Double It, Baby.

We were sitting at dinner last night, and as usual, I was only half listening to my kids. Kate was trying to tell me something. I was like, "Mmm Hmmm, that's nice." But Kate insisted on my full attention. So, I looked up at her.

She was licking her arm pit.

Kate: Mom, did you know that the average person can lick their arm pit?

Thanks, Kate. Of course, the rest of us tried. And, she was right! I guess we're all average. We can lick our arm pits.

Something must have happened with my flux capacitor hormone levels while I was sleeping the other night. It's pretty much a common occurrence lately. One day I'll be manic and energetic, the next day I'll be beat and grouchy, the next night I won't be able to sleep. And the cycle continues. It's crazy train, I tell you. Anyway, yesterday was one of those 'bee in the bonnet' kind of days, because when I walked out into the garage I said, "Yep. Today is the day. I'm going to make our garage into a two car garage."


Mr. Pessimister has always been saying, "We don't need to park two cars in there. It's fine with one." I think that's just code for, "I really don't want to be moving stuff around. It's good enough as it is. Plus, there's plenty of room to work." Which by work, that's also code for, "I can make a mess and not really clean it up and leave stain rags and brushes everywhere and leave the lid off the can of paint thinner. There is plenty of room for that." Yeah, that's what I found, and cleaned up, as I thrashed my craziness around the garage.

I tried. I really did. But in the end, if I want two cars in there, we can't open the freezer door while the van is in the garage, and we have to "Dukes of Hazard" it in and out of the windows.

But, if I move the freezer to the front of the garage, and hang the roof rack and some bikes from the ceiling, I should be able to make it work. . . .

That's when Neal rolled his eyes.
We went to Girls Camp on Friday night. All the Bishop's and their wives were invited to eat dinner with the girls and participate in the program. It was great. I love girls camp. Our Stake really does a great job with the organizing and planning. And, they have the best cooks ever! Seriously, gourmet food. And lots of it.

Dad Dad Daddy-o

I was taking a walk the other day, and I seemed to have fallen off the face of the earth. I'll try not to let that happen again. I mean to blog, and tell myself, "today's the day!" But then I take a nap instead.

Happy Father's Day Dad! His birthday is also coming up on Tuesday, so Happy Birthday, too! I really missed out being at the parents house today. Everyone was there, but us of course. They were partying. We were here in Oregon, being depressed (thank you, weather), and making the girls finish cleaning up all their crap in their room. Which is also depressing. Lots of growls today.

"Have you been injured in a car accident?"

Happy Father's Day to this guy, too! He is going to freaking KILL me for finding and using this nerdy picture. But, you see, I'm on his computer, and I stumbled upon this picture, and who could resist? Not me, of course. It's his fault for leaving his computer on as he rushed out the door tonight for a Bishop emergency.

As I sat here alone, I thought, "I should probably update my blog, since my sister is threatening me with violence if I don't." The poor guy has been gone most of the day doing Bishop stuff. It's 10:30 on a Saturday night, and I'm pretty sure he won't be rolling in here till past midnight. As he walked out the door, he told me he has learned two lessons this weekend: 1. never stay up late, because you never know how long the next day is going to be (he stayed up way too late Friday night), and 2. always shave the pokies on Saturday.

Yesterday I was at the Costco (how many of my blog entries have that phrase? Probably about a hundred), waiting in line to buy us some hot diggity dogs. It was busy, and the workers were rushing about in their hair nets and beard nets, getting the customers their calories. When a customer would order pepperoni pizza, the cashier would yell to the lady with the thick eyeliner, "one pep!" It reminded me how much I dislike shortening the names of things. It bugged me. If I worked at the Costco food counter, first of all, I would know more of Bernard's back story, but secondly, I would not say "one pep!" I would say, "one pepperoni!"

I don't know what it is about shortening names and every day objects, but it makes me feel like a dork. I call people by their names they go by and don't take the liberty to shorten them, unless that's what they call themselves. Like when casual acquaintances call me "Nat." It bugs me. And if they call me "Natie," I'm really bugged. I call myself Natalie. My family, friends, and husband call me "Nat" and "Natie." And my cousins call me "Natie," which I love, by the way. It's endearing and reminds me that I love my family, because they address me with familiarity.

I hear that the Aussies shorten every single word that can be shortened. I don't know if I would blend in well in Australia.

Enough of that.

A couple of weeks ago, I was at McDonald's with a friend and our kids. As we sat in the play area, eating our food, Abby had an accident. A giant, puddle of an accident all over the hard, plastic bench. Uh oh. I didn't pack any extra undies or pants. And, the bathroom was in the opposite end of the entire building, and if I attempted to have her walk or carried her to the restroom, we would leave a pee trail through the entire store (for some reason, I'm pretty sure that's happened in a McDonald's before). Lucky for me, my friend had a change of kid clothes in her car. They were boy undies and pants, but they would work.

