A Normal Person

Magpie #29

She could hear him yelling again. Sitting on her balcony in the cool Southern California fall morning, Jen could hear her famous next door neighbor screaming at the top of his British lungs. Unfortunately the trees and bushes between their properties were not enough to keep out the sound of a loud human voice.


“Geez, again?” she muttered to herself, as shaking her head, she turned her attention back to her morning paper and cereal bowl.

Living next door to a true-blue movie star had seemed exciting at first. Paparazzi were almost always hanging around out on the street. Cars came and went. Jen could only wonder at who was in them and why so many people were necessary for one man, as she never recognized their faces. Once in a while Jen caught glimpses of the famous man, his close-cropped dark hair and fantastic body, sans shirt, standing on the stairs by his back door, talking on his cell phone. The sight of him took her breath away.

Over the months she’d gotten used to the noise on her quiet street in the canyon. She’d lived there for five years, quietly living and writing. Her parents had passed away leaving her a great deal of money, so she’d purchased this house. Her house, while small compared to her neighbors' homes, was sheer heaven to her because she could write in peace. But her sexy neighbor had changed things. The paparazzi, the cars full of people coming and going, had interrupted her once blissful existence.

“What the bloody hell?” she could hear him yell from next door. More curse words could be heard over the canyon breeze and the birds chirping. His English accent gave even curse words propriety. Jen sat up and turned towards his house again.

He stood there at his back door, shouting into the phone and gesturing with his free arm. His eyes caught hers. She froze.

“Crap!” she thought. “I’m busted eavesdropping and watching him,” but she couldn’t move. He sighed, defeated, still holding her eyes. Ending the conversation with a close of his phone, he gave her a sad smile and waved one hand. Jen waved back, smiling a cheerful grin that she hoped masked her embarrassment at getting caught.

“Hey---would you like to come over for some coffee?” he shouted.

Stunned, Jen looked around and behind her. “Me?” she called back, pointing at herself.

“Yes, you,” he chuckled. “I could use a normal person to talk to this morning. You look fairly normal. Are you normal?”

Jen laughed and shook her head at him. “Normal? Me? Not quite, but . . . I’ll be over in a sec.” Intrigued by his request, Jen carried her empty cereal bowl and paper inside and shut her balcony door. “What the heck? What do I have to lose?” she thought.

Grabbing her keys she checked her appearance in the mirror before walking next door.

Photo credit: Willow @ http://magpietales.blogspot.com/

Invictus

My trusty laptop is down (dead fan) so I am forced to use my hubby's old one or our ancient dinosaur desktop until my new fan flies in from Hong Kong next month. At the same time I am going back to teaching 7th grade English and reading next week and am exhausted from setting up my classroom. I haven't written and it's driving me crazy!!!

The good news? I watched the movie, "Invictus," with Matt Damon the other night. It's about South Africa and the end of apartheid. In it Nelson Mandela quotes the poem, "Invictus," by William Ernest Henley, who lived from 1849-1903.

The movie was excellent, but it was the poem that caught my eye. (It's the English major in me.) It is an amazing poem made even more inspiring by the fact that Henley wrote this poem while in the hospital after having his leg amputated because of Potts disease. (Tuberculosis of the bone.) This poem inspired a future leader to forgive and to take responsibility for his own destiny and that of his country.

I give you . . . (drumroll) Invictus!

