wrap my mind around the fact that I will have to start cooking  and doing dishes again. Oh well, all good things must come to an end eventually, right? (Feel free to disagree with me at any time here. I'm still looking for a house elf, or perhaps just a kindly housekeeper who's looking for some fun times doing all of my housework for free.)

However, for all its merits, this vacation did have a very, VERY unpleasant down side. Allow me to illuminate with the actual story of our arrival at the cottage.

Mickey had picked us up at the airport and driven us the 2.5-3 hours (I fell asleep, so I'm not sure exactly how long it was) to the cottage. As we were pulling into the gravel drive, Mickey pointed to the compartment in the passenger side door: "There's some bug spray if you want to use it."

I looked down and saw the can, but the way Mickey made the comment had absolutely no urgency to it--indeed it sounded like the world's most casual suggestion, as though he were merely offering bug spray just in case we felt like we wanted to enjoy the glorious aroma of DEET upon our arrival. I took the can and sprayed a bit of the stuff on my legs, but figured that was all I'd really need. And then we opened the car doors and stepped outside.

Instantly, we were set upon by the most violent, aggressive gang of mosquitoes we've ever encountered. I grabbed CT's arm and AJ's hand and told them to hurry down the path the house. I grabbed my own suitcase and rushed off--leaving Ty and Mickey to deal with most of the bags. As we stumbled through the woods that surround the cottage, the cloud of mosquitoes thickened, they were in my hair, flying at my face, my neck, I  could not believe how bad things were! I called to CT to run for it, and looked around for AJ. Ty had already picked her up and was running toward the house with her. Those evil little jerk-faced assassins (yes, I'm still talking about the mosquitoes here) followed us all down the path and into the house, leaving us breathless and swatting at each other's clothes and faces in a desperate attempt to kill the ones who had made it inside before we slammed the door.

And that was the way it was for the entire week. Every time we needed to get to the car to go somewhere, we had to run through that awful gauntlet of mosquitoes. They loved me, I have no idea why. Even when I was well-covered in bug repellent, I still got bitten! Stupid, crazy, bloodthirsty ninja bugs. Now we're all quite properly covered in bites, and have now only to resist scratching those red, itchy spots long enough to let them heal. Blech.

Anyway, I'm running on about 2 hours of sleep right now. I usually sleep quite well at the cottage, but not this year. It was the strangest thing. It took me a long time to fall asleep every single night, but even so I usually got a pretty decent night's rest. Last night though, I COULD. NOT. FALL. ASLEEP. No matter what I tried. It was maddening! In the end, I looked out the windows, listened to the birds singing as they woke up, and saw the sun coming up over the lake. I just decided: "You know what? Screw this. I'll just stay awake and sleep when I go home." And that's when I finally dozed off for a couple of hours. Ironic, yes?

I've actually felt pretty good all day long, despite the lack of sleep. It's just within the last hour or so that I seem to have "hit the wall", as they say. Now I'm quite exhausted, and hope to be in bed within half an hour. I'd have gone to bed sooner, but I have to get some laundry done. Another difficulty that vacations can present to the vacationer is the fact that we come home and have absolutely NO clean clothes. Anyway, I've got a load of clothes in the washer right now, and once those are in the dryer I shall happily trip up the stairs off to bed. (And by that, of course, I mean I will pretty much be crawling up those stairs and I'll be lucky to remember to turn the lights off before conking out on my pillow.)

Good night!

Whoops! I Guess it's Been a While...

Geez! Is it really halfway through the month of June ALREADY? This means that our family is pretty much right in the middle of what we like to call "Birthday Season."

Seriously, it seems like every other week we're celebrating at least one birthday, usually more. This week, for instance, is my husband's birthday AND mine. Also his brother. My brother's birthday was last week, as well as that of my mother-in-law. The week before that (end of last month) was my sister's birthday, AND my little niece's birthday! And it just keeps going! (There are several others that I just can't remember right now, but trust me, they're there!) June is apparently a VERY popular month in which to be born. It's nuts! It is also awesome, mainly because I have a very serious weakness for cake.

I really have no excuses for my extended absence. I guess I've just been getting into the swing of this whole summertime thing. It didn't always take so much adjustment time, but now that I've got kids, I have to make some major changes in my daily mindset. It's not a bad thing, it's just different.

