"Be Careful What You Wish For: A Cruel Twist" by Gimpy Sagers

*****

Remember this pic of my lovely new shoe? Me too. In fact, just looking at it sets off those familiar bells and whistles in my head as my hankering to buy more and more new shoes continues to forever be a presence at the top of my "things to do today" list. And by gum! I got my wish! . . .

Ta da!

To the casual observer, this may look like any old walking cast, but to the fashionistas who take note of such things, this is a walking cast taking its inspiration from an unlikely source: the ubiquitous swim flipper. Don't you think Mr. Blahnik would be green with envy? Actually, the up and coming designer was able to artfully achieve an exquisite balance between sophistication and edginess, creating an interesting yet beautifully unfussy bit of footwear. At least that's what I keep telling myself with every other step I take.

She is Game for Anything!

Following the BYU v. Oklahoma PART-EE (WOOT! WOOT!) a few weeks back before "The Debacle" (groan, moan and wail), BYU fans spent the hours after the game flooding the streets of Provo and congregating around the football stadium all while their winning team was still way down south in Texas, ya'll. Amid all of this ruckus and romp, people were driving their cars willy nilly honking their horns looooong and looooud as if trying to wake the Grateful Dead. And guess who was in the middle of all of the chaos? Mom. Yup. 91-year-old Mom. Mention any shindig, and she's in the thick of it; she's such a hoot and a holler!

Alas! Wut up BYU? FSU 54 - BYU 28?

. . . uh, better luck tomorrow . . .

Twelve Down, Twelve to Go

(This photo is as old as the soda in that vending machine in the background, but it is the last I've received from my sweet Sean. Yeah, I know! I am dying, too! Absolutely dy-ink! Can't someone, anyone, run on down to Central America and snap a few for me? Thanks a bunch! I really appreciate it.)

HAPPY ONE-YEAR ANNIVERSARY

TO THE MOST AWESOMEST, HANDSOMEST, HUMBLEST, DEDICATEDEST,

DARLINGEST, WONDERFULEST, MAGNIFICENTEST, ENCREDIBLEST

MISSIONARY IN THE WORLD!

I ADORE THIS BOY!

What more can I say? If I do say more, I'll be mopping up the keyboard with Kleenex lest I electrocute myself with my own tears. Just don't get me started. Ask my family. They're always standing behind me making slashing motions across their throats, shaking their heads while mouthing "NO!", whenever anyone asks about Sean. Then they give up in defeat knowing that I can't be stopped. I'm on a roll talking and crying about my precious son then. And family prayer? Let's just say that when it is my turn to say it, the others just begin to talk amongst themselves right there in the middle of the "grateful for" part of the prayer because I get a little verklempt, and the prayer comes to a screeching halt. But let's be clear: I shed tears of joy, tears of pride, tears of love, immense love, unmeasurable love, a love that turns my insides out, a mother's dearest love, an unconditional love which no words could ever manage to define. That's why the tears. Now, seriously. I need a hanky.

Dead Dad's Curve?

Saddened that he can't ride our dirt motorcycles to school because they aren't street legal, Christian decided he should have a street motorcycle.

We decided that he shouldn't.

The end.

No, actually, to assuage his obedient/accepting but disappointed spirit, we decided to dust off the old deathtrap, otherwise known as the Fiat, so Christian could sort of get the feeling of driving a street bike with the wind in his hair as well as the rain on his head when he forgets to put the top back on.

Some history about the Fiat: My older brother saved his pennies and bought his very first car (the Fiat) when he was about 21. That was in 1979. Until we bought the car from him about three years ago, he babied it and pampered it and did everything a responsible car owner should do to make a car hang in there for 30 (thirty!!!! can you believe it?) years. Click and Clack would be so proud. Then Sean drove the Fiat for over a year before leaving for a land with even smaller cars--the cars there are so small they can't really be seen by the naked eye. That's why buses and feet are Sean's basic modes of transportation. You can't see those cars. So tiny. So very, very tiny. Invisible, actually.

So anyway, there we were, thinking, yes! Perhaps the Fiat was the alternative to Christian's quest of acquiring that mussed and tousled look of "helmet (quite unforgivable) hair" and having bugs stuck in his teeth. He was game. I documented his first go, and jiminy cricket, you should have seen Dave's face! The look of horror and fear was unforgettable. Ah. Sorry. I was remembering the first time he saw me without makeup. But truthfully, Christian finessed that temperamental clutch so well it was as if he had been hanging with the ol' gang at Le Mans his whole life. Take a gander:

Sean apparently wanted to be remembered while he was away, so he left a sweet little calling card on the driver's door. And it works like a charm! We always remember him when we look at that side of the car, bless his heart.