Invictus

OUT of the night that covers me,

Black as the Pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul.

~~~William Ernest Henley

 

 

Bathtub Soak

Magpie #28



Long day,
sore feet.

Good soak,
relaxing treat.

Photo credit: Willow @ http://magpietales.blogspot.com/2010/08/mag-28.html

Block Walls and Bullies

There is a tale still told amongst my siblings and myself. It started as a small incident in the late 1970’s, but over the years has grown into tale of larger than life proportions. It involves my middle brother, AJ, and how he saved us from neighborhood bullies.




To better understand this story, let me give you some background into my family. I am the oldest of 5 kids. The next kid is Terresa, then AJ, then Nikki, and lastly Truman. We grew up in the suburbs of Las Vegas, Nevada, in the 1970’s and 1980’s. My parents bought a large, new home and yard when I was 7. They installed a pool and tennis court/basketball court in the back, ensuring that their children and children’s friends would stick around the house to play. (We did. It was the house everyone migrated to at one time or another.)



The house, situated on a cul-de-sac, was chosen by my parents because of the relative safety of kids being able to play in a cul-de-sac and not get hit by cars. That was back when kids could actually play in the streets in Las Vegas without constant parental supervision. (Our previous house had been on a straight street with 3 entrance/exits to it and lots of traffic.)



There were some ugly older boys who were twins living in a cul-de-sac across from ours. They were in junior high or early high school at the time and they were mean and scary. They cursed and spit and I always sensed a mafia connection with their family, if you know what I mean.



One day they were riding a new scooter they bought/stole around and happened to come into our little circle street. We were bored (as usual) that day and were sitting on a tall block fence next to the house. Looking back it was dangerous and I would probably not let my kids sit on a 6-foot high block wall, but it was the 70’s, and those were different times (no car seats) so we were okay.



Watching them drive by we smiled at each other and thought we could get away with something we’d never dared to before. Along with our next-door neighbor friend, Noelle, we began yelling at them as they rode by.



Keep in mind we were good kids. We never used profanities unless we wanted to get in huge trouble with our parents. But potty words and words like “stupid” and “idiot” were safe. Each time they drove by we’d yell something and hide behind the fence. The twin riding the scooter would whip his head around trying to find us and yell profanities back. We’d laugh and laugh, watching them through the cut out blocks in the concrete brick fence.



After a while it wasn’t enough to yell things at them. We wanted to throw things at them. Rocks weren’t safe; we didn’t want broken windows in anyone’s house or car. Sticks weren’t that available (we’re talking the desert folks, plus it was still a fairly new house and the landscaping wasn’t what it is today). No, my brother AJ had a better idea. Throw dog poop at them.



Yes, AJ was always willing and able to pick up the most disgusting things possible and fling them. He would throw stuff at us or neighbor kids or strangers driving by or even bullies riding their scooter around our cul-de-sac. Over the years AJ has thrown roaches, moths, dog poop, spiders, and anything and everything gross and disgusting at me. Being the middle child and the first boy in our family we were appalled at this new and gross behavior. We didn't know any better. (FYI: He continues to throw things at me to get a rise out of me and it usually works. I love him regardless. Now that I have 2 boys I better understand the male psyche and the need to throw gross things, I love him even more.)



Our dog at the time, Tally, a prolific pooper, had left several tasty treats for AJ to use as ammo. Use them he did. The only one of us not afraid to touch dog poop, he flung that poop like no one had flung poop before. The twins were so angry, but couldn’t get to us (the fence, remember), and we had the pleasure of laughing until we cried. They stopped driving their dumb scooter into our cul-de-sac and actually I don’t remember them ever coming back.



We reminisce about this story when we’re all together and it still makes us laugh. The day AJ helped us humiliate and drive away 2 bullies will go down in our family history as one of the best days ever. My parents still live in the cul-de-sac house and the block wall is still there. Bullies beware!

Rusty Pipes

Mag #27:

“Wow! You’ve got some serious rust and corrosion goin’ on here!” The chunky plumber exclaimed.




The two-bedroom, 1,000 square foot basement walkout we rented near East High School in Salt Lake City turned out to be a plumber’s dream and my nightmare. The sump pump, which pushed our dirty water and sewage up the hill to the sewer line in the street above us, had quit working. Also many of the pipes were leaky and needed to be replaced. Luckily we rented. The owners were responsible for paying for this mess, not us. I watched dumbstruck as the plumber pointed out the rest of the problems with the plumbing. It was a post-World War II home, so it was bound to have some small issues I thought, but I had no idea about this mess.



The plumber climbed back out of the small, closet-like room where the sump pump was set up. Where they had found this guy, I don’t know. He seemed honest enough though. He was married (wearing a wedding ring), tall, plump, and big-boned. He had a small town accent. I figured he was from one of the small towns outside of Salt Lake. Being a nosy woman, I asked him.



Turned out he was from Copperton, Utah, out by the Kennecott copper mine. When I asked him why he chose to become a plumber he smiled.



“When I was a kid my brother, friend, and I used to swim in the tailing ponds out near the copper mine. We didn’t know the water was contaminated. Hell, THEY (meaning the copper mine owners) didn’t know what was in that water. One day I lost my sense of taste and smell and it never came back. What better qualifications could a plumber have?”



Made sense to me.
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P.S. True story!!!
Photo credit: Willow @ http://magpietales.blogspot.com/

Gorilla Snot

My hubby called me from Walmart the other day. Here's how our conversation went . . .

Hubby: "Hey, I just saw this hair stuff called Gorilla Snot."

Me: "No way! The boys would love it just because of the name! What does it do?"

Hubby: "It's hair gel. Should I get it? They don't really use hair gel."

Me: "Are you kidding?" (Picturing the hours of fun the boys would have with this product, thus staying out of trouble and keeping the mess in one location---the bathroom.) "How much is it?"

Hubby: "A couple of bucks."

Me: "Buy it!!!!"

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Yes, there is actually a product called Gorilla Snot. The hubby brought it home and the boys went nuts. Here's the proof.

Whoever had the fantastic idea to invent this product and the name of it (which 10-year-old boys find so cool) I want to hug them. I hope they become millionaires. If it helps my guys want to style (and actually comb) their hair, I'm thrilled. So thank you Gorilla Snot inventors. You deserve an award. By the way, we aren't too busy for commercials and work for cheap. ;o)

Promise Kept

Magpie #26

She found the watering can on the ledge, under a fern. Her grandfather had left it there for her, knowing she would carry on after he was gone. She’d promised him she would. His garden had been his greatest joy. He spent hours watering, wedding, and tending his plants. She spent her youth playing under the trees, creating make-believe castles and fairies, running down the paths, and weaving crowns from his beautiful flowers.