Instead of getting up and having 15 different things to do just to get my son out the door to school, now I just have to get up and make sure that the kids get their breakfast, get dressed, and brush their teeth. Instead of worrying about making my son do his homework, I just need to make sure that he gets his room clean, and then ensure that he understands what is curfew is and that he gets home by that time. All the rules have changed.

For me, now I don't have to worry about classes, I'm spending more time doing the things that tend to get neglected during the school semester. I've started a crocheting project. I've also been playing my guitar a lot more often, and have learned a couple of new songs. I won't lie, it's been pretty nice, overall.

However, I have also noticed that my fuse has become shorter than it would normally be.

I'm not really sure why this is the case. I think it might have a lot to do with the fact that my kids have less things to keep them busy during the day, therefore they're spending more time together. This is not always a huge problem, as they typically get along pretty well, but once the fun of the moment is over, they start to get on each other's nerves, and need some space. However, they don't always realize that this is what they need, so they start sniping at each other, sometimes escalating to full-blown yelling before I catch on to what's happening and then I have to be the referee and separate them. This can get pretty frustrating when you're doing it 57 times a day. I'm pretty sure that such a routine would get on anyone's nerves eventually. It's enough to give someone a permanent eye twitch...

Tonight I got so fed up I sent them to their separate rooms until such time as I decided I was ready for them to come back downstairs. (I would have sent them out to play in the backyard, but it was raining...) I took two Tylenol--trying to get rid of a major headache--and made dinner. Once it was done and my headache was finally gone, I was calm enough to bring the chiddlers back downstairs. This didn't take much more than 40 minutes (possibly less, I wasn't really watching the clock), but it made a big difference. Sometimes Mommy needs some space too.

Ack! I'm dozing off. Apparently it's time to put away the laptop and go to bed. Sorry this post was so lame, I'll try to do better next time. :)

So...What Now?...

Well, for better or worse, I'm all done with classes for Spring semester. No school until August! Hooray! Also, Booo! I'm not entirely sure how I should keep my brain properly challenged for the next 4-ish months. No lectures, no studying for exams, no note-taking...what am I going to do with myself?

Eh. I'll figure it out. I usually do. I'm not too worried, to be honest. I've really enjoyed not having to go anywhere during the day. I've spent a lot of time snuggled up with my daughter, watching Tinkerbell. It's awesome.

So tonight, Ty took two Tylenol PM to help him sleep. (He's been on a weird work schedule lately). He got a little goofy as he became sleepier. When he's tired, his sentences become more disjointed, and his statements become increasingly hilarious and start making less and less sense.Tonight was no exception. We laughed a lot, and now he's asleep on the couch.

Tonight's goofiness reminded me of a night long ago--when Ty and I hadn't even been married for two years. At the time, we had just recently moved from an apartment into a nice little house. This move took away our at-home access to a washer/dryer set. We were living in a city that was about half an hour away from my parents' house, and we went there every Sunday night for dinner. During those evenings, we would use Mom's washer and dryer to do our laundry. Awesome, right? We get to enjoy Mom's home cooking and do our laundry for free.

Every week, once the laundry was all clean and dry, we would fold it as we socialized with my family and put it back into the baskets we'd brought it in.

Well...on one of these nights, Ty was having some major back or neck pain (maybe both, I forget...). It was really bad, and so Mom offered to let him take some muscle relaxants that she'd been taking for her back problems. He finally agreed, desperate for relief. He took the pills, fell asleep on Mom's couch while I finished up the laundry, and when he woke up, he was quite woozy and really, REALLY funny.

I drove us home, for obvious reasons. Ty had one of the laundry baskets at his feet. He pretty much kept up a constant stream of babbling as we drove the half hour back to our house. (I forget most of what he said, I just remember nodding along, and trying really hard not to laugh too loudly.) Then Ty reached down and picked up one of his socks. He put it over his hand and began using it as a sort of puppet.

He seemed to be trying to recite the "Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear..." rhyme, using the sock puppet, but his words kept getting all slurred together and tangled up. He invented his own rhyme: "Woozzy Woozzy was a really woolly woman." Then he laughed at his own joke, and talked alternately to me, and then to the sock--now dubbed "Woozzy"--all the way home.