See what I mean about a "deathtrap?" A Hummer would happily eat the Fiat for a happy-hour hors d'oeuvre. This little thing could probably fit underneath a semitrailer with no one the wiser. Great way to elude the cops if that particular need comes up yet again . . .

I've Got Some 'Splainin' to Do

My mention of the "Third Day" in my last post? Actually it was meant to reference the Third Day of the Creation. Apparently, in my attempt to swing my personal loquacious pendulum from being waaaaaayyy too wordy to the side of being (or at least trying but failing) to be artsy and vague, I was vague but not so artsy. What I really should have said was that I am super-dee-duper grateful for the flowers of this earth. My heart goes nuts whenever I see God's gorgeous handiwork in a fresh bouquet. Especially when it is in my own house. In my own kitchen. On my own counter. That's what I should have said. Amen.

"Whenever I Touch a Velvet Rose . . . "

I love coming downstairs and seeing these each morning.

The "Third Day" was certainly time well spent, don't you think?

I'm Into Retail Therapy

My heart was absolutely broken into pieces last week. I went shoe shopping. Somebody should have shot me dead as a doornail right then and there before I had a chance to enter that first store. (Please hum "Taps" as you read on.)

What was the very first thing I saw as I walked inside? No, not those really creepy avant garde mannequins with totally blank faces whose images haunt meek and skittish housewives for nights on end. And no, not one of those women who aggressively attack shoppers with the latest in celebrity perfumes which, in reality reek to high heaven. Especially that Paris Hilton one. P. Ew. (And, I always feel so sorry for those little old guys who can't quite hobble away fast enough before they are drenched in something from the Les Fleurs Collection. Wife: "Bernard! Why do you smell like that?" Husband: "Don't ask me, Edith. I was just walking along minding my own . . . ." Wife: "I want a divorce!")

So, c'mon! Guess! Guess what I first saw when I walked into the store? I SAW BOOTS! Thousands and thousands (well, ten or so) pairs of boots. As in freezing, yucky, winter-weather footwear! Heaven help me. I just about called 911, or 411, or whatever, because I couldn't get my bearings straight. I thought I had just died and gone to "the land down under" because this certainly couldn't be my world. BOOTS??? Honestly. Can't we just skip over that whole messy business of snow, ice, freezing toes and fingers, and hideous holiday-themed sweaters? Just once? Just this once? Please, oh please, oh please with sugar on top?Just humor me on this, won't you? Seriously. Really. I mean it.

Well, I decided to console myself as best as I could. It did help . . . some.

Hey, Do You Happen to Have Handy the Number for the Editor of National Geographic?

As Kimball and I were outside watering the potted plants on my front porch, I went to "deadhead" one of the spent geraniums, but almost "deadheaded" this praying mantis. (Aaack/shiver/shudder!) The little bug (and I say that tongue-in-cheek because it actually was a BIG bug close to the size of a Mickey Mantle baseball bat, if you really want to know) was in the process of eating his lunch which consisted of a yellow jacket bee, complete with head, eyeballs, wings, stinger, most everything one would normally request the chef to leave off of one's bee when lunching in polite company. It really was fascinatingly creepy, depending on your personal gross-out factor.

I could hardly wait for Christian to return home from school to photograph the image which will now and forever be seared into Kimball's brain probably causing nightmares, or more likely, a career in mounting insects on Styrofoam boards using little dressmaker pins. Unfortunately, Christian arrived after the bee luncheon was over, but Mr. Mantis did consent to posing for a few paparazzi body shots. Ah, I love having an in-house photographer--it is such a luxury.

Click to enlarge--you won't be sorry

Note the clarity, beauty, and detail of the disgusting barbs on the legs and antennae.

It also appears that the praying mantis took a liking to the pink flowers, for he then oh-so-carefully clutched a bit of one in his left paw/claw/talon thingy, probably hoping in desperation to mollify his wife with it since he ended up devouring her share of the bee. (Whoa boy, is he ever gonna pay . . .)

*You can lend your support to Christian by going here and clicking "Yes! I dig it." Gee, you guys are just the best!

And the Winner Is . . . .

Thanks to one and all for being loopy enough (don't take that personally, people) to enter my little Caption Contest. And now, without further ado, I present the winning caption of my first annual and probably only Caption Contest:

"Although we appreciate his enthusiasm, Grandpa's desire to demonstrate to Kimball the appropriate methods of eating a bowl of cereal unfortunately landed him in the hosptial for over-consumption of Lucky Charms...it was the marshmallows."

--Submitted by Jordan

JORDAN! YOU WON! YOU LUCKY DOG!

First runner up:

"Now I wish I would have ordered the 'bowl' of soup; this 'cup' of soup just isn't going to hold me over til dinner."

