Oh, Shoot!

This is the edition of my childhood

When I was a kid, my brothers and I would huddle on the floor in our living room and play round after round of Chutes and Ladders. (Well. Now that I think about it, perhaps it was just one round per go. I'll freely admit that I was a whiner, and big brothers can only take so much of a little sister who is a whiner before they lose all grip on sanity and lock the little whiner out of the house while they crank up some good Black Sabbath. Hi Gwyl! Ahem.)

Anyway. I clearly remember being deliriously happy with my good fortune whenever my beat-up and bent-in-half cardboard character would land on the mother lode ladder and I was able to walk my little character up to the top of that ladder, rung by rung, straight onto space "84." (That space is where sweet little Nurse Betty receives a gift from her very young and apparently parent-less patient after she puts a lethal tourniquet {too tight! too tight!} on his leg at the bottom of that mother lode ladder on space "28".) Ha! Look at me! Almost to space "100!" Until. Ooooooooh too bad. The spin of a "3" just dashed my little six-year-old hopes to smithereens. Whine.

It wasn't until very recently that a ginormous light bulb blinked into the "on" position over my head as I realized it wasn't "shoots" but "chutes." Holy cats, how many years have I been operating under misguided propaganda?! (Twenty is all I'm copping to.) But, holy cats! This rocked my whole world! It's "chutes?" Really? Not "shoots?" Jiminy.

So, I'm wondering, have you had an epiphany like that? One that suddenly hits you like a cast iron pan to the forehead (CLANK!) when, after many years (but twenty is all I'm copping to, right?) of thinking one way, you suddenly go, "Duh-uh! I. am. such. an. idiot."

Huh. Shoots vs. chutes. Get out!

By the by, the reason this revelation even came to bear is because I yet again forced Dave and Christian into servitude and demanded asked with a lot of honey in my voice that we all play a rousing game of Shoots, er Chutes (sorry, old habits die hard) and Ladders as part of our weekly Monday Evening Sagers Family Gala and Soiree. (Formal attire requested but optional.) Praise the Lord that both Dave and Christian have a high tolerance for whining, otherwise I'd for certain be banging on the door pleading and begging to be let back inside before Old Lady Clax* sics her dog on me out there in the dark--just me and my little beat-up and bent-in-half cardboard cutout self.

This is the edition I whine over now

*Another revelation! True story: It was only a month ago that I found out from my mom that Old Lady Clax is spelled "Old Lady Clax" and not "Old Lady Clacks." After all these years, that discovery just about blew my brains out. Wow.

While You're At It, Don't Forget About Weeping Willow Day!

And how about Quaking Aspen Day? Oh! And, don't blow off Crabapple Day, Birch Day, and Magnolia Day! Don't forget those!

Do you see it?

How about now?

Images courtesy of KSL 5 News from a recent

newscast regarding an incident that happened on F-R-I-day

*Okaaaaaay. All who think that I need an intervention, please raise your hand. And for those of you who are raising both hands and jumping up and down screaming, "get a grip, girl!" I know that I'm out of control here. I hear ya. So, is there a 12-step program for someone who is drawn to finding typos against her will? "Hello. My name is Deon, and I am a dork." It's not like I am Grammar Gertie; any 1 who reads my blog nose that I ain't so grate at puttin' out purfect righting sampels. See? Sheesh. My friend, Jeanne, feels my pain. She writes, "Gifes grater meening too reeding the knewspayper!" Jeanne! I think we're seoul cisterns!

And I think I need help.

Pinky Out! Remember: Pinky Out!

Since Miss Manners was apparently booked elsewhere (I'm thinking perhaps at Snooki's?--you know what a classy act she can be . . . ), our local tribe of fourteen tween-age girls asked me to (mis?)inform them on the do's and dont's of table manners. Why would they ask me? Me! Of all people!? Most likely it was because I am such a stellar example of the "dont's" of good manners, and we all know that it is as important to witness what NOT to do as it is to understand what one SHOULD do. I'll bet the leaders told those little girls to simply ignore much of my "do's", whispering to them throughout my presentation: "Pssst! Just ignore that part." "Pssst! That's waaaaay wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong." "Pssst! She doesn't know what in the high heck she's talkin' about. Just humor her until she hands out those chocolate bonbons. Then we are so outta here!"

Of course, I instructed them on the usual: Don't shoot peas through your drinking straw (or your nose--something might get stuck up there, and well, that's just gross); no elbows on the table (feet are sorta optional); wait for your hostess to leave the room before you surreptitiously jab your fork into your Uncle Herbert's thigh to get him to stop snoring and snap his head back up; and so forth.

