We have made our yearly trek to Zion. California has about twelve more hours to drop off into the ocean or it will have to wait until next year.

I will never understand.

The frozen waterfall would have been my first clue to get the hell out of dodge. I'm just glad he's found someone (not me) to do this stuff with so I don't even have to try to come up with excuses.

Mount Whitney in November, um no. Belize, New Zealand, or Paris- now we'll talk.

Art Appreciation

Would it surprise you to know that one of my most favorite courses ever was Art History? And I did really, really well in it. Mostly because I do really, really well at BSing my way through essays. I wrote many an essay on plenty of paintings of naked broads. (I didn't post a picture as an example because you can imagine what would happen should I Google "naked painting." But you know the ones.)

For centuries artistic scholars have debated the subject of their nakedness at great length.

Is it based on culture and a greater appreciation for a hefty broad? Something our Western skinny obsessed culture can't quite wrap it's head around.

The 'fat is fertile' scenario?

Is the experimentation with pigment and light?

And on and on. If you've got a good story you can BS your way through just about anything in art history. I tended to go with the 'experimentation with pigment and light' argument most often. I was wrong, and I hate to admit it. We are back to the 'fat is fertile' scenario and an overwhelming case of coincidence. My thesis- The models all happened to be 15 weeks pregnant. Their old clothes didn't fit, yet they hadn't popped out enough for maternity wear.

*********
My baby bump popped out yesterday. I felt like I should document it somehow, but I'm not about posting baby bump pictures. One of these days I'll tell you why. It's nothing personal, I don't like ultrasound pictures either.

Call this whatever you want, just not lazy.

I need to blog in the morning. Before the mail gets here. And before my Netflicks arrive.

My Favorite Picture of the Year

It might need a little motherly interpretation, but this is so my kid right now that it makes me laugh.

"Make roni eeease!!!"

"I gots puppy shoes!!" Did you know she has puppy shoes? Well, then I guess you haven't talked to her in the last 96 hours because that has got to be the most repeated phrase at our house right now. "I gots puppy shoes!!"

"No ponies, thank you." Which is why her hair looks like Little Orphan Annie. I am picking my battles. This morning when I told her she could not watch Elmo until after her shower she told me, "Go wash dishes mama. I watch Elmo." Excuuuuse me? That's your first complete sentence?? Go washes dishes mama!!??? When I told John he said, "Well, she didn't hear that from me." Just to be sure he knew it too, I had him make roni eeeease for dinner.

How to Pick a Fantasy Football QB

A conversation between my husband and I. Starting with my husband.

Do you think Tom Brady is hot?

I don't know. I don't know what he looks like.

Well, lots of women think he's hot.

Google an image for me and I'll tell you.

Here.

Um, not really.

What about Peyton Manning?

Is that who he's playing?

Uh huh.

Lemme see. Um, no. The pictures make him look like a dweebus, but he's cuter than Tom Brady.

What about Drew Brees? That's who my QB is.

Oh. Good job, hon. He's the cutest one.

A Day Out

"Please take lots of pictures," I told him as I left this morning. And being the literal guy that he is, he did.

140 of them. I've got pictures for just about every step of their way.

I narrowed them down for you.

Cell phones make you dumber.

I had to call my sister, who lives IN TEXAS, to find out what my home phone number is.

Why wasn't it already programmed into my phone?

I'm not in the habit of talking to myself (on the phone).

If the days were twice as long, and I had four times the energy

I would have all this cute Christmas stuff done.

Heather Bailey's Yo-Yo how to for my garland.

Embroidered Felt Ornaments

May own take on this modern Advent Calendar.

And an oilcloth tree skirt like this one on Etsy, but from Anna Maria Horner's new line.


Don't forget the stockings.

Instead, we will be going with a theme. You know how I love themes.

We will be fully decked out as the house from whence the Grinch stole Christmas.

And poof, I've beaten you to the Holiday decorating.

A Not So Gentle Reminder

When I want to complain, when I want to just whine about being sick of being sick, I am flooded with the reminders about how much I wanted this. How much we wanted this. How long we worked towards this. I'm so sick of the reminders of how much worse it could be, or how it could not be. And I'm sick of reminding myself. So. sick. of. being. sick. No one will let me forget it. And I won't let myself.

