Friday, July 31, 2009
"I'm so addicted to all the things you do / When you're rollin' 'round with me in between the sheets"
Why not just whack me over the head with a two-by-four that says "I love you"?
What I'm Reading: The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. The narrator is Death. The location is Nazi Germany. I'm thinking... upper?
What I'm Writing: 23,512 words in WIP.
(I know it doesn't sound like enough of an increase from last time, especially since I went to a writing retreat in the interim, but I realized one of the scenes in my book had been doubled - copied and pasted instead of cut and pasted - and so when I deleted it... nevermind. Excuses are time-consuming to type, and not just a little boring. Sorry. Let's try it again.)
WIP: 23,512 words. I suck.
The Last Thing an Aspiring Benihana Chef Wants to See:
So, we're at Benihana yesterday for my nephew's birthday, and when the fry cook starts chucking shrimp tails, my little 2-year old nephew "A" starts crying.
We're all: "Don't be scared. The shrimp tails are harmless."
But he's still freaking out, pointing to his throat and sort of saying, "Peh... Peh..."
I'm thinking: Sheesh, this kid must hate shrimp as much as I do. So I say, "I know, little A. Pee-yuuuu."
Then my sister says: "Wait, where is that penny he was playing with?"
Nephew A points to his chest: "Peh-nee."
My sister starts freaking out, frantically searching for the penny, and so I offer her another penny, but that doesn't help.
I know what you're all thinking because I was thinking the same thing: "Why did he have to swallow it during the appetizer?"
My dad (a pediatrician) tells us to sit tight. "A" may or may not have to go to the hospital.
So our cook (a non-asian guy named Jeremy) gets a little flustered, because we're all staring at Nephew A, waiting to see if the penny suddenly bursts out of his chest or anything.
Jeremy (with a hesitant smile, and a crack in his voice): "Um... you wanna see an onion volcano?"
The poor guy looked like we had just chopped off his hands and demanded he juggle for us.
So we were overly encouraging. "C'mon, Jer, you can do it. Wow. A volcano made of onion rings. Oooooh. Aaaaah. Don't worry- he always swallows pennies. Show us that salt trick again. You know, the one where you salt the vegetables."
The sweat dripped off his forehead as he juggled knives. It was priceless. We took Nephew A to get an x-ray, and I tagged along for the ride, because my toe was hurting.
Don't worry. I did not break my foot in a million parallel lines; that's a banister behind the x-ray. But other than that, anyone see any anomalies? The doctor says no, but I'm pretty sure there's something funky going on there. Something that might explain why my writer's group thinks I'm number one crazy.
Oh, and Nephew A is gonna be just fine. My sister has the pleasure of... determining when and if the little penny is deposited.
Fun weekend for her. Mwah hah hah hah.
Anyone else doing anything this weekend that doesn't involve studying poop?
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Infomercial Results vs. Costly Results
I have about an inch of dead skin on my feet, and so I have longed for a solution. Enter: the Ped Egg.
Oh Ped-Egg; you had me at "Pile of dead skin gets trapped inside the egg!"
Survey Says: Success! After about an hour of sitting on my front lawn scraping my feet (despite it's claim that it traps the shavings, um... it doesn't) the soles are really quite stunning.
The neighbors, however, are slightly grossed out.
Remember my track record with trying to whiten my teeth? Well, yesterday, I decided to go with the "UV, X-Ray Solar Beams of Hades teeth whitening thingee" that uses the lights. It sorta looks like this:
They're guaranteed to be whiter after two sessions. After four 10 minute sessions, the assistant looked at my teeth and said a very reassuring, "Um... How about you come here tomorrow for a free fifth session?"
It's okay, though, because instead of white teeth, I now have a searing pain that feels like my actual teeth have been injected with acid, and are slowly disintegrating from the inside out. Seriously, it's like my teeth have developed an allergy to air or something.
Sam asked me a question last night, and I would have yelled at him for tempting me to expose my teeth to air, but I didn't dare open my mouth. So I used my eyebrows to send him a morse code message: "The next time you desire conversation with me, please feel free to pull all of my teeth out and use them to bite your own arm."
What's the use of whitening teeth if you don't have the strength to smile? And just what is that UV light composed of? A hydrogen bomb? Laser beams from the evil planet Zylork?
I have my fifth session this morning, where I plan on sucking the bleaching gel into the back of my throat, and then hocking a logie in the chick's eye.