The girls felt very grown up and all hoity-toity, but after a while, I could tell that if we didn't wrap up soon, the novelty would quickly wear off, and they would be back to flinging their garlic mashed potatoes into their best friend's ear. (Aaah, I can so relate to that. I'm still washing the pepperoni smell out of my hair from our little guy's latest rant at Chuck E. Cheese. He so, so, so wanted to ride that mechanical pony, but the manager very clearly and succinctly stated, "nuh uh." Whoa. Look out! MAJOR MELTDOWN THAT DAY!!! . . . okay jk about that. But it COULD HAVE happened--he does like his mechanical ponies, I must say . . .)

I wanted to inspire these little princesses to seek their extraordinary potential, so I left them with this thought:

A true princess isn't a diva;

a true princess recognizes that she is a

daughter of God and acts accordingly.

That goes for our little prince too. Right, coughdavecough Buckeroo Boy?

jk about that Chuck E. Cheese meltdown. But just TRY to deny him his nightly dose of Lucy and Ricky and Ethel and Fred--then you really would see more than just a meltdown; you just might see a grown buckeroo cry.

For the Serventless Cook

Do you see the hand on the hip?

Always on the hip. Right, Julia?

Okay, okay. OKAY! I get it! We can't all be Julia Child. But that doesn't mean that we aren't allowed to put our hand on our hip (always on the hip) and talk with that wonderful throaty droll as if we had mashed potatoes in our mouths, now does it?

Soon after buying Julia's cookbook, a purchase inspired by the movie, Julie & Julia, (read about that loopy exploit here), we three wizards of the culinary arena decided to take a crack at one of the (not-so-simple) souffle' recipes.

(Sidebar {and you knew there would be a sidebar, cuz this is ME blogging}: After a recent second viewing of that darling movie, I was reminded of how narcissistic blogging truly is--or can be. That Julie character was just a touch (read: a lot!) annoying to me, what with her self-centered need for people to read her blog and all. Anyway! Enough about me and what I think. Let's talk about you. What do you think of me and my blog? yuk. yuk. Meanwhile, back at the ranch . . . )

I can't really recall how we came to settle on this particular recipe, all I know is that there were a lot of spoons and hands in the pot. "My turn! It's my turn! Let me break the eggs! Wah! I wanted to whisk!" Geez, Dave can be such a pill at times.

We quite surprised ourselves with our first attempt at a Julia Child recipe. And that's sayin' something because, honest to pete, those recipes are not for the faint of heart nor for the "serventless cook," as they claim. As it was, had we used a proper souffle' dish, I'm quite certain we would have given Chuck-A-Rama a run for its money. Pause. Blink, blink. Pause. Well, let's just say that no one had to call poison control. Now, I call that a raging success! (You would call it a success too if you had poison control answering your multiple calls with, "Dave? Christian? Is this you? Again? I thought I told you to keep her away from that blasted kitchen! We're running low on antidotes this month, and it's not fair to the other poisonees!")

Here then, I offer up SOUFFLE' DE SAUMON (pronounced in a charming French accent and as if one's mouth was overflowing with russets):

The souffle' is served!

Luv her.

And, the humiliation never ends for Dave and Christian. However, I, for one, think they look like a pair of Dapper Dans in their toque/miter/bonnet thingys as they try to keep me as pacified as possible.

I'm Guessing Her Family Was Surprised!

My most constant source of lively entertainment (my local newspaper, remember?) served up a feast on a silver platter Friday:

The caption reads:

Nathan Osmond jokes with his grandmother,Olive Osmond, on stage at the Onion Days kickoff on Wednesday at the Peteetneet Outdoor Amphitheater in Payson.

Unfortunately, Mrs. Osmond (bless her heart) passed away in 2004. 2004, guys! Even more unfortunate, most of her offspring, off-offspring, and off-off-offspring (there's a lot of them!) live in this valley, thus most likely making up a huge portion of this very newspaper's readership. Um, until now, I'll just bet. Oh, snap.

*Being the responsible newspaper consumer that I am, when I phoned and spoke with the executive editor of the paper for clarification (oh, yes I did), he was none to happy to be called out on the issue of the undead. Or maybe he had just eaten some bad Chinese food. I couldn't quite tell which. Needless to say, I didn't inquire after his family or his pets--get in, get out is my motto when things turn icy like that.

Packin' (and Packing)!

And speaking of Mormon missionaries (and we were, weren't we?) . . .

