The Met, but colder

I was on my cell phone when I went through the Sonic drive-through the other day. When I was paying for my smoothie fix, the drive-through technician had this weird look on her face as she handed me my change. She ended up keeping a few dollars and the "weird" look might have been guilt. She does work at Sonic and a girl's gotta pay the rent. I think she thought I wouldn't notice since I was on my phone. But joke's on her - I wasn't really engrossed in my conversation (don't worry it wasn't with you), I'm just horrible with simple addition/subtraction. Just ask Eric every time we play Scrabble and he has to re-count my scoring.

So, the "weird" look could have been confusion. Like the look on my face just now as Davis was pushing me around the house at ball-point (not the type of pen, he was using it like a weapon). I would really love to know what he wants, but I'm going stop wishing that he could talk. I'm sure he will be heard.


You may be wondering when van Gogh used bits of fruit in his art. Well, he didn't. That is the fabulous I Can't Believe It's Snowing Again by D.E. Livingston. A lot of "gay abandon" going on in his works. And then he can eat it 'cause it's colored tapioca pudding. Functional art.

I would post this in 3D, if I could

I took Eric to U2 3D at the IMAX theater for Valentine's Day Eve and, if you know Eric, that is the most romantic thing I could ever do next to taking him to #2 an actual U2 concert #1 Bono's secret rock star lair for a private concert. Combined, Eric and I have been to 3 U2 concerts, just never together. Walking into the theater a little late was like flashes of science fiction - the light of the massive screen reflecting off 3D glasses, everyone staring straight ahead brainwashed into thinking The Edge's 20 ft "axe" was going to land on their laps. It was awesome, if you get the chance. If my life were in movie format, I would pick U2's music for my soundtrack. But my life would have to be a lot more interesting to be in movie format. Right now it's kinda like the movie Groundhog Day for a stay-at-home mom. I guess that movie would be called Mother's Day, without the perks of the holiday but the bonus of feeling recognized once a year.

Anyway, to kick the romance up a notch at the "concert," I brought along some bottled IBC root beer (outside beverage, I know). Not so conspicuous, especially if the cup holders are almost bottomless and everyone thinks you're tipsy-clumsy. From now on we'll just save the IBC for other romantic settings. On the way home we were discussing what would have happened if my bottle had exploded, like in the beer commercial. You know, the one where the guys take the bottles of beer to the opera and they burst when the super-soprano hits that note...

Jenny - "What note is that?" (followed by trial high note)

Eric - "I think it's a high note, but also it has to be sustained for a while in order to actually crack glass..."

Jenny - (holding bottle up, longer trial high note)

Eric - "I don't-"

Jenny - (more trial high notes)

Eric - "-think you're gonna-"

Jenny - (even higher, longer trial high note)

Eric - "get there. Sometimes your voice hurts my ears."

silence

Jenny - (more trial high notes)

Eric - "Whoa, hey, I think I misspoke. It must be short, low notes..." (demonstrates, bass "eh")

That's love.

To Every Groundhog, There is Eventually a Shadow

We're all about opposites around here. It was 73 degrees (!?!) here on Monday and Wednesday Eric had a snow day from school. The kitchen was spotless yesterday morning and now looks like some food gypsies came and made a 7 course meal. Davis is content with our parenting one minute, running in place and flailing in protest the next (we hear this one is normal).

Just about every night while laying in bed, exhausted from wrangling our little cow-poke, Eric and I review how blessed we are by Davis. Right now Davis loves to build with his mega blocks. If there's anything that he wants to do that's not within the realm of "safe," usually we can dump out the block basket and he'll come running. He will start building as if he can't help himself, MUST BUILD... Davis is dissatisfied with his current height. We find him at curious levels, now that he's climbing, whether he's just getting taller or gets something to stand on, it's put us on constant alert. It actually looks like we're expecting a flood - everything is above 36 inches. He now jumps off the stairs (see K to the IWI) onto the couch and wears himself out pinballing between the pillows. Since he only speaks an obscure dialect of Oinkus Latinous (Tscha!), he will drag us by whatever he can grab (i.e. pants, fingers, collar, foot) to whatever he wants. What he usually wants is a banana. Sometimes we buy a ton in case of emergency, but they have to be a little green. Apparently, the last bunch was a little too green and never ripened. That was a harry 48 hours as Davis detoxed and I held onto the hope they would get a little more yellow. I even tested one and, nope, kinda chalky. Davis saw this test and snatched it. He wasn't impressed either. Don't buy green bananas.

But it can't get any better that being rewarded by blown kisses when we say "I love you." Then again, he blew kisses when he heard those words on the radio. davis (n.): BOY.

One of seven...million...

Write 7 random things , "tag" seven people, blah, blah, blah...put links to their blog, and make a comment on said blog letting them know they're fair game on the playground.

• I think gymnasts should stop wearing scrunchies. Eric wonders why magicians need to look creepy weird.
• I cringe when someone says their going "down" to somewhere when it's really east or their going "up there" when it's south geographically. Eric elbows me every time someone mixes up, "I could care less..." because he, apparently, "couldn't care less."
• I used to be fascinated by old prisons. It started with a field trip to the old Idaho State Penitentiary. I finally made it to the Mecca, Alcatraz, and I was like Augustus Gloop let loose in the Chocolate Factory. I left my family in the dust when we got there and they were worried about me being lost. But what they should have been worried about was me being that into prisons at age 10. I even got a shirt that said "Alcatraz Penitentiary: Swim Team" and wore it with pride. Eric loves Shark Week on Discovery Channel and he thinks orcas are awesome.
• I could sleep 12 hours every night. Eric knows every episode of Saved by the Bell.
• I went to a Boyz II Men concert when I was 13 and thought I was pretty tough. That was in my baggy jeans and oversized T-shirt/flannel phase. Kinda looked like Kurt Cobain but my hair was longer. In 9th grade, Eric had Hugh Grant hair (Notting Hill style - flowing locks, almost a bowl cut...).
• I was almost an art historian. I dream about living in Greece for a month just to take in the history, the food, the Windex-loving culture... Eric would love to be a radio sports talk show host - any sport, any level.
• We have been known to take conversations about Harry Potter to depths that no literate pre-teen has...