He told her that there was one area of the garden she was never to enter while he was alive. The rough rock walls around it were higher than she could ever dream to see over. The heavy wooden door was kept shut and only opened with a key grandfather kept around his neck. Even with her curious nature she knew grandfather was serious about her staying out until he had died. She had obeyed his wish. Now that he was gone, it was time to discover what was behind the walls and locked door. As she gripped the key in her hand, she anxiously walked towards the locked garden door, wondering what she would find on the other side.

Photo Credit: Willow, from her inspirational website http://magpietales.blogspot.com/

Shout-Outs

Today I have the writing blahs. I’m tired and unmotivated to be creative. (All I want to do is drink a chocolate milkshake like the one above.)

I have enjoyed reading other people’s blogs and perusing through websites, so I thought I’d share my finds instead of writing something new today. (Besides my sis Terresa tells me it’s good karma to do blog “shout-outs” for other people’s blogs. I need some good karma today.) Here are my shout-outs. :o)




Best Poetry Blog:

http://thechocolatechipwaffle.blogspot.com/

Terresa is one of my (very talented) siblings. She writes like a dream and takes her work very seriously. She’s a great example of a writer, mom, sister, and friend. Plus she always finds the coolest pictures to go with her poems and essays.



Funniest Blog:

http://theblogocheese.blogspot.com/

Hands down Cheeseboy is the FUNNIEST blogger I have ever read. He reminds me of my younger brother AJ (if AJ ever discovered blogging and wrote down half the stuff he and his four boys do.) Cheeseboy will make you laugh--even if he went to the U of U. (No one’s perfect.) ;o)



Great Site to Keep Track of the Books You Read:

http://www.goodreads.com/

I can’t remember who turned me on to Goodreads, but I love it! I can keep track of all of the books I’ve read, make lists of books I’d like to read, compare what I’m reading with others, post and read book reviews and see authors’ pages. Feel free to find me on Goodreads and add me as a friend.



Best Cook on TV:

http://www.thecookingguy.com/

Sam the Cooking Guy. (Sigh.) I may have a teeny, tiny crush on Sam. (Yes, my hubby knows this. It’s a sensitive subject in our home.) I got hooked on his TV show a couple of years ago when I had insomnia (it was on at a weird hour) and then turned to his website for recipes when I couldn’t remember exact ingredients. He makes fairly simple recipes that you would actually eat!

He’s funny and a great cook. (He made the BEST Kettle Corn recipe ever this summer and I’ve been hooked ever since. Here’s the link to his recipe. http://www.thecookingguy.com/cookbook/recipe.php?id=280

If it doesn’t work let me know and I’ll just post it.)



Great Site to Get Used Books:

http://www.paperbackswap.com/index.php

I’ve been using Paperback Swap to trade books for years. Basically you sign up, post the books you want to get rid of, agree to pay postage (printable from your home printer) for a book someone wants, and then mail it. You get a point for every book you mail which you can then redeem for a book you want from someone else. (They will pay the postage to send it to you!) It’s saved me hundreds of dollars and I’ve found obscure books I need to use in a lesson that I can’t find anywhere else (or it’s a heck of a lot cheaper.)



For More Information About My Religion:

http://mormon.org/

People often ask me questions about my church and my beliefs. I can answer them, but I know people may feel more comfortable reading about it at home alone, instead of me talking their ears off. There are many misconceptions out there about us Mormons and the LDS Church. I have recently found this website the church put out and am grateful for it. There is lots of info and personal stories about other people (probably more normal than me) who are LDS. :o)





Best Writing Prompts:

http://magpietales.blogspot.com/

I was looking for inspiration to write this summer and my sis Terresa persuaded me to check out Willow’s Magpie Tales. I’m so glad I did. It’s been good practice writing (she takes a picture and posts it once a week) and you get response from other writers. I’ve really enjoyed it.



I’ll stop there for now. I’m always on the look out for good blogs and websites, so if you happen to know of one I might enjoy or the owner wouldn't mind sharing, let me know. Have a great day!

The Syrup Fiasco of 2010

I woke up this morning and had the brilliant idea to make Scone Syrup. (See recipe below.) It calls for buttermilk and since I had most of a ½ gallon of buttermilk that needed to be used within 2 days, I took the challenge to cook up a big batch.



My problem is not cooking. I love cooking. My problem is math. You see I have an English degree. Math makes me nervous. Fractions make me even more nervous. Following recipes is not a problem as long as I stick to the recipe. I get into trouble when I quadruple or multiply a recipe by 6 or 8. (Anyone know the lingo for multiplying by 6 or 8?)



I try to add the fractions in my head and get confused and this causes cooking grief. Long ago my mom told me not to add the fractions, but just decide how many times I wanted a make a recipe. For example, if a recipe calls for 1 cup of sugar and I want to quadruple it, I would add 4 cups of sugar to the bowl. The same works for fractions. If a recipe calls for ½ cup of buttermilk, I would just fill my ½-measuring cup four times (if I were quadrupling it) and add it to the bowl. Make sense?



This morning I decided to multiply the syrup recipe by 8. What was I thinking? I was thinking I would use all of that grody buttermilk no one remembers why we purchased in the first place.



My son, Josh, was on the couch watching a DVD, and the hubby was asleep. Our two dogs were hovering around my feet in the kitchen, hoping to get a treat. I began combining ingredients.



I haven’t made syrup since wintertime, so I was a little rusty. I knew I need a big pot just for doubling the recipe, and thought that multiplying the recipe by 8 my biggest pot will be fine. Not even close.



Everything went fine until it started to boil. The beautiful caramel colored syrup must boil for 5 minutes. So it started to boil and I set the timer. I was still thinking it would be fine. It was fluffy and bubbling and then began to overflow my biggest pot. I yelled for Josh to help.



Josh ran in and his eyes grew as big as hubcaps. “Mom! What are you doing?” he yelled.



“Open the cupboard!” I call. “Grab the next biggest pot! Hurry!”



Josh ripped open the cupboard, grabbed the next biggest pot and we scooped boiling syrup into the next biggest pot. That pot began to boil. I sensed that once again, I would need another pot. Crap! I grabbed yet another pot and scooped syrup out of the second pot into the third pot, all while stirring the first huge pot.



As I stirred and monitored all three pots, I realized the third pot is going to overflow. Too late. It overflowed. Because it was sitting on the front burner, it overflowed down the front of the stove and onto the floor. I decided no more pots, it was too late, and kept stirring what pots I had. I would clean the mess up later.



In the meantime, our dogs went nuts. They thought they had hit the food jackpot. They were slipping and sliding all over the syrupy tile floor in front of the stove. They licked the floor, they licked the stove, and they licked the cupboards the syrup was flowing down. I tried not to gag and promised myself I would scour everything when this nightmare was over.



Finally the timer dings. My five minutes of hell have ended. I gently kicked the dogs away, removed the sticky pots from the stove, poured the syrup into containers and surveyed the damage. It was bad, really bad.



