A laugh a day

This picture makes me laugh every single time I see it.

I found this carebear tucked into one of Sage's shoes, resting in her bed one day. Sage also brought it to church in her backpack.

I love Sage's funny, creative mind. Here is the fate of the animals from Noah's ark after the tragic demise of the ark.

(Notice the elephants tucked into Eliza's shoes.)

One of Sage's favorite things to do is help me press garlic. And sniff it. A lot.

Today Sage tearfully told me, "I don't want to move to our [new] house because I love it when Sister Simmons [our elderly next door neighbor] brings us veggies" [from her garden...which Sage doesn't actually like to eat].

This girl sure keeps me laughing. When I'm not counting to ten, that is.

What's in a name

This is a sad excuse for a blog entry, but what with this week's events (a move to Salt Lake, and my parents' move to Jerusalem, and 15 cleaning checks to conduct and 20 contracts to get signed, and one pair of very tight compression hose), it's easy to feel a little overwhelmed.

The other day I was at Target, waiting in line to return something, when I started shamelessly eavesdropping on a conversation between an employee and a little lost boy. The boy, who looked about 6-years-old, only seemed mildly concerned about his parentless state. The employee tried to illicit some answers from the lad to enhance her loudspeaker announcement of "We have a lost boy wearing a blue shirt at Customer Service."

"Do you know your mom's name?"
"No."
"Do you remember what she was wearing?"
"No."

The employee assured him that his mother would probably show up soon, and then tried to turn his attention away from his predicament. She started questioning him about the packet of birthday invitations he held in his hand. Suddenly, having received some mysterious clue from thinking about his party, the boy's face lit up and he said, "Actually, my mom is waiting in the car for me."

The employee looked surprised at this revelation and asked, "Well, do you know what kind of car your mom drives?"

Without hesitation, the boy replied, "A silver Lexus."


If my children ever know what kind of car I drive, and can't remember my name, I'm quitting my day job.

But on the other hand, the next time I'm at an auto shop, and they ask for the year, make, and model of my car, instead of hanging my head and mumbling, "Uh...it's the green one with the carseats parked right over there..." I'll say proudly, "I don't know, but my mom's name is Linda."

Black shorts are forever

They say painful memories fade or dull with time. I have observed that my most embarrassing (and thus painful) memories are rather resistant to this fading/dulling phenomenon. In fact, according to my scientific calculations, my most embarrassing memories have a half-life of around 30 years. This means that in about 15 more years, I may be able to talk about my little 5^th grade obsession with “Saved by the Bell.” And 30 years later, I may laugh about it. Maybe.

In the meantime, I figure a little confession to the world wide web might not hurt, and perhaps even hasten, the decay of one particular memory that dates back to 2^nd grade…

It was the age of lycra. Or at least I thought it was. And since lycra was cheap, and my mom was a darn good seamstress, I had multiple pairs (and colors) of lycra shorts.

The pair I remember most clearly were the bright blue and hot pink ones, maybe because I also had a swimsuit made from the same material (which turned my entire body blue the first day I wore it to the beach in CA). While I adored my pink and blue spandex shorts, those were clearly only a once a week outfit, as I only had one hot pink and bright blue shirt (which, obviously, was the only acceptable match).

On the other hand, I was also the proud owner of a great pair of homemade black spandex shorts. Just imagine the versatility of black spandex shorts; they matched every shirt I owned, and were less noticeable their hot pink and blue counterpart. So I wore the black shorts the other 4 school days of the week, and probably underneath my dresses to church, if the truth be known. My drawers were surely full of other treasures, but between my two pairs of spandex shorts, I considered myself covered, and couldn’t be happier.

A sad day came along, probably a year or two into my spandex routine, when (gasp) someone noticed my limited wardrobe. It happened in second grade. One of my classmates, a boy who I didn’t know very well, stopped me and asked, “Do you have more than one pair of those black shorts?”

Not being very bright, I didn’t realize what he was getting at. “No,” I quickly defended myself. Or so I thought.

“So you wear that same pair every day?” was his pointed follow-up question.

“Not every day!” I said indignantly, though I couldn’t actually remember the last day I hadn’t. This little conversation planted a tiny seed of doubt in me with respect to what I considered to be a perfectly acceptable wardrobe. I don’t know how long it took me to wean off my black spandex. The damage to my self-esteem had been done, though.

For years I buried this painful little memory illuminating my terrible sense of “fashion.” But today, I realized, with surprise, that maybe nothing has really changed since 2^nd grade. It's been almost two decades and I find myself pregnant (that part has changed, I admit) in the dead of summer, in a house with no A/C. Although I put on one of my cute maternity outfits each morning, by 10am I’m so hot I inevitably change into one of my two [count them!] pairs of black basketball shorts and a t-shirt, which usually remains on until bedtime. Even though it's a proven fact that men's basketball shorts look ridiculous on pregnant women.

Some habits die hard, I guess.

Mark, me, and the trusty black shorts on our way to the hospital to have Sage (7/1/04)