Like Jeff Foxworthy but without the moustache

You know you're a good parent when:
-Your daughter laughs hysterically every time you say "poop"
-The onesie on your child is covered in food spills and you know you'll probably only change it if you decide to post a picture on Instagram.
-An unplugged ethernet cord has become an acceptable chew toy
-Your phone ""
-You give your baby an old remote control to fall asleep with because it soothes her.
-After giving your baby an old remote control and assuming she fell asleep you walk in ten minutes later to find her gnawing on her crib railing.

You know you're holding up well as a person when:
-You finally shower at 3:00 pm
-In your afternoon shower you shampoo your hair three times because you can't remember if you already have.
-You eat tortilla chips for lunch and chocolate chips for desert.
-You decide you're clever for having a chip themed food day when you actually didn't plan it and only realized the coincidence after the fact while blogging.

A national security update

Good news everyone: Gerber is not participating in chemical warfare. Their baby food is just baby food and not liquid anthrax. Thank Heavens Ivy's banana breakfast was in a four ounce jar (.5 ounces over the limit) and subject to TSA testing or we'd all still be laying awake at night in fearful wonder, amirite?

the whites of your eyes

I don't drink, so I rarely find myself in a liquor store. That may be why I felt so lost in Fox's Wine and Beer as I stared at walls and walls of alcohol, trying to remember what the movies taught me about the difference between Merlot and Chardonnay. I wanted to make Beef Bourguinon and the recipe was insistent that normal grocery store cooking wine would not suffice. Instead, one must use a quality Pinot noir for a flavor base. Guess what. I couldn't find a single bottle that said "Pinot noir, best used in Beef Bourguinon, buy me now". Heck, I couldn't even find a bottle that said "Pinot noir". I read labels that said things like "Earthy undertones" which made me think of worms and "nutty aroma" which made me think of the Nutty Professor which made me think of Eddie Murphy which made me think of the movie 1,000 words which I recently watched on an airplane and is two hours of my life I will never get back and it was while I was in this black hole of confusion and regret that a store clerk asked if I needed any help. In one breath I blurted "I don't drink but I'm cooking and I need a Pinot noir and I don't know what that is please help me." He handed me a bottle and before he could present any other choices I paid and left.

I thought that was the end of my alcohol inadequacies for the day, but then it came time to add the wine to the beef and I had no idea how to open the bottle. Because we don't drink we don't own a corkscrew, and, as it turns out, they don't mess around with corking bottles. Those suckers are in there tight, and a corkscrew is absolutely necessary in accessing the Pinot noir needed for the Beef Bourguinon which was shaping up to be the most high maintenance meal ever. I was about to break the bottle open on the counter when stephen intervened. He googled my dilemma, watched a youtube video, then proceeded to use a wire hanger and a paring knife to uncork the stupid bottle. Fifteen minutes, a nearly injured husband and a massacred cork later, the wine met the meat.  

The point of this cautionary tale, because I know you were wondering, is that if you find yourself in need of a dinner party host, someone who knows fancy beverages and how to open them, do not call me. And as for the Buorguinon, next time I'm using Diet Coke.

Intiendo

I'm trying to be one of those goal-setting/goal-accomplishing kind of people. I set two goals  for Fall: 1. Train for and run a half marathon, and 2. Learn Spanish. Because I'm a super efficient human being, I decided to do them SIMULTANEOUSLY, that is, listen to my Spanish language tutorials while running. This lasted three days. Running is hard. Learning is hard. Learning while running is terribly hard. Plus, to better absorb el espanol, it's best to repeat the phrases aloud. That made me the crazy lady muttering Spanish under her strained jogging breath running around Longmont. Longmont already has a few crazies and I didn't want to bump our fair city into "several crazies" territory. So it's for the good of my community that I decided to stick to one goal at a time. Solo uno goalo ahora, si? Si.

Did you think I would crumble?

Yesterday I ended a terrible relationship. It wasn't easy, but I know now that I'm better for it.
The cerulean nail polish was on sale for $1.00 and I'm a sucker, so obviously I was all over that. Within an hour of applying the polish it began to chip. I should have removed it immediately. I knew the chipping situation would only get worse. But I rationalized like we all do. "It's not that bad," I thought. "It's kind of edy," I said, knowing full well that my fingers looked like they were dipped in Smurf puke. I ignored the problem for weeks, hoping it would work itself out. Maybe enough hand washing and showers would simply make it go away. Maybe the trend would become chipped, faded, scraggly manicures. No dice. And so, on Sunday, September 9, I finally came to my senses and ended it. I'd had enough and I knew I could do better. But when I pulled out the remover and cotton swabs, suddenly it was "No, don't make me go, I love you , I'll be better..." and would not let go. It took a good ten minutes and half a bottle of the rubbing alcohol to get rid of what was left of our broken life together. But now I'm free, and eyeing a Wet N' Wild hot pink on sale at Target.

Not the best Samaritan

I rode my bike past a number of fancy houses, many with pools facing the street. In one pool  was a pink blob. A large pink blob. On closer inspection I realized the pink blob was actually a bathing suit with arms, legs and a head. Arms, legs and a head that were floating but not moving. I wasn't sure what to do. I could yell "Hey, are you ok?", but I didn't want to offend the swimmer by suggesting that I thought she was dead.  I could call the police, but I figured the dispatcher would probably ask "Have you yelled 'hey are you ok?" and that would take me back to square one. I could throw a pebble over the fence and blame it on a squirrel if she responded or call and ambulance if she didn't, but the squirrel story didn't really seem believable. Or I could do what I ultimately ended up doing, which was stand and stare until I saw what looked like a foot moving and rode away.

can't get no satisfaction

Our problem may have started when we made the maintenance guy had to unlock our apartment late at night because SOMEONE misplaced the keys. It was me. I misplaced the keys. 