The dogs went right back to licking the stove, cupboards, and floor. One dog, Oscar, had syrup all over his head. The other dog Snoopy noticed, and began licking Oscar’s head. I rolled my eyes. I caused this chaos with my stubborn stupidity.



I called faithful Josh into the kitchen and begged for his help. He sensed my desperation and asked what he could do. I handed him paper towels, a rag, and some Ajax and we got to work.



After excusing the dogs from the kitchen, we wiped down the floor, pulled the stove out from between the cupboards, and each took a side. Once the sides were clean, I began scrubbing off the hardened syrup on the burner top. What started as a hideous chore became funny to us. We laughed and talked until everything was clean. (Let’s face it, the sides of the stove needed a good scrubbing anyway.)



The syrup fiasco of 2010 ended on a light note, until we remembered the dogs. They were filthy with syrup. (See picture below. It doesn't do their filth justice though.) I sighed and asked Josh to grab the car washing towels from the garage. We had two dirty dogs to wash.

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Scone Syrup

1 c sugar

½ c buttermilk

½ c butter (1 stick)

1 T Caro Syrup

½ tsp baking soda

1 tsp vanilla



Mix all ingredients in big pot EXCEPT THE VANILLA. Stir it as needed. When the syrup begins to boil set your timer for 5 minutes. Keep stirring. When the 5 minutes are up add the vanilla and whisk the syrup. Let it cool for a minute or two and then place in containers. Store in the fridge.

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Dirty dogs

The Key

Magpie #25

She held the old-fashioned key in her hand, weighing it. The door had been painted and repainted so many times, but the original lock had been carefully painted around. The lock was slightly rusty and scratched from long ago use. She didn’t know if the key would still work. She had to try it though. She needed to know what was on the other side of that door.




Her grandmother had never allowed her to open that door. It had always been locked, ever since she could remember. Neither of her parents would talk about the room, but insisted that she ask grandmother. Only once had she dared to ask and her usually kind-hearted and easy-going grandmother had turned away, her face frozen in a mask of despair, saying that the room was not to be disturbed.



Now that her grandmother had passed away, it was about to be disturbed. What was behind that door? Why had her grandmother kept it locked? What had she been hiding in there?



She inserted the key and turned it. Grasping the knob in one hand, she pressed the door open with her other hand. Holding her breath, she stepped forward into the room.


Photo Credit: Willow @ http://magpietales.blogspot.com/

It's a Good Day in Primary When . . .

So I’ve held a calling in Primary for several years now. I’m not complaining. I actually love it! Every week the kids make me laugh with something they say or do. I am constantly amazed at their ability to make things humorous.




Last week I had some time on my hands during Sacrament Meeting (both boys away and hubby running late), so as I sat alone I pondered what makes a good Primary day. Here’s what I came up with.



It’s a good day in Primary when . . .



1. All of the teachers show up.

2. The kid that gives everyone grief isn’t there that week.

3. Nobody tells you you’re old.

4. You remember all of the kids’ names without help.

5. No projectile vomiting or leaky diapers in nursery.

6. Sis. Lerner brings treats for everyone.

7. None of the kids ask embarrassing questions, usually referring to your anatomy.

8. Parents aren’t upset or complaining about something ridiculous.

9. No fights break out during singing time because of who is sitting where. (I’m referring to the girls, by the way.)

10. One of the Sunbeams takes up some of your Sharing Time lesson to give a long-winded narrative about
their cat “Pooky” that died last night and where they buried it. (This is a good thing---your lesson is much too short!)


11. The kids remain seated instead of running around the Primary room like track stars.

12. The kids sing the words written for a song, not their own made-up version. (“Jell-O, jell-O!” Instead of “Hello, hello!” in the welcome song.)


I’m sure as my years in Primary continue I will be adding to this list. In the meantime, feel free to leave your observations about what makes it a good day in Primary in the comment section. :o)

Photo credit: Corrina Terry
Songbook credit: The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints

My Morning at the Spa a.k.a. The Medieval Torture My Hubby Paid Good Money For

Ever spent a couple of hours at a spa? Saturday I spent 3 full hours at a beautiful spa using the birthday gift my hubby bought me---a Swedish massage, a facial, and a pedicure. It sounds heavenly, right? Well, most of it was.




The massage was wonderful. Anna* the massage therapist told me I have strong abductor muscles (some kind of leg muscle) and that I was very limber. For a 40-year-old mom who runs 3 days a week that made my day!



The pedicure was painless, if you don’t count the strange man in the chair next to me. While his wife was getting her hair done he was getting a pedicure AND HAVING HIS TOENAILS PAINTED CORVETTE RED! I had to push my eyeballs back in my head and choke down the, “No way!” coming out of my mouth. I usually paint MY nails that color of red. No way. Not for a long time, maybe years, maybe never again. I can still see those long toes and hideous man feet with red nails. I chose the color “Foxy Lady” instead. (No comment from the peanut gallery.)



The facial was another story.



If you’ve never had a facial, you’re in for a treat. I had one several years ago when I got remarried. Because I was getting married that afternoon, I now realize the aesthetician went WAY easy on me. No one wants a red, splotchy face in wedding pics. A red, splotchy face you may ask? Why? You’ll see.



So I enter the room. It’s quiet. Soothing music plays overhead. A long bed is set up next to a bank of machines. I have no idea what they are used for. They resemble torture equipment the Taliban might use. I begin to worry as I eye the machines.



Fran* asks me to change into a small towel and lie down on the bed under the sheet. The towel she hands me before stepping discreetly out of the room is so small it wouldn’t hit the knees on my 8-year-old nieces. Oh well, I figure. The lady’s working on my face, what do I care? As long as it covers the basics, I’m ok. I change into the towel and lie on the bed under the sheet.



Fran comes back into the room and begins asking me questions about my skin and myself. Do I drink water? Yes. Do I spend time outside? Yes. Do I use sunscreen? Sometimes. What do I use as a cleanser? Dove. (I answer this one confidently, thinking I may be going the cheap route using Dove, but it’s good for your skin, right?)



Fran makes an unhappy noise and I look up at her (backwards remember as I am on the bed with my head towards her chair and she leans over my face.) Fran shakes her head negatively. My answer to moisturizer made her happy though. (Murad. I should’ve forked out more $$$ to pay for Murad cleanser I guess.)



She asks me if I have any phobias with my hands. “What the . . .?” I think. I tell her no, no phobias. She rubs lotion on my hands, inserts them into plastic sleeves, and then inserts them into heating pads shaped like hands. At first I am grateful because my hands need some extra TLC they are so dry, but later I realize she does this so that I can’t hit her when she’s working on my skin.



She cleanses my face as she explains what I need to be doing better (wear sunscreen, use better cleanser, etc.) and then asks me if I have a phobia to steam. At this point I stop her and ask, “Are there people out there with phobias to steam and having their hands wrapped up? She sighs and confesses that MANY people have phobias about both. Okay, I wonder to myself, who are these people? Why haven’t I ever heard of these phobias?



