FYI

Just so that you'll know for the next time--

1) I am in love with InStyle magazine. I read it cover to cover and I love every page, every article--I dream about the boots (much less expensive versions of course), the faux fur vests (although I wonder if I could pull it off with my busty bust), the sparkly eye shadow and oh, how I dream of wearing red lipstick without looking like a hooker at the local 'FoodTown' picking up some grape tomatoes and sweet potatoes.

2) I'm mad at you Becca. That's right. We're in a fight. After all this time, your secrets have to be anonymous? What the what?? I already know about the time you made out with Taggart in college. Did her lips taste like a Whopper (with meat)?! Yeah, she wasn't a real vegetarian either. ha.ha.ha. The jokes on you.

3) I bought a $7 glittery tank top from Old Navy this weekend. I wasn't sure that I was going to like it at all, but I bought it anyway because it was only $7!! Well, turns out that it is my new favorite thing in the closet. I might wear it 5 of the 7 days this week.

4) My kids watched a lot of television today. I'm not thrilled about it, but oh, well, too late now.

5) I saw a recipe for braised short ribs and creamy polenta on 'Pioneer Woman' this morning and I think that I might actually have to buy beef ribs. I KNOW, I can't believe it either! It looked so good and quite easy--AND I've been having really good luck with the Dutch Oven lately, so I might have to go for broke.

6) I bought Jeff the new Andre Agassi biography at Costco. He's been pouring through it for two nights in a row. The dude loves tennis. He laughs at parts of the book. You really gotta love tennis from the '80s to laugh at parts of this book.

7) Didn't do the dinner dishes for the second night in a row. Figured that eventually Bruce would lug his fat butt up on the counter and drink the rest of the milk out of the kids glasses so at least we will be ready for breakfast.

Confess Your Sins

I KNEW it!! You know that gal that does the whole "confess your darkest secrets by putting them on a postcard and mailing them to her" thing? This is one that was recently submitted. I told you guys that I was really on to something. Seriously, I am a genius...in an incredibly disturbing/alarming sort of way.

Jeff can guess who the new Stake President is going to be weeks in advance, but I am only able to shark out the secret store poopers.

We each have special talents.

I really want to know what your secrets are--don't you want to share them with me? If I can get 10 of you to share your darkest secrets than I will reciprocate by sharing 10 (that's right 10) of my secrets.

Play this twisted game with me, please. Pretend it's for charity.

Veteran's Day

I wanted to post this yesterday, but between the 4AM wake-up call, the University of Utah teaching rotation, and the Veteran's Day choir concert, it just wasn't a possibility. Nonetheless, I have given some thought to this post.

Last night, we (me and the other 299 folks in the American Festival Chorus) hosted our 2nd annual Veteran's Day event at the KCH. I love it. I never tire of singing patriotic music. We closed the concert last night with the 'Battle Hymn of the Republic'--and honestly, when those men sang, "In the beauty of the lilies, Christ was born across the sea..." Oh, it was glorious. GLORIOUS! I had tears running down my face because it was so spiritual.

Military service.
Can I be really honest?
The cold, hard truth is that if Jack or Lachlan came to me and said, "I want to be in the military," I would freak out. freak. out.
Not because I don't love this country. Not because I don't have an absolute ache for every soul to feel safety, peace and freedom.
But because I'm not really sure that there will be an end to these current conflicts. And there aren't going to be any simple solutions. And more lives will be lost. And I think that it is going to take something great and terrible to end it all--and I'm not certain whether that will mean something like Hiroshima or something like Vietnam.

What I know for sure is that there are good people who wouldn't freak out. Yesterday evening, a Lieutenant Corporal shared his experiences of what it was like to pray with his fellow soldiers before they search for IEDs along roadsides in Iraq. I was so touched by his humility and strength. Ultimately, by his faith, that despite the circumstance they were going to do their impossible jobs. And I'm grateful for that.

My favorite part of the concert is when we sing the military anthems and ask the veterans to stand while we sing their prospective songs. Dr. Jessop always salutes them and they cheer and really it doesn't get any better than that moment. And I think about Grandpa Carver, he would have gotten a real kick out of being saluted by Craig Jessop (btw, he's a Lieutenant Colonel in the Air Force). Two short guys, with big hearts, they would have really enjoyed sharing Air Force stories. So for my grandfather, my Uncle Alan (stationed in ABQ), my dear friends the Meeks (stationed in CA)...I'll leave you with the best part of the song:

"Off we go into the wild blue yonder,

Climbing high into the sun;

Here they come zooming to meet our thunder,

At 'em boys, Give 'er the gun!

Down we dive, spouting our flame from under,

Off with one hell of a roar!

We live in fame or go down in flame.

Nothing can stop the U.S. Air Force!"

Do you believe in miracles?