On my new favorite show Bones, there was a bomb comprised of incisors. Where does one donate to such a bomb?
I was going to tell you more about the Writer's Retreat, but it looks like I have no time. I'll save it for Friday.
Happy Wednesday, y'all.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Blog friend Jenni Elyse has given me a special award: the Honest Scrap award. Upon hearing I won the award, I ripped off my clothes and ran down the street, pumping my fist in the air a la Tiger Woods. Then I found out the award doesn't come with a Tiara, and I walked back home, dejected and sagging in all the wrong places.
Here are the rules she sent along, should I choose to accept such an award:
- Thank the person who gave you the award and list his/her blog (with a link).
- Pass on the award to seven other people whose blogs you find brilliant in content or design.
- Notify the bloggers you choose for the award and hopefully they’ll join in.
- List 10 honest things about yourself and post a copy of the Honest Scrap Logo on your blog.
Rule 1. Okay. Thank you Jenni. Check.
Rule 2. Blogs I love to read: Bree Despain, Emily Wing Smith, Valynne, Eden Johnson Ellingson, Josh Berk, Debbie, Kim Reid, Cam, Sam, I feel like I'm forgetting people. Have I forgotten anyone? Leave it in the comments if I forgot you.
Rule 3. Umm... Hey Bloggers! Join In! Or Don't! Who am I to judge?
Rule 4. Oh Crap. Another list about me. How about I just list 10 things I learned from my weekend writer's retreat? Kay?
10 Things I Learned at Writer's Retreat:
1. I'm "Number One Crazy".
In my absence one night, my writer's group (when asked by James Dashner, which one of us was the craziest member) voted me "Number One Crazy." To which I replied, "You Cannot be serious!"
It's not as harmless as it appears, because I was voted craziest in a writer's group. That's like being #1 Nut at the Nut House. That's bad.
I demand a recount. I mean this is coming from a group of girls, any one of whom will do crazier things than me, like:
- talk incessantly about nipples
- refer to the middle seat in a truck as the "slut seat"
- make a "To Do" list of how to become "Hot"
- order buffalo wings wherever we go
- fulfill a lifelong dream of staying in a yert
- convince others that one of the bedroom walls in the condo is haunted
- surmise that the driver in the car next to us isn't really checking his blind spot... He's secretly watching his dog in the back seat give birth to a litter of puppies who may or may not be aliens
- mention her recent life-threatening motorcycle accident as an afterthought. As in, "By the way, I almost died last week. Look at the road burn."
- can't park a car without getting a complaint letter left on her windshield
- suffers from a "twitchy" eye
- longs to be a member of the Babysitters' Club. (Okay, that's really all of us).
- has a serious addiction to buying books. (Like 32 in a week).
- threatens to "spring a spoon" on an unsuspecting sleeper in the middle of the night
- is scared of a wooden owl
- says, "See ya, Norma," whenever she leaves, even though no one is actually named Norma
- has the optimism of a fish on a hook, out of water
- organizes a seating chart at dinner according to who's left-handed and who's right-handed
Wow. That was only number one? Okay, let's break this thing up a bit. I'll do more of what I learned at Writer's Retreat Wednesday.
How was everyone's weekend? Anyone do anything fun?
Feel free to leave a little love in the comments, preferably about something I've done that is not crazy.
Hugs and kisses.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Sam has disavowed all knowledge of the following blog. He would like you all to know the views expressed herein do not necessarily reflect his own personal views. He has already removed several incendiary sentences.
Apparently the first version of my blog today was a tad on the inappropriate side. I don't know what my problem is..
It's been going on for a few days now, and this morning it has come to a giant whitehead. Even now, I'm sitting at my computer, feeling very itchy. It's probably a good thing I'm leaving on Friday for a writing retreat.
Anyway, I can't quite get the blog together without offending someone. So, since all of you know me better than I know myself by now, I'm just going to show you the pictures I was planning on writing about today, and I would appreciate it if you would come up with your own version of my post.
I'll give you the theme, and the captions and even a couple of fill-in-the-blanks. Feel free to put the fruits of your labor in the comments.
The theme of today's post is:
WHY IT SUCKS THAT I WENT TO HIGH SCHOOL DURING THE GRUNGE ERA...
(Faces are blurred to protect the beautiful)
Contrast that with...