Apparently, due to the {quote} UNRELIABLE BUSES* {unquote} in Honduras, Elder Sean's return date has been delayed two days so that he isn't required to travel on the {quote} UNRELIABLE BUSES* {unquote} without another elder with him. k. Can't get that boy home soon enough. And I highly doubt I'm reading too much into what Elder Davis from Sean's mission office said to me on the phone yesterday about the {quote} UNRELIABLE BUSES* {unquote}. I mean, seriously. You guys didn't forget about this, did you?:

Sean's packin' heat, as we say in the biz

Anywho!

Elder Sean returns on

September 30!!!

*"Unreliable buses" has gotta be code for "extremely unsafe and, in fact, highly dangerous buses," as in never, ever, ever let your Rolex and/or your Louis Vuitton man-bag garner too much attention while traveling without a posse of at least seven to nine other elders by your side. What you might be doing on a rickety bus in Honduras while wearing/carrying a Rolex and/or a Louis Vuitton man-bag is another story and beside the point.

A Little Too Revealing?

I think I have stumbled upon what could be a breakthrough in the study of personality orders. Or perhaps in my case, the study of personality DISorders. (Calling Dr. Freud! Calling Dr. Freud! Emergency! Emergency! Come right away!) Read on.

We picked up a bit of salsa along with our take-out from Rubio's. Yeah, yeah. Back off. We really don't eat out that often. Remember this? Good job. Besides, on Wednesday's particular detour, we were simply trying to support the babe-a-licious American Fork Marching Band with the generous help of Rubio's. {Shout out!} So anyway. We came home with this funky salsa. And here's where things veered smack dab into what has to be a gleeful psychoanalyst's idea of heaven: We three musketeers each had a drastically different take on the aroma of the salsa. (By the by. Did you know that aromas can conjure up much more poignant stop-you-dead-in-your-tracks memories than even sight? Smelling that same odor I whiffed in the hallway that particular day in fifth grade at Rock Canyon Elementary brings memories of sad little Mark McK*** rushing back much stronger than seeing him again ever would. That poor janitor with his sawdust and mop. How did he bear up, I wonder?)

Here now are the very telling results of our funky salsa sniff test:

CHRISTIAN: "This smells a lot like coffee."

DAVE: "Nope. It smells kind of like Honey Smacks.

ME: "You're both wrong. It smells exactly like pot."

Sigmund? Your thoughts?

The. Best. Day. Ever.

As if I needed any more reminders of how extraordinarily kind and indulgent my newly minted high school senior is . . . wait a minute! JUST WAIT A DING DONG MINUTE! Huh? High school senior? How did that happen so soon? I never gave my a-okay for that to happen. I gotta speak to whoever is in charge here. Stop it. Just stop it. Right now. A high school senior? Really? Rats. Anyway, (a senior? seriously? pout, pout) he went and proved his awesomeness all over again by spending his very last day of freedom with his mama while looking at lots of purty flowers. And lots of grass. And lots of fountains. And lots of oldish bones. Because she wanted him to. And so he did. And he did it with a glad heart and a bright smile. And that's one of the reasons why I love him so.

Farmer Dave and His Harvest!

I don't know about ya'll, but I'm already stuffed right to the gills just looking at that bounty! I've got all sorts of plans for these two awesome carrots! Carrot cake! Carrot muffins! Carrot bread! Carrot coleslaw! Glazed carrots! Ginger carrots! Maple carrots! Goodness, who knows what else; I'm just giddy thinking about it all! Good job, Farmer Dave. Looks like you could teach the Jolly Green Giant a thing or two! (Apparently, Little Green Sprout seems to disagree. He was reportedly overheard saying, "Ho, ho, ho." Now, now, Little Green Sprout. Remember, if you can't say somethin' nice . . . )

What Are the Odds?

Take a minute to thoughtfully consider the sticky wicket situation of a raffle and/or lottery being held in a state where such nefarious activity is widely known and understood to be against the law aka eeelegul. As in, NOT legal; as in, banned; as in, criminal; as in, crooked; as in, don't-do-it-or-you-might-find-yourself-in-the-pokey-sharing-a-5X8-cell-with-some-big-bruiser-named-Bubba. Hmmm, let's think. Who in their right mind would dare do such a thing and risk getting caught by the cops for both organizing and facilitating said shady behavior?

Ah.

I see.

Click on image to read about my awesome PD

Sorry 'bout that, Chief. Trust us, it'll never happen again . . . as far as YOU know.

This Will Just Take Me a Sec . . .