Back to the steam. The steam is to open my pores. She places cotton pads (with something on them I can’t remember) on my eyes and cranks the steam. I begin to relax. Fran rubs my neck and shoulders as we wait for the steam to do its magic.



Turns out my pores are tight. Unusually tight. They are scrooge pores that do not want to open up and share their dirt. I have to spend extra time under the steam. By the time the steam portion of our session is over I am beginning to think I have a steam phobia.



Fran places even more cool things over my eyes as she explains she is now going to turn on a very bright light (an understatement---I almost went blind even with those thingy’s on my eyes) and look at my 40-year-old-run-in-the-sun-and-wind-and-never-wear-sunscreen-skin. Yikes. What have I done? I cringe with embarrassment.



Fran then uses her instruments of torture to dig out the dirt in my many, many black heads. Turns out I have white heads she wants to dig out too. Oh joy! This woman attacks my pores like I attack a box of See’s Candies. She enjoys it for heaven’s sake! Tears run down my cheeks. I stifle an animal-in-pain cry.



An FYI: They don’t offer you any painkillers for this torture folks. Nope. It hurts. It hurts like heck!!! A tattoo hurt less than this. Seriously. (No comment. I was very young.)



I flinch every single time she pops out one of those puppies. I also realize that covering my eyes keeps me from seeing the instruments of torture she is using and my hands are bound and wrapped preventing me from slapping her hands (and her face.) That didn't stop me from fantasizing about it though.



After the painful part was over, the rest was what I expected---a mask, a scrub, a nice lotion. Overall Fran was very kind and great at what she does. My skin looked fresher, younger, and more radiant when she was finished. I felt and looked pretty good.



Will I go back in 2 months like she asked? Probably not. More like 4 months. It’s expensive and like a birth I need time to let the painful memories fade.


*Names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Empty Bed

Warning: I'm delving into serious stuff today.  (And trying my hand at poetry.)

Magpie #24. See http://magpietales.blogspot.com/ if you are interested in reading other people's writing about this prompt.

Empty bed,

Empty house,

Empty heart.



Dreams crushed,

broken,

gone,



but the morning dawns with hope.



Dishes to clean,

Son to feed,

Clothes to fold,

A livelihood waiting to be earned.



Eventually

bed is made,

house is full,

heart is healed.

Photo credit: Willow @ http://magpietales.blogspot.com/
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I don’t consider myself a poet. My sisters are better poets than I am. This poem is extremely personal to me though. My bed is where I cried for an entire night after realizing my first marriage was over and my husband was no longer the person I knew and cared for. I cried until my tear ducts were emptied---not exaggerating. It had never happened to me before. (And I’m a crier!)



I have tried countless times to capture the emotions I felt that horrible night, as well as the hope that dawned with the new day, without doing it justice. Here I finally feel like I’ve nailed it.



Thank you Willow for this picture and for giving me the inspiration and the opportunity to capture my feelings in print.



I truly believe there is hope even after horrible things happen to us. When one door closes, another door opens.



p.s. I remarried a friend from childhood who had also gone through a divorce. We couldn’t be better matched or happier. :o)

Confessions of a Quad Princess

I don’t know if I’m technically young enough to be called a princess. (Anyone know the cutoff age for princess?) Queen is probably more appropriate for me, but I don’t like the awkward way “Quad Queen” is pronounced.




My husband has very few obsessions. (I’m not at liberty to discuss them here, even if they are interesting and would make for excellent blog fodder. I have my morals and a hubby I love.) One of his obsessions is riding quads. He LOVES his quad and happily rides it just about anywhere when the weather is nice. (Not LV in the summertime.)



Here’s my confession:
I have a few obsessions myself: anything chocolate, reading, Twilight, writing, cooking, running. Notice that quad riding is not on my list. It’s not that I don’t like riding. I really, really like riding, but I don’t love it most of the time. My hair gets mashed, my face gets dusty, and I smell like I’ve been hanging out in a garage fixing old beaters.



Then why, you may ask, do you ride? I’ll tell you why.



I ride because my husband and I bought quads for all four of us to have adventures together. We wanted to give our boys fun memories of their growing up years. Some of our best family experiences have been because we rode. (Logandale Trails---even when you have to bring in your own water---is one of my favorite places to ride. See my old blog posting: The Legacy http://cocoamomo.blogspot.com/2010/01/legacy.html )



I ride because I enjoy seeing what’s over the next hill or around the next curve. I love the adventure of it.



I ride because we’re teaching our boys rules and respect. (Staying on the trail, no littering, wearing the appropriate gear.) They need to learn rules. Plus it’s good for them to pick up trash inconsiderate people throw down.



I ride because we are constantly learning----about the geology of the place we’re at, the trees, the plants, the animals, and the people who live/have lived there. I love learning new things.



I ride because on a quad you have access to areas people don’t have access to in cars. You can ride through amazing meadows, over red sand dunes, and through ancient forests. A majority of folks out there will never see these places because they're stuck in a car on a road or highway.


Lastly, I ride because once in a while when the trail is smooth and I can go really, really fast---it feels like I’m flying.

Hot Vegas Days or My Afternoon at the Rec Center Pool

So I’ve mentioned in a previous blog that I grew up in Vegas. I have also lived (briefly) in Hawaii and 13 years or so in Mecca, I mean Utah. (If you aren’t Mormon you may not understand that Utah to us Mormons is like Mecca to Muslims. We make the pilgrimage to Salt Lake City once or twice a year for General Conference and most of us dream of living there, but can’t find a job to sustain us there.)




I consider myself a Vegas Girl. I survived the heat of the summers in Vegas for 18 years before moving away. I moved back almost 10 years ago and am still waiting to adjust to the desert summers.



You need to understand I’m not a winter person either. I loved, loved, loved my college plus years spent at BYU and then working for Covey Leadership Center in Provo, and the 2 brief years living in historic Salt Lake City, but I did not like the winters in Utah. I cried every winter. My body would go into shock. I went to tanning booths, drove home every chance I got, and had some serious winter blues. The last winter I lived in Utah I finally adjusted to the winters. Go figure! (Probably because my body knew I was moving away.)



I’m a desert lizard at heart. In high school I was a runner for a law firm and drove my 1982 Toyota Corolla, without A/C, all over town delivering documents, even during the summer! I was hot and sweaty, but the summers were bearable then. We used to swim and run around outside all day long in summers growing up. Was it my optimistic, youthful attitude or was my body able to handle the heat easier?



A friend of mine has a theory that the older we get the less comfortable our bodies are with extremes like heat or cold. I tend to agree.