It is almost two years to the day when we were about half-way through finishing our basement and Jeff said to me, "I'm going to move the stuff from the basement into the garage so that I can finish this project."

For the record, I KNEW that this was going to be a bad deal. I asked him how long that stuff was going to BE in the garage. He said, "a couple of months."

I agreed, but immediately went on anti-anxiety drugs.

For TWO YEARS I have lived with the shame that has been the state of our garage. I've been embarrassed to even open the garage door while pulling the car in if there have even been signs of neighbors on the street. I've even read two Dr. Phil books about coping with problems you cannot solve and dealing with the lingering pain of bad decisions.

But no longer. My prayer has ascended to heaven. It is with great pleasure, relief, gratitude and with resounding voice I announce that THERE. IS. A. GOD.

And he hath manifested himself in motivating Mr. Murray with an overwhelming desire to "get 'er done."

To the piles of ski boots, snowboards and drill bits, I bid you good-day.
To the mounds of bird seed, wads of plastic tarp, two bikes, two strollers, 4 kids' tables, 10 folding chairs, 3 garden hoses and some disgusting foam pads...good riddance. May you never block the path to the emergency exit again.

And now, for all you women out there who dream of a separate storage unit, or even a large burglary...hang in there. Keep your chin up. I'll count the Rosary for you at eventide.

Before:
After:

Doing Your Best

This morning I read this post from Segullah.

Angie and I both stood in the church hallway, bouncing our fussy babies on our hips. Our conversation turned to temple attendance. I sighed, “I’ve been going once a month to do sealings. I should probably go more often, but I’m doing the best that I can.” Angie stopped bouncing and looked at me, ”You’re not doing the best that you can. You could go more often. The temple is only five minutes away. I have two more kids than you and I go every week.” I was flabbergasted. I barely knew Angie. How dare she say that I wasn’t doing my best? But I thought about what she said for months. Was I doing my best?

“Just do your best.” We hear that all the time. Just do your best as parents and your kids should turn out OK. Just do your best as a wife, a student, an employee, a member of the ward. Technically “do your best”, should mean just that. Our best. The best we can do. But too often it seems like a copout. Too often “just do your best” ends up meaning “just do something”.

I think people use this phrase to mean, “don’t overdo everything and exhaust yourself trying to meet everyone’s expectations.” But is that what it’s supposed to mean? Or is it actually, “decide for yourself what ‘your best’ is and strive to meet that goal”?

What throws me off is the way that people rattle this phrase off whenever I do a poor job of something. My son gets in trouble at school? “Don’t beat yourself up”, says a kind neighbor; “you’re doing the best that you can.” But I’m not. Deep in my heart I know I could do so much more for my son. I think of all the ways I could help him. But it’s a lot of extra work. Some days I’m up for it, but most days I’m just too worn out or busy doing a million other things. It shouldn’t be that way, but that’s the truth. So it rankles me when people toss that phrase around. In so many ways I’m not doing my best: I squander my time. I don’t always choose what matters most. I could try harder at just about everything. I feel like I’m somewhere between decent and good in most areas of my life. But doing my best? I don’t think so. Unless “my best” is simply another way of saying “enough”.

Is “doing your best” just another way of condoning mediocrity or does this phrase remind you to strive harder for your goals? Or maybe it only reminds you that you can’t be perfect and to take it easier on yourself.

Wow. You know the phrase, "the guilty taketh the truth to be hard," well this post made me a little bit sick inside. Do any of you really know what it feels like to operate at your best? I've done some things that I know were good and I've had an occasional day that I knew was 'right up there.' But, to consistently strive for BEST. Hum, I'm really going to have to give this some thought.

Inappropriate, well probably.

I can probably count the number of minutes that I have spent in a men's restroom on one hand. There hasn't ever really been a reason for me to be involved with that whole situation. I had three sisters and zero brothers. In fact, now that I am sitting here dwelling on it, I think the only reason I've ever even visited a men's restroom was to clean it (or at least walk in and decide not to clean it).

What I want to know is that if they smell as bad as women's bathrooms? Seriously, what is it about a ladies bathroom--aside from the obvious--meaning specifically that it is a place to remove bodily waste products. Here's the thing, are there really that many women who think to themselves, "I'll just wait and take a poop while I'm at the Target (feel free to insert any 'away from home location' i.e., church, McDonald's, dentist's office)."

Now before some of you 'away poopers' feel threatened, I should mention that I recognize that some people get caught off guard, or you work a 12-hour shift, or you have a bout of explosive diarrhea. Hey, we've all been there. What I'm talking about here is the serious phenomena that exists in every ladies room--they stink! Every time. Every stall. Is it because we are already sitting down? Men don't have to sit and therefore, it causes me to wonder if there is some hesitancy to go all the way. I don't know, never really been in there.

I am beginning to wonder if Cousin Wil wasn't on to something with the "no poop policy." I have a special group of friends who are aware of his policy. We have laughed for years about it. Well, today, Cousin Wil, you're laughing now.