(Yes, that's a thick, flowered, crocheted sweater tucked into a pleated skirt)
"A sweater tucked into a skirt? She might as well have been wearing____________"
Brodi's Prom Outfit- 1993
(Yes, those are pants. Pants. And a gigantic black bow in the back of my hair. You can barely see it. It's underneath all of those bangs.)
"She wore pants to her prom? With brown leather sandals? What kind of statement was she trying for? ________________"
Hopefully my condition will have righted itself by Monday. (I'm taking the 24th off because it's a holiday in Utah, where we celebrate an old bearded man who - in 1847 - looked over our valley and said, "This here's the spot. Let's establish some crazy-arse liquor laws and then write back home and tell everyone this land is fertile.")
I love you all. Because I tend to love everyone when I have a soul-sucking week. Tell your families "Hi" for me, and that I love them too.
So, what are y'all doin' this weekend? Holiday or not? Enjoy your long, Brodi-free weekend.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Meet Your Victorian Era Serial Killers...
I was taking Niece S home the other day, and I talked about when we used to live in London. (I don't know why, but most of my conversations usually end up with me talking about London. I'm available for parties.)
Anyway, I told her we went to church in a neighborhood called Whitechapel.
me: "You know what Whitechapel's famous for, right?"
me (pausing to heighten anticipation): "That's where Jack the Ripper did his terrible deeds."
s: blank face
me: "You know about Jack the Ripper, right?"
S: "Should I?"
I couldn't believe it. I immediately picked up my cell phone and called Niece S's mother to complain about her educational upbringing.
me: "What kind of second-rate institution have you been sending your child to?"
E: "Oh, sorry if I don't share your love for everything dark, and I don't tell my children horror stories at night."
me: "Jack the Ripper is a part of world history. He is the truth. He is not a story."
So, Niece S, here is my contribution to your education:
WHAT I LEARNED FROM JACK THE RIPPER
1. If You're Waiting in an Alley for a Victim, Always use Fog Machines
Here's Jack, waiting for an unsuspecting... um... woman of the night to approach, his knife apparently lit from within, like a lightsaber. Personally, I have to wonder what hooker in her right mind would see this man waiting in an alley, and continue to walk toward him. Of course, perhaps Victorian era Betties weren't in their right minds. Anyway, I'm sure the fog can only help his chances.
2. Impress your Teachers by Using "Evisceration" in a Sentence
"Ripper" refers to his mode of operation. Because this is a PG rated blog, I will describe it thusly: Jack took the innards, and put them on the outards.
When the police found the mutilated remains of Jack's victims, there wasn't a word that could reflect such a heinous crime. So, Lt. Bill Pickles, in an effort to impress his boss, looked at the intestines and said something along the lines of, "That there betty seems to have been... vissicrated."
And that's how we have the word "eviscerated" today. (The preceding may or may not be a complete fabrication)
3. If you want the Police to Waste A Lot Of Time, Leave them A Really Stupid Cryptic Message Written on a Wall.
Police went into a frenzy over a message, written in chalk, supposedly by Jack himself.
It prompted investigators to scratch their heads and say, "Oh crap. Was that a triple negative? Does that mean the Juwes are the men that will be blamed for nothing, or for everything, or only non-Juwes will be nothing..." and on it went.
Sort of like a dog, chasing its tail, and then running into a dark alley and being eviscerated.
Friday, July 17, 2009
As discussed in Wednesday's post, I'll be reading Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle.
Can't wait to see if I still have a crush on Calvin. If anyone wants to join in, I'm sure the Library has plenty of copies, and there's probably not a waiting list.
Want an extra reason for reading it? My favorite castaway Sawyer is reading it too. He has such good taste.
What I'm Writing:
Current WIP: 20,597 (up from 18,495 last week)
Redemption of Zupa's... almost
Remember my crazy day at Zupa's? Well, I tried Zupa's one more time, and there it was. Wi-fi. I didn't even have to plug in.
Everything looked rosy, until I filled my diet coke cup, and there were no bubbles. I'm now known as the girl who freaks out about every little stupid thing at Zupa's.
If Your Toot Could Speak, What Would it Say?
Yesterday, as Hubby was taking Kid C to Harry Potter camp, Kid C said he "tooted." He then proceeded to giggle.
Sam: "Yeah. That's funny, C."
Kid C: "You wanna know what it said?"
Sam: "What your toot said?"
Kid C nods.
Sam: "Okay, sure. What did it say?"