Pardon me for just a wee bit while I have an itty bitty teensy private pity party for myself:

OKAY! I'm good! I'm good now! Good to go! I had to give in to it for just a jiffy, but I'm good.

(Waaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh. k. I'm good now. Waaah. Seriously. I'm fine. I'm just dandy. Waaaaah. Totally good.)

AJK Update: For those of you who also read Ashley's blog, I'll tell you that she is without Internet service for the moment so she can't post anything quite yet. I'll just give you a quick update and let you know that she, Jordan, Kimball and Dave all arrived safe and sound in La Jolla, and from the sound of things, they must have landed in Shangri-La-La-Land. No joshin'! I won't steal her totally awesome news, but I will tell you that it doesn't sound like her Relief Society ladies from her church congregation go about business as usual. Rather, how does a Relief Society Mid-week Surfing Club grab ya? No lie.

Aaaannd, They're Off!

The bad news:

Our last hoorah

The good news:

They are moving to . . .

DUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUDDDDE!

LA JOLLA, CALIFORNIA!!!

"The Jewel of San Diego," as they say!

Seriously. If Ashley & Company had to leave me, they definitely chose the perfect place with which to entice me for a visit, especially during Utah's "Months of Hades" as I like to call them, i.e., November, December, January, February, March, April, and more often than not, May, and sometimes June--I like it HOTTER THAN HADES don'tcha know. Southern California's happy sunshine will lure me like a moth to a flame. Sort of like Rod Blagojevich being lured to the paparazzi. No. Sort of like Rod Blagojevich being lured to lots of hair product while preening in front of the paparazzi. {And let's just cross our fingers and toes that Rod's mothy hair isn't lured to any sort of a flame shall we? Yeow! Clang, clang! Sirens! Head on fire! Head on fire!}

All of this as if getting to see Kimball wasn't enticement enough! Duh.

I feel a road trip comin' on!

Who's in?!!!!!!!

Heaven Help Me

I'm stuck. Totally at a loss for the perfect words. (And for those of you who regularly read my ramblings here, I'm quite confident you deem me so annoyingly verbose that as you read each post you simply want to slap your forehead and shriek at me through your monitor to JUST CLAM UP AND GET TO THE DING DONG POINT ALREADY! Heads are nodding at that.) (Ooh! While we're on the subject . . . I know, I know, I'm only digging a deeper grave for myself. But anywho! Just gotta point out that now you might understand why I haven't even entertained the notion of being a tweeter. It would probably take up to eight, maybe nine tweets for me to merely inform ya'll that I'm STILL stuck behind check-writing-granny at Hot Topic (say what?) in the University Mall. 140 characters per tweet? Uh, no. 14,000? Now you're talkin', mister.)

But, this time around the words aren't coming.

My precious Ashley and Jordan and Kimball will be leaving in two (waaahhh) days. Leaving. As in, U-Haul leaving. As in, moving far away. Far away from me.

My feelings about this are all a tumble-jumble. I am so happy that they have the opportunities to continue with Jordan's schooling and further him on the path to his awesome dream job. But, then.

Yes, then.

So, yeah. They will be moving far away. From me. How do other moms/grandmamas do it? My heart is so tender right now, and I seriously have no words . . . except to say with a little catch in my throat: Oh, how I love them so! My oh my, how I love them. With all of my heart. And all of my soul. I love them so.

Hey? Do me a huge-ish favor and indulge me? Watch these videos I put together of my sweet Ash and her little fam. These will rip your heart right out of its socket. They do mine.

If you click on the four-arrow icon, it will show in full-screen mode. Sorry I couldn't stream them together--I'm just not that tech-savvy. IMPORTANT: Sorry about the third video, cuz apparently I'm treading on somebody's music copyright (Hey, Sony! Loooove you, David Gilmour!), so if it doesn't play for you, you'll have to do some heavy lifting, and click on the arrow as if to start the video, then click where it will subsequently say, "Watch on YouTube." Do that, and it'll take you right to it. No detours, I promise.

"She's leaving home. Bye, bye."

--Lennon/McCartney

Heaven help me.

Sigh.

So. It Is Confirmed.

I am a nerd.

If you want proof positive that I am, in fact, a nerd, I'm going to give you all of the proof you could possibly need. After that, go ahead and laugh and point fingers at my latest in nerdiness nerd-dom. And, I know you will, so don't try to be coy about it as if you were a 16-year-old girl slyly whispering behind her hand to her friend that their other friend ("friend?" yeah, right) has ugly bangs. You all know what I'm talking about--don't deny it.