I Almost Ruined Halloween

I don't consider myself a lazy mom. Make no mistake, I'm not very good at this. I have few if any maternal characteristics and zero natural instinct, but lazy, no I don't think it's that. To get to the point, Jack had been talking about being a crocodile, since the first of August, for Halloween. He loves all things crocodile. He pretends there are crocodiles in every spare body of water (even his cup at the dinner table). The dude lives in a fantasyland where he rides, defends, thwarts, and avades numerous crocodiles. It is HIS thing.

And, hey, for the record, I am fine with him being a crocodile. But, I'm also not a big fan of the pomp and circumstance of Halloween...so I'm not forkin' over $20 for a EBay version of a crocodile costume. Which led to the frog costume that Aunt Sara already had, which led to the whole thought that I would let him put on the frog costume and just 'THINK' that he was a crocodile (you know, paint his face and put little sharp teeth on it). I seriously thought that he would just BELIEVE that this was a crocodile costume because I said so. AND, he's 2 years old--he would NEVER know the difference.

So, (I know this story contains a lot of 'so' and 'which'--I don't really know why, it's just happening) I got Lachlan all pimped out as a world-class fairy. I mean, pimped, as in a 4-year-old with a Jheri curl and body glitter. To be honest, she was so cute I took a million pictures. Here's a sample:

She wouldn't even stop to let me take a picture on her way into her preschool Halloween party. Here she is running from the car.

At the preschool party with her classroom treats. Right after I took this picture she asked me when I was leaving. It was probably because of how I was dressed...I would have been embarrassed if I had any dignity left at all.

On the way home from the preschool party, Jack begged to put on his crocodile costume. I thought it was probably a good idea because I had never even tried it on to see if it would fit.

When I pulled it out of the closet, I made sure to make a big deal about how this was a crocodile costume...we put it on and then went to look in the mirror. While looking in the mirror, he suddenly got huge tears in his eyes and looked just devastated--no, devastated doesn't even cut it, he was heart-broken--crushed. He looked at me with those tears rolling down his face and said, "Mama, this isn't a crocodile, it's a frog!" And then he sobbed.

I felt like a turd. And that, my friends, is edited for content.

I haven't been that sick about a bad decision in a long time. Oh, I felt terrible. And to make matters, worse I started saying that we would go to the store and find a costume and I would make it all better...and the whole time I'm thinking, "holy crap, it is the day before Halloween and the only thing that is going to be left in this town is a bad mask left over from the George Bush years."

And then I prayed the prayer of desperation...and then I prayed it again, and again, and again.

I really don't know who was helping me out on the 'other side'--who is the angel that is in charge of helping idiot mothers fix their own stupid, miscalculated mistakes the day before Halloween, but that ANGEL should get PROMOTED! Because we found a 2T dragon costume that frankly, I would have paid $75 dollars for, but due to the eleventh hour only cost $10 bucks.

My boy was thrilled because I threw in a brand new plastic sword (an additional, $3.50) and told him that it was "Puff, the Magic Dragon". [sigh] I can't imagine that there was ever greater relief felt regarding a purchase at Shopko.

And that, is the story of how I almost ruined Halloween, but was saved by a last minute miracle purchase and learned a good lesson about what is acceptable when trying to fool your own children and save a few dollars.

Thank you Hallow's Eve angel. Gold star for you.

Here he is, "Puff, the Magic Dragon":

Lastly, a postscript: I still had enough time to make my favorite Halloween treat. I tried a few new things this year. I used double-stuff Oreos over the carmel and chocolate. Oh, it is soooo good. I wasn't sure if I would like it, but it will be a mainstay from now on. I also tried candy-corn. I actually like candy corn, but it wasn't very good on the apples because you couldn't get the pieces to stay on when the apple was sliced. It just didn't look appetizing. Just a little FYI for my fellow apple dippers out there. Reese's pieces seemed to stay on better and they tasted very good.

what i want to remember about today

Jack asked (okay, screamed at me) that he needed more milk. I poured. He hastily pushed the cup away and said that he was full of milk.

Grrrrr....

I told him that he needed to drink his milk or sit in time out until he wanted to drink it. (There isn't any logic here, so don't try to insert any...just follow the story for what it is)

He ran down the hall bawling and screaming.
He sat in timeout for at least 15 minutes. When he finally calmed down, I asked him if he was ready to drink his milk. He was.

He drank it in two gulps.
I told him, "Thank you, now give me a high five."
High five.

He then proceeded to run back down the hall in his SpiderMan pajamas. He yells out, "I drank all my milk!" Then he punches his left fist high into the air and yells, "Yahoo!" and kind of does this skip-hop thing with his feet.

I want to remember that moment.
Just like that.
For the rest of my life.

Man, I love that kid.