I parked the car, took in the laundry (that wasn't busy being a puppet) into the house, and then escorted my husband into the house, took off his shoes and put him to bed.

The next morning, I got up and got ready for work. (Ty had the day off, thank goodness!) I kind of shook him awake, and kissed him goodbye. He mumbled a quick, "Love you, have a good day" and rolled over to go back to sleep. As I was driving to work, I got really light-headed and dizzy and my stomach kind of turned. I called in sick to work, and headed back home. When I got there, Ty was still sprawled across the bed. I crawled back into bed with him, and he woke up enough to grunt when I told him what I was doing there.

And then he said: "Oh, okay. Where's Woozzy?" I was a bit stunned for a second, and then I answered him: "He's over there in the laundry basket." Ty grunted again, and then went back to sleep.

I woke up about an hour later, feeling a bit better. Ty woke up a couple of hours after that, took a shower, and was pretty much back to normal. I told him about the adventures of the evening and morning, and he remembered very little of it. He didn't even remember the conversations we'd had that morning. In fact, when he saw me sitting on the couch, he asked: "What are you doing home? I thought you had work today." I reminded him of everything that had happened that morning, including his part in the conversation, and he was just drawing a blank on everything.

I only wish I'd had a video camera that night. Believe it or not, this was before the availability of cell phone video cameras, or cell phone cameras of any kind at all, now I think about it. (We had cell phones, though. Tiny little brick-like cell phones...but that's a whole other story...)

It's a shame, really. That whole episode would have been a real hit on YouTube.

My Greatest Accomplishment...

So, in my family it is a tradition for birthday cakes to be made from scratch. My mom has a ridiculously fantastic recipe for a double layer chocolate cake and a chocolate buttercream frosting. My sisters and I learned to make this cake as we grew up. It is a family classic, and it is always worth the effort. So much deliciousness.

Over the years, we have all pretty much mastered this recipe. Lots of birthdays. However, every once in a while there comes a moment when the person who has been selected to make the cake for someone's birthday does something...different. The most infamous of all of these mess-ups was the year--many years ago--when Dad made the cake for Mom's birthday. I was pretty young at the time, maybe 9 or 10, but we all still remember this cake like it happened yesterday. 

Dad baked the two cake layers, and took them out of the pans with no problems. Then he started to ice those cakes with the traditional chocolate buttercream frosting, and that's when it happened. The entire cake split right down the center--it was like "The Land Before Time". We could tell that Dad was a bit discouraged by these results, but he filled in the enormous cake canyon with more frosting, put a couple of candles on top, and presented it to Mom with his apologies. 

All of us kids were in shock. No one had ever before presented a double layer chocolate birthday cake that wasn't perfectly intact! It just wasn't done! So naturally our little juvenile brains fully expected this cake to taste sub-par, at best. And then the cake was finally cut, and we started to eat it.

And do you know what? 

It was the most delicious, succulent, moist and utterly wondrous cake any of us could remember eating. We're pretty sure that the moistness was the main reason for the cake's falling apart the way it did, and that the extra frosting that Dad used to try and fill in the gap only added to the deliciousness. This cake--now known in our family as "The Grand Canyon Cake"--is still the golden standard of birthday deliciousness. Oh sure, there have been many other cakes that have been very tasty and that haven't fallen apart, but somehow the Grand Canyon Cake still shines as a beacon of hope to all those who wish for Birthday perfection. 

There have been other mess-ups over the years as well. And they have all been delicious, and we'll all get a good laugh out of them. However, none of them could ever hold a candle to Dad's extraordinary feat.

And in all those years, I've never had an epic fail before. My cakes have always come out of the pans and stayed whole and never presented any real challenge for me, frosting-wise. I sometimes wondered just what I was missing out on. Well, this year, as I prepared the cake for my son's birthday celebration, I found out.

It was my first time cooking with my brand new cake pans and parchment paper. Trust me, it's not as easy as it sounds. At least...not for me it isn't. Anyway, when I pulled the cakes out of their pans, I also pulled off the parchment paper. I was a bit worried about the structural integrity of these cakes, as the parchment paper had been wrinkled around the edges and left ridges around the bottom and sides--they were like two giant, flat, cupcakes. I let them cool for a while, and then I made the frosting and pulled out the cake holder that I would be using. 