Every single day I am more and more amazed at just how much better God knows me than I know myself.

I cried when I saw the positive pregnancy test. And not in an over-joyed momentous let's frame this moment in our minds kind of way. In a please, please, please, please don't let me mis-carry this baby sort of way.

I called as soon as I could to get an order for labs to confirm, and then waited a few extra days to let the hormones build up. The results came back Friday that they were definitely positive. I called John at work as he was leaving from there to go hiking. At this point, I felt nothing. No symptoms. Absolutely nothing. Saturday Scrunch and I spent the day at home cleaning and hanging out. Sometime that afternoon I felt something. Cramping and spotting. My heart sank. I couldn't reach my husband. There was nothing I could do.

I sat on the couch reminding myself repeatedly not to stress. Stress could exacerbate the situation. Just relax. John will be home soon, though I'm not sure what he was going to be able to do about it. Thankfully, Scrunch went to bed early and I remained on the couch willing this baby to stay.

I finally got a hold of my husband on their drive back and told him to tell Aaron they'd need to give me a blessing when he dropped him off. Close to midnight and still in their grubby clothes, I received a blessing. I went to bed and the next morning was the first time I threw up. I have thrown up every day since.

Morning sickness is some women's physiological response to a rise in hormones. A biological consequence. For me, it has been a not so gentle reminder that I'm not the one in charge, that God has a sense of humor, and that yes, he's listening.

The Corny Stage

I was told I am now in the "Corny Stage" of pregnancy. I didn't know there was a corny stage or what the corny stage even means.

If it means wanting to hug people without a whole lot of reason, then I guess I'm there. And I am not usually a hugger.

If it means singing Disney tunes in my head ALL THE BLOODY TIME then I guess I'm there too. Lately, it's been Strange Things Are Happenin' to Me from Toy Story. I would post a YouTube video of the song as a reminder, but my husband upgraded our computer when I was gone a few weeks ago and I need the most recent Flash player. No prob, I'll just download it. But then I get "Adobe Flash Player is not supported for playback in a 64-bit browser. However, you can run Flash Player in a 32-bit browser running on a 64-bit operating system." I totally don't know what that means. Not corny enough, I guess. Only super annoying.

On another non-corny note, my boobs are growing- practically busting into an A cup. And that makes me really, really happy. Maybe that's why I want to hug people.

Freely Giving

When you're a famous blogger, people give you free stuff. Have you noticed that? Almost all the 'famous' blogs I read post regularly about this and that fancy shmancy cute thing that someone sent them out of the blue. I'm sure it is completely out of the generosity of their humongous heart and not the free advertising that prompts such giving. The same spirit of giving that overwhelms my sister from time to time, and not her desire to purchase her status as favorite aunt. But you know what? It totally works.

At six AM Friday morning I received a frantic phone call from my sister in Tejas. My husband was not overly impressed, and from the other room he's yelling the following questions.

Is she engaged?

No.

Was she in an accident?

No.

Did she win the lottery?

No.

Did aliens land in Texas?

No.

Then why is she calling?

She wants to know Scrunch's shoe size.

ETA four to five days depending on the reliability of their ground shipping. I'm sure I'll post a rave review about both the shoes and my sister when they arrive.

If you'd like a rave review posted about you, I've had my eyes on these beauties.

Pet pet peeves

If you go to bed at 7:30 you can wake up at 4:30 and still have had nine hours of sleep, leaving you with ample time to contemplate (and blog) about the mysteries of life, and still have time to take a nap before anyone wakes up. Try it some time. It will give me something to read. Instead I shall pontificate my personal pet pet peeves. And alliterate. And in three days when again in my right mind read this and wonder if I was high on Scrunch's eucalyptus oil fumes, or just awake before five am.

There are two kinds of people in the world. Cat people and dog people. Further subdivided in the dog group you will find BIG dog people and little dog people. We happen to be BIG dog people. I don't hate cat people and I don't hate little dog people. But for a week the little dog people have fallen far below hamster and mice people. And I HATE hamsters and mice (their people might be okay.)