The really miserable desert heat of Vegas usually lasts from the beginning of July through the end of September. I don’t count September because I’m back in school all day in air-conditioned classrooms, but July and August are sheer misery. I equate it to my cousins who live in Wyoming and have to stay indoors for the winter or risk hypothermia. (You couldn’t pay me enough money to live there during the winter. I’d seriously die.) Even with good A/C everywhere you go in Vegas, the heat permeates.



We go out of town a lot. That helps, but then I have to adjust back to the heat again.



Water also helps. We don’t have a pool, so during the summer we mooch off of my parents and swim in their pool almost daily. Otherwise we hit the local rec center pool. There is little risk associated with my parents’ pool. Helping my dad keep it free of leaves, dodging my nephews’ water guns, and picking up after ourselves is usually the extent.

The rec center pool on the other hand is scary. You have to understand, it’s my boys’ favorite place to swim. There, amid the germ, diaper, and urine-infested waters, they enjoy the slides, the fountains, and an acre or two of various pools. I am not as enamored with it as they are. I tend to see the bad there. (I know, I know---I need to look for the good in things. I’m not much of a public pool or public park person though. Stems from several frightening childhood incidents I’ll deal with in later blogs.)



The rec center is scary because first of all, I have to go out in public half naked. I feel better about that now that I’m at a nice post baby weight (Finally---I had my son almost 11 years ago!) but age is starting to creep up on me. Despite my best intentions I’ve got spider veins on my legs and Relief Society arms. That crap is hard to hide, unless I want to wear a full-length wet suit. Then I’d look like a polygamist wife.



Secondly are the weirdos. Yes, Vegas has its share. (See my blog: Funny Things Part Deux.)

There are the good mommies. They are nice and clean, even if their kiddos are kicking water in your face and bullying smaller kids. There are the grannies. They tend to group together and float. There are the young high schooly (yes, high schooly with a “y”) love couples. They are a tad too touchy to be tasteful, but being out in a public place in America keeps them from too much PDA. The weirdos I’m talking about are the loner older guys. They scare me. These guys are usually 40+, single, hairy, flabby, and scouting for chicks like sharks for bait. There is at least one loner guy every time we go.



Thirdly are the bathrooms. I wish it were legal to take a picture in there. You’d die. A dark, wet cave in Tijuana, Mexico is cleaner than these bathrooms. I try not to go to the bathroom while I’m there, holding it as long as I can, but then I have to make a desperate run for it or risk the dark blue water in the pool. (A childhood urban legend of peeing in a pool where no one has informed you that peeing in said pool will cause a chemical combination turning the area around you blue or red. If anyone has ever seen this happen with their own eyes, and not in a movie, please comment below. I want details.)



Holding my breath I sprint into the women’s restroom, head for the nearest stall, avoiding both the nude lady showering with the curtain open (WTH?) and the water/urine puddle at the base of the toilet. I can only imagine what that puddle consists of. Straddling the puddle while trying to shimmy my swim shorts down is insane. And don’t even talk to me about sitting anywhere near that toilet. I pray, squat, and aim. Also---the toilet paper is wet from somebody’s damp fingers and there is no soap in the dispenser at the sink. I could die! Literally.



So today as I lounged in shallow fecal-matter, I mean shallow rec pool water, all the while keeping one eye on the shark, one eye on my boys, and gossiping with my gal pals, I endured it all because it’s 117 degrees outside and I need to cool off. Towel anyone?

The Fire Extinguisher

Her 4th floor apartment was small, but she enjoyed filling it with original art and inexpensive antiques. The old fire extinguisher was no exception. She loved how the metal had oxidized, while the red paint had remained. Who had used it? Where had it spent its life?




Later that night she fell in an exhausted sleep. It had been a particularly long day at the middle school where she taught art. Some days she wondered if it was worth it.



That night she dreamed of fires and her fire extinguisher. She felt a persistent need to wake up, but fought it. When she finally did wake up she was groggy and confused. What the heck? The smoke was real!



She leaped out of bed, her heart in her throat as she tried to see through the gray smoke. The window closest to her bed had a fire escape, but as she pulled on the window sash, it wouldn’t give. It was painted shut. She cursed herself for not opening the windows sooner and for not being more prepared in situations like this one.



The smoke thickened. She tried another window and another. All had been painted shut. She turned to try the front door and remembered the fire training she’d had with the kids at school. She needed to touch the door first to see if the fire was on the other side. She laid her palm against the door and quickly removed it. The fire was most likely in the stairwell. The door was burning hot.



Her heart in her throat she got down on her hands and knees. She needed to find something to break a window with. She wasn’t going to die like this. Through the smoke something gleamed. It was her fire extinguisher! Crawling over to it, she took a breath of the cleaner air near the floor and holding it, prayed this would work.



The fire extinguisher was heavier than she remembered, but she found the strength to lift it. She threw it with all she had at the window with the fire escape. The sound of glass splintering was music to her ears.

Mag 23: http://magpietales.blogspot.com/ Photo credit: Willow

My Back Window

I am opinionated. You can tell from the back window of my car (or by asking my husband, my friends, my sons, my students, etc.) See pic below for proof.

I have 3 important stickers.



The first one is my “Y” sticker. For those of you who hate BYU, don’t cut me off on the freeway please. You have to understand that BYU saved me from UNLV. (Don’t tell my hubby this. The hubby HATES BYU with a passion. He attended BYU-Idaho, I mean Ricks, then went UNLV. Now him buying me this shows how much he loves me because he bought me that “Y” sticker for my car and we were already married, plus he drives my car sometimes!!!)

I loved attending BYU, even if the rich kids there were snotty and the super smart kids there were snotty and some of the Utah kids there treated all of us Vegas Girls like we were trashy and nothing good could ever come out of Vegas. (Las Vegas has a temple you know!) The jocks were pretty cool though and the average folks like me, well, we all knew we were average when it came to BYU, so we had a great time. I loved BYU because my dad went there and because it became MY school too. It felt like home.



The second sticker is the “DUMP REID” sticker. I want Reid and his son out of any office in Nevada. They do not represent Nevada and should go back to Washington D.C./Virginia where they’ve been living for the past 30 years. Need I say more?

(Note to the creep in the Isuzu piece-of-crap car with the Obama/Change/2008 sticker: Honking at me repeatedly for 5 miles along the 95 freeway while waving your angry Obama-loving fist at me did not hurt my feelings or change my mind about my sticker. I’ve passed out 40 more “Dump Reid” stickers since then! Ha!)



The third sticker is my favorite. “I drive like a Cullen.” This sticker was also purchased by my sweet hubby. (Note: He has NOT read any of the books, but has been “forced” to watch Twilight and New Moon with me. He didn’t care for them, but survived just fine. In fact, there were times during New Moon I couldn’t get his attention and I think he might have actually enjoyed it.)

The Cullen sticker gets lots of smiles from the ladies who’ve read the series. I still haven’t seen another one anywhere, so I feel special. Many people who haven’t read the series or seen the movies ask me who or what a Cullen is, which gives me a chance to spread the word about Stephanie Meyer’s fantastic books. (Go team Edward!!!!)



Well, that’s it for now. Not much room left for any other stickers, although my sis, Nikki, has filled her window with 3 times the amount of stickers I have and claims she can still see out of it. The hubby says no more, but if there’s a good one out there, I might add it! ;o)

Pine Valley in July

We’re spending a couple of days in lovely Pine Valley, Utah, with my in-laws this week. The trip from Vegas to St. George was quick, but after stopping at 6 places in (hot, sweltering) St. George, we were thrilled to finally get to the Terry Cabin. Did I mention we have our two boys AND two dogs with us? (See picture above.)




[By the way . . . I’m not exaggerating about stopping 6 places in St. George. They were:
1) Yamaha store for a quad battery
2) paintball/violins/food storage store for paintball equipment
3) Smith’s to buy whip cream for my sweet mother-in-law
4) Marv’s (my uncle’s awesome burger joint)
5) In-laws house in St. George to pick up some stuff
6) gas station for gas. Let’s face it---we could’ve found about 4 more things to do if I’d had the money.

And the paintball/violins/food storage store is for REAL. I would say only in Utah, but there’s bound to be another one out there somewhere.]



Anyway, it’s a lovely 85 degrees here. I took 2 pictures from their porch. One faces north and one faces south. For those who haven’t seen this beautiful valley, here’s a glimpse for you.

Self-Respect, an Undervalued Quality

I might be poor when it comes to my bank account (thanks in part to selfishness and flagrant spending in my 30’s, not to mention a divorce and then remarriage to a great guy, but who also happened to be divorced and in debt.) I have my pride. Not the pride they warn you about in Sunday school, calm down. What I’m talking about is self-respect. Look around. Do you see a lot of people with pride? Self respect? It’s not one of those things you brag about when you run into someone from high school.

If we did it would go something like this:



Me: Hey! Gracie! Gracie Brown! Is that you? How are you? Wow, it’s been like 20-something years. You look great! How have you been?






Gracie: Yeah, it’s me. But who are . . . Corrina? Is that YOU? Wow. What happened to YOU? You look amazing! Have you had some work done girl?!?! Are you still married to that one guy?






Me: Oh, I got divorced four years ago. But don’t worry, I’m remarried now to a great guy. We don’t have 2 nickels to rub together due to our divorces, but we have a lot of love and self-respect.






Gracie: Gee whiz! You are SO lucky! You’ve got love AND self-respect? I wish I had self-respect. I’d give anything for that.

--- --- --- ---

NOT going to happen in real life. I wish.



So while we should have self-respect and pride in who we are and what we do with our lives, most people discount it. They either underestimate it or take it for granted until it’s too late.

Take Lindsay Lohan for example, that poor, dumb girl. Talk about having little to no self-respect and making bad life choices. Her saga is better than a rerun of Dallas! You can’t make up the stuff she’s done. (Just check out TMZ any night of the week and they’ll tell you ALL about it.) She had it all and snorted it, I mean threw it, away. Thanks to her lack of self-respect and the choices she’s made she’s looking at prison time. PRISON TIME!

Can you imagine yourself in prison? Not me. I’d make the world’s worst inmate. There’s no way I could share a cell with some husband beater (who would turn me into her personal punching bag) and no WAY I would survive meal times. I’d get shanked at breakfast on day one. I don’t know how Lindsay’s going to make it through. Maybe enduring those crucial childhood and teen years in Hollywood will help.

Makes my not having a lot of money look a little better right now, huh? Sure, I’d love to have a ton of money and be famous and get to dress up in designer clothes and attend premiers instead of teach teenage kids the difference between a hyperbole and an idiom, but what would I lose? What would my children learn if I handed them everything on a golden platter? What would I take for granted? Throw away? Turn into?

Not someone I would like to be. So I’ll keep my problems and Lindsay Lohan can keep hers, thank you very much. I’ve got self-respect.

Photo Credits

Photo @ top: www.thesunblog.com/frosting/lindsay-lohan.jpg

Photo @ bottom: www.static.technorati.com/.../Lindsay-Lohan-16.jpg

Funny Things Part Deux

Okay, so I looked for additional funny things to write about and by the time my head hit the pillow only 1 other slightly funny thing happened yesterday. You may have already guessed Josh was involved.

We were at my parents' house and the boys were swimming. It was 180 degrees outside in the shade and after sweating it out in the sun (working on my cancer/tan) I stepped into the pool. Rafts, rings, and other swimming debris were floating in the pool and the boys were swimming (or drowning) underneath various rafts.

Up pops a raft in front of me with Josh underneath. He says, "Alert! Alert! Unidentified large woman entering the water! Alert!"

I lunged for the kid and took him down! (He has a LOT to learn before dating.)
___________________________________________________________________________
One more funny thing. This one happened today. . .

Some People

I'm at the (ghetto) library with my boys. (We live in an older section of Vegas. Don't judge. It was all the house I could afford at the time I bought it.)

I usually sit with a book in the kid's section (hoping I don't catch lice or some disease) and wait for the guys to pick out their books. (After scoping out the area to make sure it is pedophile-free.) Today was no exception. I sat waiting patiently on the small, squishy couch next to the kiddie checkout area. I notice some dingbat mother has left her large stroller in the middle of the walkway.

People were tripping around it and over it trying to check out books. In addition there was a metal scooter leaning against a couch that was also in the way. Some people have nerve! (I thought this to myself as I looked around and saw no one standing by/claiming these items. I have a teeny bit of my grandparents in me. Think depression-era folks who stop on freeways if they see something they could use or sell. I'm Christian though and know that stealing this stroller would be wrong. Even if my sister, Nikki, with 5 kids under the age of 8 could use it. I resolved to wait and see who claims it. If nobody did I was running out the door with it!)

Tearing around the library was a curly-haired boy about 2. He pulled books off of shelves and threw them on the floor. A tornado had nothing on this kid. I had no idea where his mother was. Neither did he.

He stopped in front of me and stared. I smiled. (I love kids, even rotten ones.) I then noticed his shirt. It said, "My mom is hot!" (Some people! That kid can't read! What kind of woman puts a shirt like that on a 2 year old? Who needs THAT much validation? Sick.)

I swear to you, it was like a movie. Up strutted (yes, like a runway model, but not anorexic) a woman chasing after the wild child. She was not hot to me, however I am a woman, so what do I know? (If my hubby were there I would've asked him for his opinion. He's honest that way.) Her strutting and yelling after the wild child had people staring.