Kid C (in a high voice, the one he uses to imitate girls): "It said, 'When I get home, I wanna play the wii."
I asked Kid C about it when he got home from Harry Potter camp, and he confirmed the message he received from his nether regions.
Kid C: "Is that weird, Brodi?" (He hasn't called me Mom in over a year.)
me: " Is what weird?"
Kid C: "That my toot said that?"
I thought about it for a sec, and decided that this was going to be one of those magical moments of parenthood where the parent imparts little nuggets of wisdom that stick with the child for decades. Like telling your child exactly who the birds and the bees are and stuff like that.
So I looked at him, and said: "No. It's totally normal. How do you think I got the ideas for my book?"
Kid C: "Your toots spoke to you?"
me: "Yes. It must be a family trait."
Then, just to further enforce the parental guidance, I added: "Don't do drugs."
Heck, I just sent him to a camp that taught him there is such a thing as a magical wand and a sport called Quidditch. Who am I to say toots can't talk?
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
They're playing our song. Our venom-filled, gouge your eyeballs out, can't wait to spit on your grave, song.
Have you ever had a song dedicated to you? I have.
It was a magical moment that for the longest time has been lurking in the recesses of my mind, just waiting for the right instant to pop up and punch me in the kisser again.
So I’m in my car the other day, and this familiar song starts playing on the radio. I’m trying to figure out why it sounds so wrong, and yet so right. When it gets to the almost-chorus, it hits me. Below, taste the poison.
Words of the Almost-Chorus
Well, I don’t want to sing you guarantees
And I don’t want to cling to our use to be’s
So take your heart, take your soul
Just get yourself on out of here
Yeah, just take your hurt, take your pain
Just get yourself on out of here Yep.
That’s the song my on-again off-again college boyfriend “Bill” dedicated to me. (If you must know, it was during an “off-again” phase).
I know what you’re thinking. What did I possibly do to deserve such vitriol?
Looking back now, I can’t for the life of me remember the events leading up to the song. My brain gets a little squishy around the edges when it comes to things like memories. Ask Hubby. Whatever I did to deserve it, it must have been a doozy.
It kinda sucks that the only song I’ve ever had dedicated to me is a hate-song. But it doesn’t really really suck. In fact, I find myself snickering like Edward over it. Why is that? Maybe knowing that at some point in my life, someone hated me enough to dedicate a song to that hatred. It's so poetic. It's like the hate reached an ethereal level. I'm honored.
Just once, though, I want someone to dedicate some sort of Colbie Caillet, Jason Mraz song to me. Something about my body being a wonderland or something. I don’t know. I don’t really listen to that sort of stuff.
Anyone out there had a song dedicated to you? Do tell.
Preview of What I'm Reading Friday:
So, I finished "Everything is Fine" by Ann Dee Ellis, and now I am halfway through her earlier novel "This is What I Did." I'm actually dying to find out what it is, exactly, he did do. I should find out today.
But starting Friday, I will be resurrecting an important artifact from my childhood: my favorite book. I can thank (blame) it for making me the way I am today (kind of a dork.)
I haven't read it in at least 15 years, but I loved it as a kid, and I'm excited to see if it holds the same magic.
Since I'm a dork, I will leave you with this teaser quote (one that has stuck with me for years):
“Speaking of ways. . . there is such a thing as a tesseract.”
Can anyone name the book off the top of their head? Anyone care to read it with me? See if it stands the test of Time? Get it? Time?
I smell the wafting odors of a book club… Anyone else smell it? Anyone? Hmmmm. Maybe it’s just the Bangers and Mash I’m smelling.
Monday, July 13, 2009
1. I met famous bloggers (okay, just one) from across the country.
Shellie Kendrick came into town (she has a majorly popular blog and she lives in the South. Not Southern Utah. The SOUTH, y'all).
The first blog post I read of hers was called 4B's. Once I reached her hand-drawn diagram, I was hooked.
Anyway, we started reading each others' blogs, and then we started exchanging writing projects, and we realized we were M.F.E.O.
She came over to my house after my tennis workout one night, and I admit I was a little star struck. Maybe that's an excuse for why the first words out of my mouth were, "Nice to meet you. I have to take a quick shower. Not only do I stink, I sorta peed my pants a little when I tried to hit an overhead."
At her surprised expression, I further explained, "It's okay. I don't hug with my legs or anything."