--Submitted by Anonymous

Second runner up:

"Objects may appear larger than they are."

--Submitted by Beth

So there you have it! To read all of the entries, please go here.

Now that you see that I really DID deliver on my promise of awarding the winner the uber-to-die-for!!! box of Cap'n Crunch, I bet the rest of you are eating your hearts out wishing that you would have ponied up a cleverish idea for my cheesy contest. Cuz just think: It could have been you inhaling mega-grams of sugar in a single bowl of cold cereal at this very moment, launching you off into a state of nervana wanting more and more of it as you desperately struggle to maintain the ultimate sugar rush. [Excuse me just a sec. Oh, yoohoo! Jordan? How's it going there with that recent restless leg syndrome, by the way? And your fidgeting problem? Have you had any sleep at all? Since last Monday, I mean?] Anyway. See? Told ya. Just think what you nonsubmitters are missing. Dude! It coulda been you swinging from the ceiling fan. Just sayin'.

Save the Liver!

Do you know why I adore receiving packages on my doorstep? Because sometimes those packages contain something awesomely wonderful like THIS!:

After seeing, "Julie & Julia" during its opening weekend, we barely let our eyeballs adjust to the outdoors before we dashed across the parking lot to Borders to buy this book because I was feeling extremely inspired by the movie. I fell in love with Julia Child. And with Meryl Streep, whose performance was nothing short of brilliant. The other half of the movie? The part with Julie? Meh. It was rather pedestrian and mediocre. Not bad, but on its own it would probably be at the $1.50 theater before you could master your Boeuf Bourguignon. As a whole, though, the movie was charming and tasty to watch.

One word of caution, however. The four-letter word that shows up so unnecessarily in PG13 movies these days makes its appearance once. And only once. But not in any small way. Oh boy. You can't miss it. Just ask the pack of blue-hairs who were sitting exactly one row in front of us. When they heard "the word" they went nuts with their "tsk, tsks," and their "oh for pete's sakes," and their "well, I nevers!" They eventually sat back down but only after the manager told them not to throw their Diet Cokes at the screen anymore.

We rushed home and watched "The French Chef" on PBS and on Hulu.com. (I love that site, Hulu.com. Have you visited it? So cool. Did you know you can watch full episodes of "Bewitched," its slightly inferior knock-off, "I Dream of Jeannie," and even "Welcome Back, Kotter." Remember that one? So Sorry. Yeah, I do too.) So, to view a true classic of Julia in action, click here. Did you click? Do it! Not yet? I'll wait. Tap, tap, tap. Are you back? Onward!

So back to my book! Ah, j'étais si triste! We discovered that Borders was completely sold out (of course), so I did what I seem programmed to d0 no matter how hard!!! (not all that much, really) I try to resist: I went shopping at home. Bought the book off of the Internet. Bless you, Al Gore. Where would I be today without you? Okay. I hear you, Dave. You're thinking, "Where would you be?! WHERE WOULD YOU BE?!!! Why you, or rather, we, would be a lot richer if not for that Al Gore Internet shopping doodad of yours." But Dave, you really must consider all of the money I save in gas . . . .

And finally (yay!), here we have Dan Akroyd doing a spot-on impression of Julia Child for SNL back in the day. DISCLAIMER: The advertising appearing before the video does not necessarily reflect the opinions of this blogger. DISCLAIMER PART DEUX: If you are at all squeamish or if there are small children in the room, you may wish to stop the video at about the 2:00 mark. But maybe not. It's totally your call. I'll just say that it's not real blood. I'm pretty sure it's not. Hard to say, now that I think about it . . . . Anyway! Here you go:

Coz Every Girl Grazy Bout A Sharp Dressed Man

Christian was recently crowned the "Best Dressed Guy" at his buddy's 16th birthday party. The party had a tropical island theme, and the kids were invited to dress the part. I think Christian was gunning for the older chicks with his choice of the dark socks and the hat which is always a dead giveaway of a Yul Bryner hairdo hiding underneath. Class-ee! GQ is going to come crashing down his door any moment now. Just you wait, 'Enry 'Iggens, just you wait!

The party featured Polynesian dancers, tiki torches, hula dancers, a tutorial on the Haka dance, etc. I could totally spy on the festivities just barely catch a glimpse of the festivities from my upstairs balcony. From my vantage point on the balcony, I could see that the boys were bare chested but had their pants on during the Haka dance; I'm just wondering what the other surrounding neighbors who couldn't see the dancing were thinking when they heard the DJ loudly announce on the PA that it was now time for the boys to put their clothes back on. (I think I actually snorted at that point.)

Here is a video of the BYU football team doing their Haka thing:

Don't say anything, but that guy wearing No. 70? He's got me just a little scared. Intense is what springs to mind here. Very, uh, intense.