If you walk a St. Bernard into the grocery store, someone is bound to notice. I'll notice if you carry a chihuahua into a grocery store. Dogs, unless wearing an orange vest, DO NOT BELONG IN GROCERY STORES. I realize it's your baby, and they're cleaner than most people, but there is just something wrong, WRONG with it. I'm still not over the rude Costco employee poking my baby sling and harassing me about the puppy I was carrying, only the puppy wasn't a puppy. I had an actual sleeping child in the sling.

You might think it's cute that your bichon frise has a Cujo complex and runs across the lawn, snapping, and yapping at the heels of every passerby. It's not cute. If my dog did that I would likely have several claims against my home owner's insurance and be in litigation. It's not okay if they are 90 lb. Dobbie, and it's still not okay if they are a five pound powder puff.

Dog crap. A little crap vs. big crap. Well, I guess a little crap on the sidewalk is better than a load of crap, but how about no crap? As I watched someone this week let Muffin crap in front of Micheal's while someone walked by talking about how cute the little guy was. Seriously?

Weight restrictions. I have no problem, NONE WHAT SO EVER (actually that's a lie. I think it's dumb, but whatever) if an apartment or landlord wants to restrict dogs, but it needs to be all dogs. While I understand their intent, restricting certain sized breeds is a misinformed decision. Big dogs might have a bigger bark and might cause more destruction, but I've seen what an out of control rat terrier can do. Great Danes can be awesome apartment dogs and Greyhounds are 45 mph couch potatoes. Let me tell you how ticked (and obviously not over) the fact that BYU housing will allow a couple to cram way too many kids into their 500 sq. foot rabbit hutch, and I couldn't have a dog? Thus forever cementing in my mind BYU as the most anti-infertile place on the planet. Screw that. So we took our money elsewhere and lived in Extended Stay America for almost three months. Maybe not one of my most financially savvy stands, but I got my dog. And have you met Jedi? I'd still let him babysit over most c0-eds.

You thought doggie clothes were next, didn't you? Well, they're not. Even I can find the humor in dressing the little dudes up. I still want the t-shirt for Jedi that reads, "I forgot my pants." Why that is so funny escapes me. It just is.

So there. Now you know. If you're in the market for a pooch I'd prefer you get a real dog, like a German Shepherd or a Boxer, but a teacup is fine too. Mom, I totally think you should go for the German Shepherd.

S.O.S.

dot-dot-dot dash-dash-dash dot-dot-dot

If you are reading this message, I have succeeded. Please send Jamba Juice. New clothes. And a maid.

It is the only source of nourishment my captive is allowing me to enjoy. Scratch that. I did get to eat an entire mashed potato bowl from KFC without regurgitating last week. A few more of those bad boys and I will gain back the nine pounds I have lost. I have been stripped of all my proper fitting clothing. It's too saggy in the butt and thighs, but I can't keep it buttoned the entire day. By mid afternoon they are hanging somewhere around my knees so I change back into my pajama bottoms. My will is weakened. There is crayon on my wall and I didn't even freak. One of these days I'll just watch my husband paint over it. I bought frozen corn dogs. I woke up bright and early Monday morning thinking I'd earned some release with the passing of the first trimester, only to find myself again captive by the bathroom floors and laundry room. I take comfort in knowing that I was right. As I've gotten to know my captive a little better, I realize just how right I was.

My body has been invaded by an alien.

But don't feel too sorry for me. I hold out hope that there's a chance Will Smith will deliver my baby.

Sunday

I'm teaching Relief Society today.

The lesson is on Hope.

I hope the lesson doesn't bite. No really, that was the advice I was given. Granted, it was three o'clock in the morning. If I'm up, why shouldn't He be up? So, I start telling him about my lesson and ask if he has any thoughts. After a long period of silence I shove him a little, "ANY THOUGHTS?"

"I hope it doesn't suck", he mumbles back.

Thanks Dear.

The Infinite Power of Hope

Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf