You da Man

When our piece o' crud garage opener decided to go belly-up Monday, E attempted the necessary repairs. I don't know what he did out there, but I did hear the garage door succumb to the forces of gravity in such a shocking manner that I felt compelled to peek out to see if 911 should be called and fast. E conceded and called the repair company to come the next day and the man informed me the sprockets were sprung, the mother board circuitry gadget thingies were blown and there was gunk in the bushings and gaskets. Or something like that. Anyway, R.I.P. old Genie opener.

Now, I pass along the diagnosis and the quote for replacement to E, and he thinks for a minute and does a few quick calculations and decides against his better judgement to tackle the project himself. And dog-gone-it, you know what? He did it. And the best part is our new belt-driven Liftmaster DOESN'T sound like a freight train under Wonderboy's bedroom. A new garage opener has literally changed our lives, people. Do you hear me? Changed. Our. Lives.

And since I'm on the subject of men being manly and getting things done and all that, here is Wonderboy taking out the trash. In case my photography skills, the low light level, and overall size of the photo are not adequate to allow you to appreciate the finer details here, I'll tell you he is taking out the trash at 5:00 p.m. in a combination of Ratatouille and Cars Movie pajamas, a leather belt and cowboy boots. And this was only after we insisted he remove the Hanes briefs he had fashioned into a head wrap, and the assortment of extra clothes he had stuffed into the belly and bottom of the pajamas to creat a rather surprising Boobah likeness.

Derby Day

Race day was yesterday. Our first race day, in fact. In preparation, E and Wonderboy gave the car several coats of laquer, installed tail lights and racing stripes. They lubed axels, checked wheels, and coached the driver (Star Wars' Anakin turned out to be the best qualified, since you're probably wondering).

There was a buzz of excitement as the boys looked over the cars and eyed each other's design choices.

Anakin took fifth place, which apparantly was a little disappointing...

...Until the realization set in that medals were awarded to the top five racers. Lucky for Anakin, too. Things were looking a bit tenuous for the little racer. Looked to me like he might have been out of a job.

Cue Hallelujah Chorus

A new keyboard - and the all important "A" - and I'm one jubilant gal.

It's really the little things, isn't it?

In Honor of This History-Making Day

Really. You have no idea how much I crack myself up.

Missionaries Coming for Dinner: A Prep Course

We were 'feeding the missionaries' last night, and because I often lay awake at night dreading the things my children tend to say and do when other adults visit our home, I figured a little pop quiz was in order. Sort of a true/false quiz except the possible answers were appropriate/inappropriate. (My children will need years of therapy one day for my overuse of the word 'appropriate'.)

I began by suggesting scenarios like "eating with our fingers?" and "interrupting?" and they were quickly and easily distinguishing the appropriate behaviors from inappropriate. Things got interesting when they began suggesting scenarios of their own devising. It went something like this...

Wonderboy: I know! We should not talk about gross things like diapers and using the potty.
Me: Right.
Princess S: And we should keep our clothes on. Especially our pants.
Me: Precisely. Our usual policy of clothing: optional at dinner will not apply tonight.
Wonderboy: No loud burping. This will be REALLY hard for me because I burp a lot.
Me: Yes, suppress the burps, please.
Princess S: And we definitely should not toot.
Me: Uhuh.
Wonderboy: And it's most important that we try very, very hard not to pinch anyone, especially not our visitors.

There was more, but it truly made no difference. Most of the "inappropriate" behaviors made an appearance last night to our horror and chagrin. Best of all, Wonderboy made a point of telling our visitors "I really like to climb up to my tree house in the back yard, except the tree house doesn't have a floor...or a roof........or walls....and well, it's really just a tree, but if there was a tree house, that would be really cool."

Hello, gorgeous

The thing is, ever since E and I got hitched, and then became young train-hopping transients in Europe, and ate the most lovely yogurt somewhere outside Prague, I cannot stomach yogurt available in the U.S. Sure it was likely made with full fat milk, but it wasn't loaded up with gelatins, artificial flavors and an astonishing amount of sugar. It was lovely. Did I already say that?

Oh, I buy yogurt, and then the kids eat it, or it sits in the refrigerator until we look at it suspiciously before throwing it out. But I almost never, ever, eat it. That is until I bought a virtual vat of plain "mountain-style" lowfat nothing-but-yogurt yogurt at Costco, topped it with fresh fruit and a wee drizzle of honey, and immediately fell in love of the truest kind. And I've since been wondering between mouthfuls, "Where have you been all my life you lovely, lovely perfection?"

Sunday Dinner

Look at me do gourmet. A few old-fashioned ice cube trays and a colorful assorment of fruits, veggies and deli meat and these three are happy clams. And this way E won't have to tear himself from the book he's completely absorbed by in order to prepare the fancy pork loin dinner he had planned. And what's he reading you ask? Twilight. That's right folks, he's reading Twilight. Nobody's more surprised than me.

This weekend we had a little family outing to Science City. Just look at the enthusiam...
We explored the underground pipe system and realized perhaps the experience wasn't meant for adults as we tried to unwedge ourselves.

E bravely attempted the suspended bike. That was until it began to sway and he whimpered "mommy" and had to be coaxed back. No, not really, but that would have been funny anyway.

All systems GO

We've come out the other end of December mostly in tact, and with a collective sigh of relief having survived all the festivities that make up the holidays. So here is a poorly presented recap of the goings-on around here lately...

Santa was given the particulars. Unfortunately, he was unable to stop fidgeting with the beard and muttering about his summer home in Connecticut. Good thing this Santa has a day job, because he was a pretty lousy jolly man. And as far as I know, Santa doesn't 'summer' in CT.

This guy was one of the first grade reps to compete in the primary spelling bee. He was pretty disgruntled about having to spell with an audience, but he was a brave fellow and even shot me a quick smile. He's pretty much a smarty-pants. And I'm not just saying that.


Fia had a couple of dancing gigs. She's not a huge fan of the weekly dance class, but if there's a stage and audience involved, she's your gal.


And here's what a 17 hour drive to Utah looks like. Some of us weather it better than others...





Snap shot of my side of the family - two versions. The second take is my personal favorite. We're a cheeky bunch.


A trip to the cabin for some serious sledding and snowmobiling. Later that night, Fia whispered "Mommy - those things we rode today? They ROCKED!"Uncle Tuffy. Our new snowmobiling super-hero. Adventurer extraordinaire. And all around good sport. Especially when our basset and greyhound decided they were simply not interested in running behind snowmobiles up to the cabin, thank you very much, and had to be held on Chris' lap and snowmobile-chauffeured up the mountain. Pansies.
And yes, the snow in Utah is, in fact, blue. Don't even blame it on my crummy photography and Photoshop skills. It's blue, I tell you.



If you ever want your very own Napoleon Dynamite boots, pre-weathered for your comfort, I can tell you that UT's very own D.I. might just have a pair for you at the bargain-basement price of $4.00. And seriously, why didn't anyone ever tell me how upscale D.I. really is? I would have spent longer if we weren't eager to hit the snow.




And that my friends, is as much as I can offer at this point. One of the Great Lessons of 2008 will be to never vacuum the laptop keyboard with the hose attachment, because the "A" might be sucked right off and irreparable. My left pinky finger is literally tender since every "A" I type requires about 47 tries on the little rubber bubble left behind.

nd if I didn't try to type tht letter (nd sve my poor pinky finger) my lredy blthering blog posts would be even more torturous to red. So relly tht letter, or the bscence of the letter, is the reson I've been neglectful of my blog. Tht's my story nywy. Hppy New Yer!