Huh? Like not wrapping my legs around a person makes peeing my pants okay? Very weird, and not just a little bit awkward. She still stayed, and told me a "peeing pants" story of her own. See? Brothers from another Mother.
Below is a picture of us, combining our peeing pants stories in a plot to take over the world. You'll also notice an open can of TAB cola on the bar. Tab is hubby Sam's favorite drink, and when Shellie tried it and didn't puke, he was mucho impressed. So much so that we took a vote and offered Shellie the position of second wife in our house. Now, to get rid of her hubby Chad... Bueno!
2. My tennis partner and I won a tennis match.
It was an exciting match. You can tell by the faces of the crowd. Kid C is in the middle, threatening to gouge his eyeball out if we didn't finish the stupid match soon. Kid B is nearest the camera, losing brain cells.
Here's a picture of me about to hit a ball. I think it's funny, because in my head, I'm thinking about how I look all suave, and how it's all about the technique, and how any minute Rafa is going to call me up for some mixed doubles. But then, I see myself on film, and think, "That can't possibly be how I look. That's some old chubby woman suffering from constipation or something."
Seriously, take away the racket, and I might as well be in the ladies' room. If ya know what I mean. (She said as she twirled her porn star mustache and puffed her cigar. "If you know what I mean"? Who says that, besides old beer belly men with chest hair poking out their shirts, elbowing their friends and raising their eyebrows? C'mon, bro. Get it together.)
3. Book Club with Sydney Salter
There's nothing cooler than going to a book club where the author is among the guests.
Cousin D (okay, it's Debbie, from Cranberry Fries. I don't really think there's a need to protect her identity on this one... She's not exactly Cousin W or anything... I kid, Cousin W). Anyway, Debbie put together a bunch of cool chicas, including Sydney Salter, and we gabbed the night away about Sydney's book MY BIG NOSE AND OTHER NATURAL DISASTERS.
We talked embarrassing jobs, first crushes, natural bodily functions, and toe fungus. And then we ate. Because the mere mention of toe fungus makes me hungry.
Since a wedding cake plays a role in Sydney's book, Cousin Debbie, or Heather, or maybe Heidi, baked a two-tiered wedding cake. Sydney said it's good to have a food tie-in to the book. "What would your tie-in be?" she asked me.
"Ummm... blood," I answered.
Seriously? Blood, Brodi? I tried to think of a theme to my book, and blood was the first thing that came to my mind. The girls were really nice, saying they could come up with plenty of blood-themed food.
But even now, I can't really think of anything else. I'm trying to consider objects that come up in my book. Whisks? Rocks? Shaving Cream? Drink Coasters? Forks? The problem is every one of those objects (except one) lead to someone's gory death. So we're back to blood.
Maybe this would be a good time to serve the red Wine Frye?
So, how was y'all's weekend? (The preceding sentence incorporates my favorite incarnation of the word "y'all".)
Friday, July 10, 2009
Reading: EVERYTHING IS FINE by Ann Dee Ellis.
Halfway through and loving it.
WIP: Word Count 18,495
To keep myself motivated on my next book - heretofore known as "Work In Progress" or "WIP" - I'm going to occasionally post my word count. (You can see how I already thwarted my intentions to stay motivated by using the word "occasionally".)
Anyway, the word count I'm aiming for is somewhere between 60,000 and 80,000. So by my calculations, I only have 142,987 words to go.
If anyone else is working on a book, and you want to join me in the word count challenge, (which, again, is totally arbitrary and non-binding) please feel free to leave your own word count in the comments. Together, we can kick our own butts.
Follower status: Holding strong at 59. Would any of you lurkers out there care to make it an even 60? Anyone? I like nice round numbers, and I have to admit to a slight fear of the Primes.
Sometimes when I tweet, the page crashes and I get this little thank you note:
Something is technically wrong.
Followed by this picture:
My first thought on seeing the picture is, "Darn Tootin' somethin's wrong. Something's very very wrong."
First off, the evil ninja robot's distended limbs can't possibly bring good tidings or anything. Plus one of his lobster claw hands is missing, so we know he is seriously P-O'd.
Because he lost a hand, and most likely suffered through a Freudian childhood involving an oedipal complex with his mother, he has decided the only way to make things right is to kill an innocent little bird.
With the help and guidance of the clouds above, he contructs a bomb that looks deceptively like an egg. You can only imagine what will happen after the incubation period.