On to the point. I preface this by defending our household's eating habits, and I state for the record, Your Honor, that we rarely dance the Fast-Food-Tango. We eat fast food about as often as I get a new pair of shoes. No. Wait. That's way more often than what I mean. Rewind: We eat fast food about as often as Dave has heartburn. Stop. No, no, no. That's almost every night, and we don't do fast food almost every night. Okay, everybody! Back to your places and let's try this again from the top: We eat fast food about as often as Christian has the rare evening without girls knocking down our front door in a swoon. And that's about once in a blue moon. Cuz if we're going to eat out, I want service! I want silverware! I want plates that don't say C-H-I-N-E-T! I want finger-bowls! I want a linen napkin placed in my lap with a snap and a flourish! I want a crumb-sweeper-waiter-dude-guy-person! Certainly not too much to ask.

But on this occasion (after I was struck loopy with a flash of genius for this experiment), I insisted that we stop and pick up fast food . . . ON PURPOSE!!! I know! Livin' life large here, people! And, get this! Not only did we go through one drive-thru, we went through three!

Whoa. Is the apocalypse coming or what???

It just so happens that I had this excellently brilliant idea of performing our own non-scientific experiment in our own kitchen non-scientific home lab using our own non-scientific equipment. Brilliant, no? (Don't you love that word, "brilliant"? You could also substitute the words "nerdy, nerdy, nerdy" for the word "brilliant" in this particular case and still be completely accurate. Go back and try it.)

My "brilliant" quest was to determine which $1 cheeseburger from the three major fast food chains reigned supreme in terms of taste, ability to satiate, and heft. Yeah, yeah, nerdy. (Greasy spoon joints like Ripples in Provo or the grill at Downata Hot Springs in Ideeeho are not a part of this equation because we all know that the greasier, the better, and they would win {greasy} hands down.)

Here are our extremely unscientific methods:

And here are our extremely unscientific results:

Nummiest Tasting: McDonald's

Most Satisfying to the Palate and Tummy: McDonald's

Portliest (meant in the kindest way): Burger King

*A special shout-out goes to Dave and Christian for being my lab partners/cohorts in crime. They have gradually resigned themselves to the fact that I will drag them from here to kingdom come in my nerdy quests, and they have long since learned that, in the end, it is just better to roll with me and my ways; it is so much quicker and a ton less painful for everyone involved if they just buck up and do as I say. :)

NEXT UP: French fries, baby! (Stop it. You have your hobbies, I have mine.)

Scrumdillyumptious!

You saw this. Now have a go at this video and simply imagine how many foreheads were slapped before this thing wrapped for good. Also check out the dude getting attacked by a little sapling at the :30 and the 2:22 mark. Do you think he scored an extra ice cream cone from the BYU Creamery for that sacrifice? Oh, the price of fame.

(I love the U of U shirt serving as the understudy. Didn't quite nail the audition, apparently.)

1/2 = A Screamin' Party, Party!

Do you remember when you were a kid and you counted your age not by years, but by "AND A HALF!" As in, "My name is Lucie Ruth Mabel, and guess what? I'm fo' AND A HALF!!!" Whatever you do, don't forget the "AND A HALF!" if you want to score points with little dudes and gals.

So, Kimball has joined the club and recently celebrated his "AND A HALF!" birthday. Can you say, P-A-R-T-AAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYY! Daddy Jordan has further won my heart by showing his awesome shopping-for-presents prowess! Good on ya, Jordan!

My, my, my, this baby is scrumptious.

Once again, sorry about the graininess of the video; I originally thought that my lame-o camera had an attitude. You must know what's coming: It turns out it was just lame-o me. Shucks. Perhaps I shouldn't apologize for the graininess; perhaps I should just tell you that I was aiming for the oh so avant-garde treatment with my footage. Yeah, that's the ticket. And, I like it.

Special thanks to Christian, my editor extraordinaire!

Addicted

I swear I want to quit. I know I should. But, jiminy cricket, splendid editing like this shows up on an almost daily basis (no foolin') and keeps me ponying up for the renewal year after year. I guess this newspaper's editors aren't as bubble-headed as one would suppose. I admit it--they're effectively stringing me along with this stuff . . .

Please click on image to get your own fix

On a semi-related note, aren't all of those suns lined up in a row a beautiful thing? Except for that pesky Tuesday with the grumpy rain cloud butting into things. But no worries! Thanks to the aforementioned splendid editing, that day had already come and gone by the time this edition was off the presses. Neato how that works.