You have to understand where I live. It's Vegas. I grew up here, my mom grew up here, my grandpa grew up here. We are Vegas natives. I am used to ALL kinds of crazy stuff (Mafia kids, druggie parents, rich kids, alchy parents, neighbors who work as dealers, cocktail waitresses or in Cirque Du Soleil shows, seeing Donny Osmond in my sacrament meeting, friends growing up who dream to be hit men), but after spending about 14 years of my brief life living in Utah, I forget the things that really make Vegas unique. I get shocked once in a while.

Can you see where this is heading?

The woman was about 6 feet tall. (It could've been her 5 inch tie-up sandals. I don't know how she can walk on those things, much less run after a child.) She has long, dyed blond hair down to her backside, a small (think uber-tiny) tank sundress on (totally inappropriate for the children's section) and large sunglasses. Her accent was Russian or Romanian or something. I thought to myself, "Is she a . . .?"

Yep. She had to be a stripper or something worse. I don't want to know which.

Can you guess who the stroller and scooter belonged to? Yep, you guessed it. She pulled another kid out of nowhere, (seriously---I never saw this other kid the whole time I was sitting there half laughing and half in shock), plopped little wild child into the stroller and the three of them took off.

Let's just say the children's section was a whole lot quieter after they left.

White Hair & Other Funny Things

In an effort to write funnier things (I tend to be too serious on my blog), I am going to share with you, my (one faithful) reader, funny things I hear today. I will be updating this blog posting until this evening, so if there's only 1 funny thing on my list below, check back later. Wish me luck! (I'm gonna need it.)

1. My oldest son holds a flashlight up to my head. (Picture this--I am seated at the kitchen table reading the funniest blog in the world, http://theblogocheese.blogspot.com/ on my laptop. It is 9am and I have been up since 6am and haven't yet showered or fluffed my hair. Instead I have been doing laundry, putting dishes away, and reading The Blog o Cheese and laughing until I cry.)

My son Joshua has a great talent of knowing exactly what bugs me and commenting on it. (He's a snarky 10 going on 19.) When it comes to my hair I have dark, silky, shorter hair. However . . . when I was 26 I started getting white strands of hair growing around my crown. I plucked them. Now at age 40 I need to dye my hair because there is sooooooooo much white hair (thanks Grandma Hall) that it makes me look 80.

It's summertime. I don't dye my hair in the summertime. I swim everyday and it would wash that $60 "coloring" Tiffany, the best hairdresser in the world, uses to cover my white hair. I don't have enough $$$ to pay Tiffany $60 a month to color my locks, so I suffer.

Back to me sitting at the table laughing over the Cheeseboy's blog.

My son, Joshua, holds a small flashlight up to the back of my head. He picks through my hair like a lemur picking lice. I hear him mutter something. I ask him what he's doing.

He answers, "Yep mom. I found out where all of your white hairs are coming in. They are everywhere!"

Stay tuned for funny thing #2.

Photo credit: http://www.manicpanic.com/ They are 2 crazy chics from NYC who have been extreme hair colorists since 1977.

Early Memory

Hot, the summer sun pours onto my neck and head.

Moisture rains from the hose I hold.

The smell of my tomatoes growing sends me

  to the early memory of my parents’ first backyard,

    a short brick fence and a planter box, sturdy, and

      full of dirt and tomatoes.

I am small, dark-haired, and smiling.

Mom holds my fingertips and dad grins at my progress

  as I walk and touch the rough cement blocks.

The smell of tomatoes fills the air.


Magpie Tales #22 - Photo credit Willow @ http://magpietales.blogspot.com/

Speech

I’ve been giving a lot of thought to language lately. Often what people say grates on my nerves. My students at school use a curse word in nearly every sentence. It’s not a biggie to them, but to me it’s the sound of nails on a chalkboard. By the end of the first week of school, they know I do not allow cussing in class and remind one another to use a different word. This usually leads to a discussion on which words are allowable and appropriate and why I don’t curse.




I’ll admit, I tend to drop the s-bomb once every day or so at home or to myself, usually at my clumsiness and due to the trauma my toes, fingers, funny bones, head or shins endure. Cursing is not part of my regular speech though. I usually judge (wrongly, I know) people who do curse in every sentence or speak crudely as uneducated or from a lower social class than I am.



That being said, I am a college graduate without a huge vocabulary. My writing and speaking are fairly simple. I enjoy writing and speaking this way. I don’t put a lot of effort in using big words or flowery speech, probably because I think it’s a waste, much like that extra frosting on a store-bought cake that I scrape off to get to the good stuff underneath, the cake.



Today I read the editorial by Dean John R. Rosenberg in my Humanities at BYU Alumni Magazine, Spring 2010. He impressed me with his essay on speech and how using certain language labels us in the eyes of others, not to mention changes how we think. Interesting. He used a great quote by Renaissance humanist Erasmus of Rotterdam:



Just as dress and outward appearance can enhance or disfigure the beauty and dignity of the body, so words can enhance or disfigure thought. Accordingly a great mistake is made by those who consider that it makes no difference how anything is expressed, provided it can be understood. . . . Our first concern should be to see that the garment is clean, that it fits, and that it is not wrongly made up. It would be a pity to have people put off by a spotty, dirty garment, when the underlying form itself is good. (De copia)



I read those words written by a man several hundred years ago and realized he had the same issue I do. Words create a part of who we are. How we use those words to express ourselves, whether through cursing like a sailor or quoting Shakespeare, we open ourselves up to the judgment of others. We also think differently about ourselves and the world around us when we speak below that which we are capable of.



This article reminded me why I don’t allow cursing in my classroom, why I teach my students and children to speak better English, and why I shouldn’t curse or talk coarsely, even if no one else hears it. My speech is a dress I wear, for all to hear, including my own ears. My goal is to present a clean, white cotton dress of speech to the world. I hope it is clear, simple, elegant, yet educated.



Picture credit www.sensibility.com “1914 Afternoon Dress,” by Jennie Chancey on April 20th, 2010. Check out their website for other beautiful vintage dresses.

Timing

Picture credit: Magpie Tales

Short story below is also posted on Magpie Tales, Mag 20: http://magpietales.blogspot.com/ . She takes fun pics for writing prompts if you are interested in adding your writing to her blog!
______________________________________________________________________________
He set the toothbrush down on the bathroom sink and turned to her. Anni took his breath away. She was the mother of his children, his best friend, his wife, and his love. Wiping his mouth with a towel, he smiled. Morning gave her sleepy eyes and mussed up hair. That didn’t matter. She was still beautiful.



Anni looked at him in surprise. “What?” she said, smiling, her eyes narrowing at him suspiciously.



“I love you.” He tossed the towel on the counter and stepped over to her. She opened her arms to him. He held her tightly. They gazed at one another, happy in the moment. Anni leaned up for a kiss.



From the closed bedroom door a knock could be heard. “Mom? Dad? We’re hungry!! We’re hungry!!” small children chanted.



He sighed. Anni sighed. They chuckled at themselves and the timing of their children. Their moment would have to wait.