Tuesday, November 29, 2011

How I know my husband loves me!

I decided it’s about time to post some memories of my dear, sweet, wonderful, amazing, stud muffin, husband.

    One of the most painful, miserable experiences I have ever had (beside pregnancy, birth, and surgery) happened from meeting Barry’s family. After dating for a few weeks, Barry asked if I would join him in Utah to meet his family. Of course, I agreed and we had a wonderful time. (His family was not the painful miserable part!) For the drive home, I borrowed one of Barry’s dirty shirts, so I would be comfortable.

    And I was. Very Comfortable. Until the next day. I awoke with a burning feeling under my arms. As the day went on, the pain went from uncomfortable to searing hot misery. Moving my arms would make me cry, and my brother (who was renting a house with me) helped make a nest of blankets on the floor in the living room so I could wallow in front of the t.v.

    I missed a day or two of school, and finally couldn’t hold off the boyfriend any longer. Despite my protests, he came to check on me. When he walked in the door and saw me highly unkempt, and probably smelling unpleasantly, I knew he would turn around and walk away. But he walked in the door, and sympathetically asked what was wrong.

    I burst into tears and screeched, “My armpits hurt!” Crying more from embarrassment than from the horrendous pain. Instead of laughing (which I would’ve done had the roles been reversed), he just sat down beside me and asked if he could give me a priesthood blessing. I looked at him incredulously and said, “You are not going to give my armpits a blessing!” But he was persistent, and finally I let him. Then he scheduled a doctor’s appointment for me (I don’t really like doctors and avoid them like the plague.)

    And so I embarrassingly went to the doctor. The diagnosis was this: I had had an allergic reaction to the deodorant residue from the shirt I had borrowed from Barry. With that rubbing against my arms for a whole three hour drive home, I was left with severely infected hair follicles. Disgusting, right? That is just what you want to explain your new boyfriend!

    With medicine, the infection wore off in a few days, and Barry stayed by my side the whole time. So if anyone wonders how I know that Barry truly loves me…. It’s all in the armpits.

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

For you, Chris

    My little brother seemed slightly disappointed that I missed my “Take you back, Tuesday” last week. It’s so nice to have such a faithful reader, so I decided to dedicate this week’s memory, to my little bro.

     I now take you back to high school, where I was sitting on stage after having just performed a play. A group of us were sorting through the props that we had brought from home. As we were laughing, movement caught my eye. I watched two shadowed figures running across the catwalk (where the lights are hung, high above the stage). These boys, whom I recognized, were NOT supposed to be up there, and my patriotic sense of duty to the theatre urged me to go “tattle” on them to the principal. (Nobody messes with MY theatre!) My techie friend, Robert, agreed to go with me and vehemently I stormed into the principal’s office. As he offered us a seat, I couldn’t help but notice that he was staring at me with the most questionable look. I laid out the issue, gave the boys' names, and became really frustrated that he was obviously not taking me seriously. As we walked out of the office, the end of class bell rang and students came pouring into the hallway.

And all of them were staring at me.

I didn't understand. Questioning my self-worth, we fought through the throngs back to the theatre. As we were walking back on stage, Robert suddenly erupted into a violent fit of laughter. I was furious.

“WHAT?!” I yelled, desperate to know what had made me the target of humiliation.

And then he reminded me.


     I was sitting on the stage after just performing a play. A group of us were sorting through the props that we had brought from home. I dug through the pile and found my contribution… a pair of my little brother’s bright blue Scooby-Doo underwear that a character in our play accidentally pulled out of his pocket. In my brilliant sense of humor, I said, “Look, I’m a butt head” and proceeded to put my little brother’s (clean) underwear on my head. As we were all laughing, two shadowed figures caught my eye… and I forgot all about my little joke. And thus it was, I confronted my Principal with bright blue Scooby Doo underwear on my head… and then walked into a crowded hallway… with bright blue Scooby Doo underwear on my head.

And then, it all made sense.

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

Fat stories

I didn’t even realize that yesterday was Tuesday! That’s what happens when you stay at home all day with little kids, you lose all concept of time. Anyway, so the stories today, are dedicated to my embarrassing fat moments in school. For the record, this is in no way me trying to get people to tell me I’m skinny… they’re just stories… that make me giggle. My self image is in no way, in question.