I started frosting the bottom layer, and it went quite well, boosting my confidence, and making me believe that I really had a chance to continue my streak of excellence. And then I placed the top layer, and things started to go a bit...crooked. I figured I could straighten it all out as I frosted the sides of the cake so I started frosting the top. One side went quite smoothly. No problems. And then I reached the other side, and that's when things started to go wrong. The edges of the cake started to crumble. I figured: "Oh, it's no big deal. I can just cover that up." 

Oh no I couldn't! 

I tried to smooth the frosting over the crumbly part, and then the cake started crumbling more and more and more and more. I stood there and watched, helplessly, as--eventually--half of the entire top layer of my son's birthday cake had disintegrated completely into a puddle of crumbs and frosting. As I watched this horror show unfolding, I felt so helpless and flustered and I really wasn't sure if I wanted to start crying or put my fist through what was left of that stupid cake. 

I am proud to say that I did neither. I thought of my family--and specifically my dad and his famed Grand Canyon Cake and I realized that here--here was my chance to finally reach that level of birthday infamy. I had some leftover frosting, and...AND...a brand-new package of Double Stuf Oreos. I had planned to use them as a sort of garnish on this cake, but they were about to become more. So much more. 

Oh, and that cake/frosting puddle I talked about? I took a freaking spatula and I scooped that delicious gunk into a bowl. I would take it to Mom's house with me, as a trophy--as proof that what had happened really was an accident, and not just me trying to out-do my Dad. Once I had everything put together, I put the lid over my creation, and presented it to my family. They were all highly impressed with what is now known as "The Avalanche Cake of 2014." 

And guess what! It was quite tasty, and everyone loved the Oreos. AND, that bowl full of disintegrated cake bits? My brother and my Mom ended up splitting it. It was the coveted treat of the evening. Oh yes, we take our birthday cake experiences very seriously in my family. If we're going to ingest those calories, they had better be worth it!

My big sister, "Josie", looked at the cake before it was served and said: "You know, I bet you could post a picture of that on Pinterest and people won't even think it's a mistake. They'll probably even try to duplicate it." We got a good laugh out of the sheer truth of that statement, but I decided to keep my triumph a secret--between me, my family and the blogosphere.

So it just goes to show: What seems at first to be a catastrophic failure can actually be one of your greatest triumphs with a little improvisation and a good sense of humor. There's your take-home message for the day. You're welcome.

Oh, and in case you don't believe me, I took pictures of this masterpiece. 

**Here's the cake, all patched up and looking disastrously fabulous (The coloring on the top of the cake is a bit off, because I had to remove my son's name from the picture, but all of the edges have not been touched up at all.)**

**And here is what Jim Gaffigan would call the "Loser Pile in a Sadness Bowl"**

Oh, and in case you were wondering what CT's reaction was to his mother's epic fail for his 9th Birthday cake: He just smiled and laughed along with everyone else. He didn't care at all about how is cake looked. He even tried to re-name it: "Oreo Falls". (Pretty darn clever, although the majority vote won out in this case.) He was such a good sport, and he just hugged me and thanked me and his only request was that when the cake was cut, he got the "C" from his name and at least one Oreo on his slice. He was such a grown up about it, I was so proud. (Don't even get me started on how quickly that kid has gone from my sweet little guy to my-sweet-little-guy-who's-really-not-so-little-anymore-but-I'm-still-in-denial-so-don't-burst-my-bubble.)

Well, Happy Birthday, CT. Your 9th birthday shall forever be immortalized as "The Year of the Avalanche Cake." You are officially a legend! 

One New Development and a Lovely Story for You to Enjoy...

No, this new development is not anything ground-breaking or even particularly upsetting. The new development is simply this: I'm taking down the comment moderation setting on my blog. It's a bit of a hassle, and I'd rather not deal with it anymore. So...Yay, Laziness! (I guess...)

Now for the story...

The other night, Friday, to be exact, the chiddlers were already in bed. Ty was doing something on his laptop, and we were watching a show on Netflix. (I think it was "Greek", but I wasn't really paying attention...) Anyhoo, I decided that I wanted to have a snack, and enjoy a lovely glass of milk along with it.

Once I'd finished the snack, I--being a good and responsible person--wanted to transport my small plate and my glass to the kitchen for cleaning. I stood up, walked across the room, and started climbing the stairs to get to the kitchen level. (We're in what's called a "California Split" style home, in case you wanted to picture this a little better.)