So, there I sat, in the play land, mopping up a flood of urine off of the bench with a load of napkins. I was trying to do all this very stealthily, by the way, since there were people eating around us. I got Abby's soakers off, all twisted and rolled up, and shoved them in the Happy Meal box. At this point, Abby's bare butt was sitting on the bench, and I struggled to get her into dry clothes without having her stand up to show the world her embarrassment (actually, more of my embarrassment).

When all was said and done and laughed about, I decided to have some fun with the Happy Meal surprise. I took the box home and set it in the kitchen for when Kate came home from school. Yes, I'm sick, so judge me. Sure enough, Kate walks in the house, with a friend, and says, "Oooooo! McDonalds!" and heads over to the box. She opened it up, pulled out the mess and said, "What's thi. . . . . . . Awwwww, SICK MOM!"

Good one.

When I told Neal about Abby's accident, he rolled his eyes and said, "And that is why I hate McDonald's." But it won't stop me from going. As long as they serve $1 drinks and fruit and yogurt parfait's, I will be there. Faithfully and forever. Maybe I should add them to my Christmas card list. . .

Boys Love Pie. So Do I.

All my girls have loved to get into my make-up. Hopefully, the boy that's in my belly won't love playing in my make-up.

Yep, that's right! We're having a boy!

I'm so excited. The ultrasound picture that shows off his "area" is very obvious. My girls were grossed out. Kate asked me yesterday if she needed to repent after looking at the picture of her little brother's weenie. After I laughed, another discussion on "pornography" was hatched.


Whenever I open my make-up bag (yes, the same free Clinique make-up bag I got 15 years ago for spending more than $15 at the ZCMI Clinique counter), Abby comes running. No matter where she is in the house, she senses when I'm about to apply the face paint. Being the nice (or probably more accurately tired, lazy or, I-just-don't-care-anymore) mother that I am, I let her play with the various glosses and lipsticks I have on hand. Which is about 3. And no, I never use the red. Neal has a thing for bright red lip stick, and I kept telling him I look terrible in red lipstick and and it accentuates my already thin lips and clashes with my skin tone. But he kept begging. So I bought some, and he said, "Yeah, you were right. You don't look good in it." I think he was pretty disappointed I couldn't wear the red like he wanted me to. There's a part of every man that wants his wife to look like a hooker.

This is my bum. And those are kiss marks. They are about "Abby standard height." Don't ask me why she kisses my bum occasionally. She just does.

And. . . . . the clean up.

Speaking of Abby (as always), she's potty trained! Finally, I have a child who is trained before their 3rd birthday. Don't judge me. And don't tell me about your children who potty trained themselves at 18 months. I won't believe you and I'll judge you to be a liar.

I bought her a new pack of "underwear Tangled!" at Target today. I ripped them open, dumped them in the washing machine, and realized they are a drowning size 6. Piece of Crap. I need to go buy a new pack at Target.

Yesterday, I made a raspberry rhubarb pie for my poor, fasting husband who was at the church all day. I also made him a delicious rack of ribs, because I'm awesome (and, ribs are one of my favorite foods). And I still think he's a little sad I can't wear red lipstick. But let me tell you, I'm pretty sure any form of rhubarb pie is what is served for dessert in heaven. Seriously!

On Friday, I saw some rhubarb at the Winco. A 25+ year old memory came flooding back to me. My siblings and cousins Eden and Elaine, and I, were playing in my grandparents irrigation ditch (don't knock it till you try it). We found some rhubarb that was growing. I had never heard of it, but my grandma said that you eat it. We tried some with salt, but that stuff was nasty! So, we set up a card table out on Melbourne Street and tried to sell it. We didn't make any money.

A few years ago, I tasted my first rhubarb style pie at Willamette Valley Fruit Company (they make awesome frozen pies). And yesterday, I just made my own. Dang, I can make good pies. My grandma is probably so proud of me. I now call that pie the "Raspberry Rhubarb Ditch Pie." And I will be making many more this summer, I'm sure.

This is what you get from an angry 2 year old who needs her nails cut. Someone told me I had food on my lip. Nope. Just a scab. Grown-ups still get scabs too.

This picture really brings out some of my hot qualities. The crooked nose, and the lovely melasma I've developed on my upper lip since I had Kate. It rears its ugly head when I'm pregnant and when the sun shines. Lucky for me, the sun only shines about 10 days out of the year in Oregon. Unlucky for me, I'm pregnant. And, lucky for me, they make some pretty good over the counter skin lightening creams.

We affectionately call it my "freckle stache." I think it looks like a Dirty Sanchez (don't google it).