So, yeah, I'd say something is "technically wrong." And morally wrong. And I'm pretty sure logistically wrong too.
When Twitter thanks me for noticing, and then shows me that picture, I can't help but wonder if I'm part of some weird global experiment to see if Twitter users are indeed smarter than a fifth grader.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
It Didn’t Start Out Well…
Incident 1: Diaper “event” in Kid B’s crib. I won’t gross you out, but it involved premature removal of diaper.
Incident 2: Niece “washed” wii remote. In water.
Incident 3: Niece chewed up blue crayon and spit it on my carpet and shirt. It looked like someone had ingested blueberries and then barfed.
I love my niece. She is very creative in her destruction.
So, you can imagine I was looking forward to my escape to write in the afternoon.
The Afternoon Proved to be More of the Same
Zupa’s has a million “Wi-Fi Hotspot” signs, so I decided to try it out. And my day continued to suck.
So I order my food, and then try to log on to their wi-fi. But no networks are pulling up.
I go to the guy at the counter.
Me: “You have Wi-Fi, right?”
Him: “No, we don’t have that.”
Me (looking at signs all around restaurant): “You’ve got like ten signs saying you do.”
Him: “Oh, Wi-Fi. I thought you said ‘do you serve Wine Frye’.”
Me: “What the heck is Wine Frye?”
Him: “I don’t know. But I know we don’t serve it.”
I try logging on again while I start munching on my salad. It’s the “Nuts about Berries” salad. Only I soon realize there are no nuts on mine. And the nuts are my favorite part.
So I go up to another girl at the counter, this time presenting my salad plate.
Me: “Excuse me, maybe I’m just not seeing them, but I don’t think there are any nuts in this salad.”
Her: “Of course there are. It’s called Nuts about Berries.”
Me (slapping my forehead): “Yeah. I know. I meant, there are no nuts in my particular salad.”
Her: “So, you want more nuts?”
Me (remember my pet peeve about annoying word choices): “No. I don’t want more nuts. I want the original allotment of nuts that was somehow ignored in this particular nuts about berries salad.”
Me: “Yes. More nuts please.”
Back to trying to get Wi-Fi
I pull up the Wi-fi available, and still nothing. So I ask the guy at the counter.
Me: “What’s the Wi-fi network called?”
Him: “Ummm… I don’t know. Zupas maybe?”
The manager comes over. Thank goodness the authorities have been called.
Manager: “We have a Wi-fi bar over there against the wall. You can plug into the Wi-fi.”
Me after a loud sigh: “Plug in? Do you even know what Wi-fi stands for?”
Her: “Yeah. Internet.”
Me (smiling widely): “Great. Thank you.”
Seriously, is 3 o’clock in the afternoon happy hour at Zupas?
Monday, July 6, 2009
I made an interesting discovery at a family dinner over the 4th of July weekend: The majority of Sam's extended family believes in the existence of extraterrestrials. Aliens.
One of them even had a close encounter of the 3rd kind. (What does that even mean, the "3rd kind"? If humans are the first kind, who is the second?) Anyway, when this family member was a teen, she babysat for "them". And "they" showed her their spaceship in the sky.
Below is their family portrait. I don't know why she thought they were aliens.
I'm all for aliens. I mean, my YA book ECHO is about aliens. Sorta. Hot aliens.
So, what about you out in blogosphere-ville? Do you believe in aliens? If so, what do they look like? Have you ever encountered one? (Please keep your stories on the PG-13 level. Teen readers, ya know.) And Kenny from NY, I'm not talking about any encounters you've had while under the influence of dentist gas.
HAPPY B-DAY AMERICA!
We went up to our condo in Midway, Utah, on the 4th. I love the small-town-ness of this small town.
In their main street square, they were holding 4 corners of music. The only problem is that in a small town, there aren't enough fans to sustain 4 separate stations of music.
So we plopped ourselves down on the grass in front of a guy who played the guitar. After one song, he thanked us for coming to listen to him, and said that no one was there before.
I immediately thought, "Oh crap. We're stuck here all night."
Thankfully, the guy was rather talented. So it wasn't too bad. But when it was time to leave, Sam stuck his finger down our three-year old's throat and made him puke. We were able to apologize profusely, and sneak away.
It was the only way to go without appearing rude, right? Right?
We didn't participate in the fireworks. We're doing that tonight. Besides, we live in a desert, and I was told not to by this guy...