As I climbed up the stairs, my hands filled with dishes, I suddenly felt one of my big, fat, toes getting caught inside the hem of one of the over-sized pant legs of my sweats. As soon as I realized what had happened, I tried to disentangle myself, but it was too late. Far, far too late.

I fell. I fell hard. I'm not quite sure of exactly how it all happened, but I must have thrown my hands out to catch myself. Natural reaction, right? Well, unfortunately, as you might remember, my hands were rather full at the time. With GLASS.

The next thing I knew, there was a deafening crash as my glass and plate went smashing down onto the kitchen tile and I just knelt there, half on the stairs, my now empty hands laid flat on the tile. I was too stunned to move for a few seconds.

Ty, who had heard this catastrophe taking place, called out: "Are you okay?" I said: "Yeah, I think so" as I checked my hands for injuries. They seemed fine at first, I hadn't felt anything cutting through my skin, anyway. But then my right index finger suddenly seemed to bloom with bright red blood. It dripped onto the tile, and I couldn't even see the cut at all. I cupped my left hand underneath the oozing wound and ran up to our bathroom to wash it off and see if I could figure out how bad the damage really was. Running water over my finger, I could see that the cut--though deeper than your average paper cut--had not gone deep enough to require stitches (in my personal opinion, though I verified my theory with Ty before making a final decision, as I am not a doctor and figured a second opinion would be a good idea...)

I asked Ty to get me a towel or a washcloth or something that I could use to put pressure on the cut and try to stop the bleeding. He brought me one, and I just sat down and wrapped my finger with the towel, squeezing as hard as I dared and wincing every time my finger throbbed.

Since the door was open, I could hear clattering and scraping in the kitchen as Ty cleaned up all the broken glass shards and wiped up the blood. (Poor guy, it's a good thing he isn't squeamish about those things...) I continued to try and get the cut to stop bleeding, but every time I opened the towel to check on its progress, it just kept right on bleeding as badly as ever. As I sat there, wondering what I could possibly be doing wrong, something finally clunked into place.

I had kept both of my hands clasped tightly...in my lap. For a nasty bleeding wound, it's usually a good idea whenever possible to ELEVATE it. I would have kicked myself, but I think under the circumstances that would have been a bad idea. I would probably have fallen down again and ended up with a head wound and a concussion as well...

Within moments of elevating the injury and continuously applying pressure, my finger finally stopped bleeding. And just a few moments after that, Ty brought up some Neosporin and bandages and I was all patched up.

I learned some very important lessons that night.

Lesson One: If you have a pair of sweatpants whose hems you notoriously get your big toes stuck in as you walk up the stairs, either find a way to shorten them or give them away to an enemy.

Lesson Two: If you are going to try carrying dishes up and down the stairs, make sure they're made out of plastic.

Lesson Three: Elevate a bleeding wound.

Lesson Four: Always have a good husband on hand, who understands--and has long since accepted--your propensity for clumsiness, to bring you towels and bandages and clean up your glass-shardy, bloody mess.

Lesson Five: Always make sure that you have a fifth lesson in mind if you intend to start a list of lessons that contains more than four items.

Lesson Six: The "Oozing Wounds" would be a great name for a rock band.

Have a great day/week, everybody!

Please Excuse Me While I Freak Out for a Minute...

So...recently I've been feeling pretty discouraged. This is a rare thing for me, I must admit. Normally, I can look at a difficult situation and know without a doubt that things are going to get better. "It will all work out in the end." That is something that I firmly believe, and it has kept me from being buried by discouragement and depression on many occasions. I'm a positive person, but I also have a pretty realistic view of the world around me. I know that life isn't some perfectly rosy place, filled with rainbows, unicorns, and cotton candy clouds. I know this, but I have always been able to see beyond the difficulty or frustration of the moment, and understand that things will get better.

Oh sure, I have moments when I get overwhelmed, just like everyone. Those moments when everything just kind of comes crashing down on you and you break down for a few moments. But then those moments end and you can wipe away your tears and be just fine.

This is a different level of discouragement. I'm not depressed. I'm not feeling overwhelmed. This is more of a numbness, a coldness. One of those moments when I really wonder how I can possibly accomplish the task I have set for myself. This emptiness, the numbing cold, it all feels an awful lot like ...well...fear. Not the kind of fear that I feel when I see a huge, creepy spider crawling towards me, or anything like that.

This is the kind of fear that I felt when I found out I was going to be a mother for the first time. The kind of fear that I felt when I decided to get married. This fear is the kind that you feel in your gut, in your heart of hearts. No matter how happy and excited I was on those occasions, that fear was still there, lurking beneath the surface. It is the fear of the unknown. But beyond that, it is the fear of meeting the unknown, and finding yourself unequal to the task.

From the moment that I decided to go back to school and get a degree, I have been so excited, so happy. Jazzed, if you will. Education has always been so important to me, and getting a college degree is something that I want with all my heart. It was never about the "piece of paper" as so many people call it. It's not just having that diploma, it's the privilege of attaining a higher level of knowledge and learning. The opportunity to really use my intellect and challenge myself as a human being.

So when I started to go back to school, I was so excited I barely had room for any other emotions. Sure, I was a little nervous, but it was barely a blip on my emotional radar. I was enjoying the experience so much, but I was having some serious difficulty with choosing that ever-elusive major. I finally settled on one, but it still didn't feel quite right for me.

It took me nearly three years to find this specific program, and it seemed to happen entirely by chance. It took me almost another year to make my decision. When I finally decided to go for it, to become a Speech Language Pathologist, I knew that it was the right choice. It was where I was supposed to be, and what I was supposed to do. From the moment I started the program, it has been almost effortless for me. Every class, each subject seems to be second nature. I love it, I really do.

 But recently, despite the fact that I know that this path is the one for me, I can't help looking at the challenges ahead of me and shiver with real fear. For the first time since I decided to start this undergrad program and get a Master's degree, I am really wondering if I can handle the burden once it's been placed on my shoulders. Once I start this Master's degree program, it will be pretty much the same as having a full time job. Between classes and clinic hours, I will be spending the vast majority of my week on campus. That may not seem to be such a big deal, but as a mom, that means a lot of time spent away from my chiddlers.

And then Mom Guilt inevitably sets in. That very specific type of guilt that we mothers experience whenever we do anything for ourselves. For most of us, it's pretty irrational and we know it, because we know that if we were presented with the choice between our kids and anything else in the world we would choose our kids. Every time. Period. But we can't help but feel, even under normal circumstances, that if we're not setting aside everything that we want for the sake of our children, we are failing as parents. Most of us know that feeling that way is completely inaccurate and unfair to ourselves. Why can't we pursue our own dreams while simultaneously being awesome Moms and role models to our children? But no matter how much I tell myself that I have nothing to feel bad about, I still can't entirely escape from my own irrational self-imposed guilt.

So when I begin grad school, that Mom Guilt will more than likely become stronger, because my school work load is only going to intensify. It's going to be very hard work, and a lot of long days.

And that's only if I get into the grad program!

This professional field is still relatively small, but it's growing, and it's highly competitive. Fiercely competitive. Do I really even stand a chance? What if I don't even get into a grad program? What then? I can't just walk away, and I won't. But how many times will I have to apply before I'm accepted? And I  also plan to apply to programs outside of the state of Utah (mainly just to see what would happen). What if I do get accepted to one of those? Do I really want to relocate my family for two years? What about the year-long externship that I will be required to complete before I can get my license to practice in this field? Where will I go? What will my chosen specialty be? How can I do this and still be an attentive mother to my kids? How will they handle all of this? What about my husband? I can't just ask him to leave behind his job here in Utah. He says he can relocate with me, but honestly what will the job market be like in the place we end up, (whenever we end up there)?

I worry about a lot of things. Trust me, I have a black belt in worrying. I am the Jedi Master, (as I'm sure you can see here). But this is different. When I worry in general, I am worrying about things that might happen. It's really not rational, and I know that it isn't, but I keep worrying because of that tiny part of my brain that thinks if I stop worrying so much, the chance of these things actually happening will suddenly increase a hundredfold.

This feels like something beyond worry, because several of these things that I'm afraid of are things that are outside of my control, but will definitely come to pass, one way or the other. I can't look into the future here and see where my family and I are going to end up, because this is an absolute unknown. I can't draw from previous experience and look outside of the fear and know that everything will work out, because I have nothing to draw from!

So, although I still have about two years of undergrad classes to complete before any of this happens, I am still staring down at a deep, dark chasm of mystery. On the other side of that chasm, I see nothing but a dark, swirling mist of the unknown, and momentary glimpses of a teeny, tiny little ledge. I have to find a way to cross that deep chasm, and pass into the swirling mist on the other side--aiming for that barely visible little ledge. It's a real leap of faith, and I guess I'm having a really hard time preparing myself for the moment when I will just have to close my eyes and jump.

I think the real catalyst behind all of this fear is the fact that most of my fellow students that I've spent the last two years getting to know will be graduating at the end of this semester, and moving on to the grad programs of their choice. I won't lie, I'm feeling a little left behind, but I have chosen to take four years to complete this program instead of two years for the sake of my kids. I want them to both be in school full time before I begin my Master's degree to lessen the sting on those days when I'll be gone all day long. I don't blame anyone, I'm not angry. I'm doing what's best for me and my family. I just can't help but sit back and think about how strange my classes are going to feel when I'm surrounded by all new people this upcoming fall.

But I suppose that the fact that all of these people are moving on has also caught my attention, and made this whole thing very, very real for me. My future career path is no longer some ambiguous, abstract idea. It's real, it's concrete, and I have absolutely no idea of the exact path that I will end up following to get there.

I won't lie. I'm pretty scared.

Hey! Hey! Anyone There?...

Yes, it's been a while. Quite a while. Sorry about that. I got horribly, painfully ill for a couple of weeks, and then my daughter followed suit with an entirely different type of illness just as I was starting to study for the first exam in one of my classes. So...I have no excuses, really. My bad.

Anyhoo...I think I just might be one of those infuriating women who never knows what to say when she is (repeatedly) asked the question: "What do you want for Valentine's Day?" My mind just goes blank! I really can't think of anything at all!

But here's the good thing about me: I am NOT one of those women who says: "Oh, I really don't want anything. Don't worry about it..." And then she gets pissed off when her husband takes her at her word. I don't understand those women. I've never been the "mind game" type. I don't "test" my husband. I don't say one thing and mean something else entirely, and then get him in trouble when he fails to read my mind. (How dare he not be telepathic when I need him to be?!?) I don't know. I just don't get that way of thinking.

But now that I've gotten myself onto the subject of Valentine's Day, I feel that I should use this opportunity to talk about The Valentine's Day Chicken.

Oh yes, that's a real thing. In my family, anyway. I'll explain:

When I was growing up, Valentine's Day meant taking valentines to our friend's houses--leaving a treat on the doorstep, ringing the doorbell and then hiding until they opened the door, picked up the treat, and went back inside. In addition to this tradition, we would get "doorbell ditched" too. A nameless, mysterious being would always leave each child a card and a treat on the front doorstep.

But...one Valentine's Day, I don't even remember how old I was--probably in my teens or something, there was suddenly a name written on the tag that was affixed to the chocolates that were left at the door for us: "From, The Valentine's Day Chicken." I was a little surprised at first, and then I started laughing. My mom can be pretty random sometimes, but this was one of her classic moves. I didn't say anything at that moment, though, because my youngest brother and sister were still young enough to not know who was leaving the treats at the door.

From then on, every year, we got treats and a card from The Valentine's Day Chicken. Even now, that generous specimen of poultry is a treasured part of our year.

So, here's hoping your Valentine's Day will be fabulous. Filled with lots of chocolate, hugs and kisses, and great big chickens leaving stuff on your front doorstep! :)

My Son is Going Places...

So, the other night, as Ty and I were sitting in our recliners and winding down for the day, he tells me that as he was putting CT to bed, the boy started asking him questions. I was both amused and rather dumbfounded. Not so much by the number of questions my son was asking, but the KIND of questions he was asking. I keep forgetting how thorough he can be. I now present to you (and all the rest of the internet) a transcript of the conversation, as relayed to me by Ty:

CT: Dad? Do weddings cost money?

Ty: Yes.

CT: How much was Mommy?

Ty: I didn't pay for Mom, you don’t pay for your wife, you pay for the cake, the dress, the music, the dance hall…but you don’t pay for your wife.

CT: Was your wedding a lot of money?