When Senior year began, the two elective classes I took were theatre and choir. At the beginning of each year, the drama teacher would take her students on a tour of the theatre. Now, I had already taken this tour a million times, so I was prone to joke off more than listen. At one point in the tour, as the teacher was droning on about the fly system (the pulleys that lift the scenery), I decided to very ungracefully, hop up on a table to sit. When I say “ungracefully”, I mean that I hit it too fast and sort of pushed it back, causing the metal table legs to fall off and the table collapsed under my weight. You can imagine my fellow students’ shock from the random crash from behind them.

Later that day, I went to choir. Before we started class, our director stood in front of us and in his sarcastic humor, found it absolutely necessary to relay a story. He had heard that earlier in the day, some stupid kid had sat on a table in the theatre and actually broke it! The choir erupted into laughter and added a few more distasteful jokes about the fat kid that broke a table! Fortunately, I was the only member of my theatre class also in choir. No one else knew… that I was that fat idiot.

Thank goodness.


In college, I had the great fortune to play one of my favorite roles ever, Penny Sycamore in “You Can’t Take it with You”. There is a certain scene when my character is describing the play she is writing to her family. During one of our performances, as Penny tells the story of a girl screaming to a man not to take her virginity (it’s a tasteful play, I promise), I decided to add a little dramatic effect by diving onto a chair.

That chair buckled… and by buckled, I mean that the wooden legs completely shattered under my weight. I fell to the stage floor onto a pile of broken wood and just laid there while the audience… and my fellow cast mates… roared in laughter. I tried to keep saying my dialogue, but it took several moments for my cast mates to recompose. Even by the end of the scene, there were still tears in a few of their eyes, from trying not to laugh. (And I was working with AMAZING actors, who NEVER broke character… so that might explain just how ridiculous I looked.) After the scene was over, I went off stage, only to find the rest of the cast back stage, still laughing, and already working out some jokes…. where I was the punch line.

And those my friends… are my fat stories.

Tuesday, November 1, 2011


Classy title, right?

    The first dead animal tale is dedicated to my cat, Miss Kitty. I was one of those kids whose pet was pretty much my best friend. So you can forgive me when, at thirteen, I harshly called my little brother’s babysitter a murderer, when she let our cat out of the house and it got hit by a car. I came home from Girl’s Camp and received the news. Begging my parents to let me see the cat, my dad told me that unfortunately he had buried it. I asked to see the grave, and after a few minutes pause, he told me he would take me after church the following day.

    It was so fitting, to be in our Sunday dress as we drove miles out past the river, to the small altar of stones where my beloved cat was buried. I said goodbye.

    After we were married, my dad was recalling the tale of Miss Kitty to Barry, and all of the sudden the story sounded different… something about a dumpster behind the Stake Center. WHAT?!?! Shocked, I asked him what he was talking about, and he said, “Did I never tell you?” He then told me the REAL story. He had already thrown the cat in a dumpster when I had asked to see it. So he actually drove miles out of town (on a dirt road by the river) and staged a fake grave site so his daughter could find peace of mind. I CAN’T BELIEVE HE THREW AWAY MY CAT! But I also can’t believe that he did that for me!

It’s not very often a lying father shows how much he really cares.


    In 8th grade, our science class incubated duck eggs and watched them hatch. Before the big day, our teacher announced that we were allowed to take the ducks home… with permission. I floated home on a cloud as I told my parents I could have a duck! Then they smashed my dream to smithereens. I was devastated, until my friend Brittany said her parents were allowing her to take two ducks. One for herself, and one for me! We named them Oscar and Felix and they were our babies! We took them on a walk and they faithfully followed because, in one day, we were already their mommies.

    A few days after we brought our babies home, Brittany showed up to school, with swollen red eyes, she sought me out. “Our ducks died,” she solemnly whispered to me.

“What happened?” I wailed.

“I don’t know! They just died,” she answered. And that was that. My first shot of parenthood, and our babies were dead within a week. I cried my heart out, thinking that I wasn't there for them, or I had done something wrong.

    Four years later, as a senior in High School, Brittany finally told me the REAL story. That fateful night, she had this brilliant idea to let the ducks sleep with her in bed. And then she rolled over in the middle of the night. And how she didn't feel the sudden lumps in her mattress... I will never know.
   It makes me wonder if our hamsters really did die of old age. Or if our turtle really was released into the wild. Or if our bird really was given to a friend of the family. Maybe it’s all lies. LIES, I TELL YOU!