And I always listen to a talking surface-to-air missile, with a string hanging off his bum, holding a lit torch, sporting a maniacal smile and looking as if he needs to go pottie.
I heard that Smokey the Bear felt threatened by Torchy the Tool, and so he had him taken out. Now Smokey's slogan is "Don't play with matches, and don't mess around with Smokey the Bear."
The Darn Potty-Training Stickers Don't Work
Speaking of Kid B, and our original intention of potty-training him over the holiday weekend, I have come to the following conclusion:
Why potty-train ever? If I had it my way, everyone would wear diapers all the time. Even the adults. Most likely, we're just gonna end up in diapers again anyway at some point in our lives, so why mess with the stench of inevitability?
Someone gave me these fun stickers that are supposed to help...
They didn't work. I stuck them all over kid B, hundreds of them, and yet he remained un-potty-trained.
Kid B has been taking off his own diapers, and bringing them to us. So I propose that instead of potty-training him, we just teach him how to put a clean one on. He's halfway there. He could be the only kid in preschool who changes his own diapers. Teachers will be fighting to have him in their class. They'll create special awards just for him.
To tell the truth, we tried to talk ourselves into it, but anytime you start the morning wondering, "Should I try to potty-train today?" without a doubt the answer will always be, "Nah."
Someone on my facebook mentioned that bribery works wonders. So I told Sam to feel free to bribe me to potty-train the boy. I'm thinking a gift certificate for new Kindle books, or something like that.
Wait, he meant bribe the kid? Whatever for? Reward him for doing something nature always intended? That's just plain silly.
I told my niece there should be people for this. Like a business. Leave your kid with them for the weekend, they'll do the dirty work.
And now, I've probably spent more time blogging about the stupid thing than it would have taken to just train little B. But our house is clean.
So, how was your fourth? And are you in the market for a fun bribe?
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
1. Sam gave me this t-shirt for our anniversary.
2. Sam also gave me a Kindle, and the first book I downloaded was The Forest of Hands and Teeth.
Anyone read it? It's a post-apocalyptic zombie romance. Music to my ear. Just the left one.Anyway, the book and the Kindle sucked me in like a fat kid in Wonka's chocolate river.
I showed the Kindle to everyone and bragged about how the screen looks exactly like a book page. Like I invented it or something.
One little bratty kid said, "That's a lot of money to spend on a computer that's designed to look like a piece of paper."
To which I replied, "You are obviously not open to the Wonka magic. Haven't you ever been sucked up a chocolate drain?"
He shook his head.
Me: "And you never will."
Him: "Ooooh, I'm so scaaaaared."
Me: "Of not getting sucked up a chocolate drain?"
Him: "Is that a threat?"
Me: "Ummm... Who's on First?"
Lesson learned: never get into a fight of the wits with an eight year old.
3. In non-zombie news...
There's just one down side to doing all my clothes shopping at Costco; the fashion there is hit and miss and I'm not hip enough to know the difference. So, you know how like five years ago, people started wearing old school print tee shirts? Did they? I don't know. Maybe. Anyway, in my effort to de-black my wardrobe, I bought a yellow tee shirt with some sort of design on the front.
It wasn't until I stepped outside that I realized I glittered like Edward at the beach. The shirt had a million little rhinestones on it. Then I remembered that the last time I even heard the word "rhinestone" was in the 80's, usually in reference to country music, and so this couldn't be good.
To make matters worse, my younger son B has excema, and all day yesterday he would follow me around, rubbing up against my shirt. To itch his scratch. Especially on his head. Every time he walked away, there'd be a little pile of dead skin on the floor.
On top of it all, the rhinestones are in the shape of a giant bird, flapping it's wings. When I put it on, it looked like a blind bald eagle flew head first into my chest, and upon collision instantly turned sparkly as he gave up the ghost.
See what happens when you try to de-black your wardrobe? You end up with a national emblem, looking like he's hanging onto your funbags for dear life.
Today is my writing marathon, and I plan to write 2 billion words. What are y'all doin' for the fourth? I think I shall take Friday off from blogging, because Kid B needs to be potty trained. There's no better way to celebrate the birth of our country than to cover it in pee. So, you're all off the hook. Unless you have any good potty training advice.
To end with the zombie theme, enjoy the following Plants vs. Zombies music video. Give it a few tries. It will grow on you. Like a fungus. Of course, I was on Nyquill when I watched it.