I tag Marjeanator and Clyde (separately), Stephanie, Mary, Godric Gryffindor, Craig, and Tina Fey.

K to the IWI

I have learned a lot of borderline useful pieces of info this last week... Like onions don't freeze well (shout out Jen) or the name of Paul Bunyan's BFF ox, thanks to our one-night friend, Dave (hint: it's not Big Blue, see poll). A "fun" discovery is that Davis can climb the outside of our stairs and we might have to get a special helmet for him after all. I found out that there's more to the bitter cold of Missouri that eats at your face - we have some decent sunrises, for all you vacationers out there. But most heartbreaking, and my personal least favorite tidbit, I'm definitely allergic to kiwi.
The Story of Kiwi

I love kiwi. You could say it's pretty much my favorite food besides artichokes. I would sometimes eat them with the skin on - I couldn't always wait to peel it. I even tried some kiwi juice while on vacation in Cancun with my family - though I like all things kiwi, let's just say that wasn't its best chemical state. And honeydew melon juice isn't as good as it sounds either. Anyway, last summer I downed a kiwi and noticed a weird film form in the back of my throat. No biggie, just coincidence. Later that week, when I had a fruit salad laced with delicious kiwi I noticed swallowing wasn't coming so naturally. Months went by and I avoided kiwi in the grocery store, at friends' houses, in the juice aisle, but never really admitting to myself that I had a problem. Then, in December, the shower came. A breakfast baby shower. Let's just say it took a scary amount of time to feel a hole in my "pie hole." But that didn't stop me. Apparently I was in deeper denial than I thought, 'cause I took one bite of kiwi today and I started having flash backs. I spit it out like it was frozen onion casserole. The withdrawals are depressing, especially since I just saw a clip of Martha Stewart showing an awestruck audience how to magically remove the skin of a kiwi. Stupid kiwi.

In Australia, I Would Have a Warm Birthday

Lunch with Nicole Harmon was delicious, appointment with Parents as Teachers was insightful, Davis' nap was long, and my date was fabulous (thanks Bro Fullmer for babysitting)- complete with snow and lots of "Happy Birthday"s. Just what the birthday doctor ordered. Today should actually be the last day of the birthday week but I forgot to start earlier. I still have 3 more days.

(Last) Rule #4 Pass on the birthday week love.

This is where you get to perfect your strategy for those who have made your week special and dish it right back when it's their turn. Thank you Eric, my sweet hunk of a husband, for being an anchor to this weeks fun and come April you're gonna get it. And I'm gonna give it to ya!

Day 3

Great day. My sassy nurse ladies, Stephanie and Sara, took me to lunch while pretending that Davis was not trying to climb on top of the table and the waiter was not secretly wishing that a tornado would touch down right on top of our table and suck us into its vortex and take only our table away. Stephanie's son Matthew is 3 months and an angel, he just sat there real cute-like and tried to be good publicity for us. But the damage was done and my little "Britney Spears" man was complaining enough for us to leave and play on the giant fruit. Overall, great people and good food and nobody took off their diaper. Eric had a birthday week treat for me at home and Davis ran himself silly around the house after dinner. Great day.

Rule #3 There will be at least one adventure of the birthday weekers choice.

One birthday week I took Eric camping with a our friend Kirsti - that was actually more of a delayed birthday wish of mine since you can't go camping in Utah in January. But this is the time that you go to that art museum or Gladys Knight on Ice (it could happen...). Something you wouldn't normally do. Some of you might go somewhere to sleep. That sounds like an adventure.

Day 2

It was one of those days where you feel like you take two steps forward, but then eggs are bowled across your kitchen floor and it's like taking two steps back. Not in a good, Paula Abdul song kind of way - I got nothing done. But I found a pair of pants that I thought were gone forever and gorgeous flowers magically appeared in my kitchen. Which brings me to...

Rule #2 Be ridiculously nice to the birthday weeker.

This means leave the last clean breakfast spoon, warm up the bed, don't throw yogurt on the floor (that should be easy for non-toddlers), and hand over the remote. Basically, do whatever you need to let the birthday weeker know that you feel like their birth was a true blessing, if you don't already do this on a daily basis. "Because it's my birthday week" works well here, too.

Happy Birthday Week To Me!

I tried to kick off my birthday week yesterday with a churro from Costco, but all the other kids got to them first. So, I decided that I would try my luck with starting birthday week today. It was a good decision since I woke up to pancakes and got a kiss on the lips, with a little tongue (literally little), from Davis. That's right, I said birthday week. That's what Eric and I have done since we were married. But we've never set guidelines for this week of total self-loving, "celebrate me, I was born" tradition.

Rule #1 The birthday weeker is always right.
If there is ever a dispute, birthday weeker simply states, "But it's my birthday week." KO - round 1! You gotta keep that one in your pocket at all times...

At Dinner

Eric - (mock exasperation) "Ahh, Davis! You threw guacamole crap on my pants..."
Jenny - (sarcasm) "Davis, tell daddy that guacamoles don't crap."
Eric - (wisdom) "Davis, tell mommy that there are no 'guacamoles' - they're avocados."

The funny thing was, Davis didn't say a word.