Ty: Well, Mommy’s parents paid for our wedding.

CT: Oh really, why?

Ty: ‘Cause that’s the way it works. The wife’s parents pay for the wedding. So we’ll pay for AJ’s wedding, and whoever you marry, her parents will pay for your wedding.

CT: Oh really, why?

Ty: ‘Cause that’s just the way it works. The wife’s parents pay for the wedding. It’s tradition.

CT: Well, what if they don’t have that tradition?

Ty: It’s pretty much an all American thing.

CT: But what if I marry someone from Africa?

Ty: Then we’ll have to figure it out. Go to sleep.

Am I the only one that finds CT's ability to cover as many bases as possible in his questioning of a topic to be rather mind-boggling? He wants to make sure that every possible angle has been addressed before he moves on. This conversation could easily have gone on for at least another hour. Who knows how many other scenarios he could have come up with? 

Welcome to 2014, Everybody!...

Well, I didn't manage to write my 150th post before the end of the year, but I guess that's not such a big freaking deal. Christmas is over, New Year's is over, and I start a whole new semester tomorrow morning. Geez! This one really sneaked up on me. I didn't even get my usual Christmas Break Lord of the Rings Extended Edition Marathon. Not cool. But I'm looking forward to a new challenge. Keep moving forward, as they say.

For Christmas, I got one of the greatest gifts ever. A WHOLE TRUCKLOAD OF GIFT CARDS!!! A good sized chunk of them were for Macy's (I spent it on shoes, in case you were wondering), and even more of them were for Barnes and Noble. BARNES. AND. NOBLE!!! Needless to say, Ty and I took the chiddlers with us, let them play in the kiddie section, and I just went totally NUTS!!! Within 20 minutes I was walking around that store with my arms overflowing with books. I got a few sidelong glances from some of the pansies who didn't have over $300 in gift cards to spend as they dang well pleased, but I just adjusted my grip and continued my search. Eventually my arms started cramping up and I had to cave in and get one of the shopping baskets. Totally worth it. AND I still have $130 to spend on a future visit of epic binge book buying! WIN!

Oh, even better (I know, *Gasp!*) Ty got me something REALLY amazing. I can't even describe it in words. I can only tell you the story behind it, and then post a picture.

Okay, here's the story. I don't wear a lot of jewelry. I don't own a lot of jewelry. I own about 6 necklaces, approximately 3 of which I really wear on a regular basis. Two of those three are the Claddaugh. I love what the three elements involved in that symbol mean: Love, Loyalty, and Friendship. I've worn it for years, and about a year and a half ago, I added a Scottish symbol to the repertoire--the Luckenbooth. I came across it by chance, and it's just beautiful.

Having recently learned that I have ancestry from all four parts of the United Kingdom, I decided that I wanted to have pendants/symbols from each one. Claddaugh for Ireland, Luckenbooth for Scotland, the Dragon for Wales, and the Tudor Rose for England. The Tudor Rose has double meaning for me, because my own husband is a History Major (having just officially earned his degree in the subject), with a strong emphasis in British royal history. His fascination with this particular topic started with his own personal studies on Henry VIII. His father was Henry Tudor, who--after ending the War of the Roses and combining the rival houses of York (whose symbol was a white rose) and Lancaster (whose symbol was a red rose)--combined the two symbols to create the Tudor Rose.

Apparently, when I told Ty about my wish to complete my pendant collection, he searched high and low for a Tudor Rose pendant. All over the internet. Finally, he found an artist in London who makes BEAUTIFUL pieces. His name is Simon Harrison and his stuff is just incredible. Anyway, this is what Ty found for me, and I just about fell over when I opened the box.


Yep. He spoils me, doesn't he? Oh, he got a BIG hug and kiss from me. Oh, and a really nice computerized telescope. (He's wanted a nice telescope pretty much since the day I met him. I was SO excited to give it to him, and I was NOT disappointed in his reaction.) :)

New Year's was pretty tame, as usual. We took the chiddlers over to my parents' house, where I helped my mom and dad figure out how to set the ringtones on their new smartphones, and then we played games until midnight, drank sparkling apple cider, and took the kids home to bed. Yep. Livin' on the edge, Baby.

Anyway, I guess I've rambled enough for now. Have a great week, everybody! :)