When he showed up at 11:00, half of his hair was in braids and the other half had a comb stuck in it. We had obviously interrupted, and though he was as nice as can be expected of someone who is pulled away from doing their hair at bed time, I realize now that he made a note of us and decided to get his revenge. Cause here's what happened a few days later:

This appeared on our bathroom ceiling.

Yum.

We put in a maintenance request. Six hours later the maintenance guy, now with a complete head of braids, got to work. An hour later he said, "I'll be back soon." Curious, I walked into the bathroom and found this.

Outside our front door I heard snippets of an argument. "I don't know how to fix it," someone said.

Another two hours later, Mr. Maintenance returned with a few pieces of cardboard and some packing tape. After "patching up" the enormous, gaping hole above the shower, he informed us that there was quite a bit more work to be done and he'd be in touch.

It's been a week. 

The tape isn't holding up so well. And, as it turns out, cardboard isn't a water resistant material.

I'll be surprised of we see this repaired before the end of the summer.

But potential health and safety hazards aside, this fun new bathroom decor is a welcome addition to the homey motif of our apartment alongside the diaper boxes we use for nightstands, the air mattress and the paper plates.

Mall Rocked

On my way to the Capitol, I saw a group of  girl scouts sitting with their heads hung low. Their troop leader looked mad and was speaking in that kind of whisper that is actually really loud. I heard her whisperyell "We are girl scouts and we live by girl scout law." Ever since I've wonder what girl scout law is. Is it like martial law? Is there a girl scout constitution? Girl scout litigators? How many laws are cookie specific? What did these girl scouts do to violate girl scout law? Thin Mints mess up? Samoas slip? Tagalongs terror? Is there a girl scout law that punishes those who make too many stupid cookie jokes?

On why details matter, and why it pays to be observant

The food we had in the apartment consisted of trail mix, oranges and diet coke. All delicious, but put together did not a balanced meal make. So employing what I considered to be  stellar problem solving, I purchased some Whole Foods microwavable dinners (affordable! healthy! easy!) and proudly placed the chicken tikka masala and chicken curry packages in the fridge. A few hours later I pulled them out and went to place them in the microwave...which doesn't exist. Our apartment lacks a microwave, making the microwavable dinners still affordable and healthy, but no longer easy. After employing some slightly humbler problem solving, (throwing every part of both meals into one pot and heating the mixture on the stove), we were ready to eat. I pulled out the paper plates, the plastic cups and reached for the plastic utensils...which didn't exist. We had failed to pack or purchase silverware. And so, employing some down right ridiculous problem solving, we used a wooden spoon and a spatula to move rice from plate to mouth, before just giving up and eating Oreos.

It's a good thing I"m not a boy scout because I'm always never prepared. That's probably not the only reason it's good I'm not a boy scout, just the most relevant reason today. 

FYI, spell  check does not recognize Oreos.

I have been looking for a good embroidered blue USA cap

I'm usually pretty good at recognizing a scam. I've never given money to a Nigerian prince, I never answer the phone when it's an area code I don't recognize and I never open mail that says I'm pre-approved for anything, so I don't know how the representative from VacMax 30000 ended up in our living room. A complete lapse in judgment I guess.The woman who called to set up the appointment promised a $500 gift card just for letting a sales guy give a presentation. I figured it would be a 10 show and then we'd collect our reward. However when the tattooed, wolf-smiled salesman was 45 minutes into his pitch, I  realized he would probably never leave and we'd have to pull out the air mattress and find some spare linens. Luckily, by some sort of miracle he realized that we're renters, in law shool and not in any sort of position to buy $3200 vacuum. He was unhappy, to put it lightly, that he'd wasted his time and breath on a couple of good-for nothings, and couldn't huff of here fast enough. But he did leave the promised $500 gift card. $500 to www.GoShoppingMall.com. Let's look at what I can buy, shall we?

Note:



Looks like I'll get my holiday shopping done early this year, and only pay $300 in shipping!

To add insult to injury, Stephen really wants a VacMax 3000.

just say no

I'm on the mend, recovering from my annual cold. Every spring when the sun comes out and the germs thaw (science!) I fall ill. Yesterday was the peak and I felt like I had swallowed fiberglass and had an anvil implanted in my brain. Colds have the same effect on me as I imagine marijuana would. I don't know what actual effect marijuana has on me because I've been drug free for 26 years. Unless caffeine is a drug. If caffeine is a drug then I've been drug free for two minutes. But back to my point: When sneezing and coughing I tend to get the munchies and my brain works at half speed. After eating what must have been fifty percent of a bag of tortilla chips, I decided to step away from my self destructive snacking and go to the bank because I'm out of checks. Bless that poor bank teller's heart. She tried so hard to understand me when even i couldn't understand myself.
"Is your address the same?"
"Yes. No. What?"
"Is your address the same?"
"I moved."
"Ok...so what's your address?"
"In Utah or here?"
"What?"
"I lived in Utah."
"Ok, what's your address here?"
"Oh. Right."
Somehow I managed to tell her the coordinates and get out of the bank without causing harm to myself or others, as far as I know. Then I got home and ate probably 40 mini cadburry eggs and avoided operating heavy machinery the rest of the day.

worth a thousand words, none of them good

Ok. It's time I address this.
Those of you of the same religious affiliation as presidential hopeful Mitt Romney and myself may have noticed a familiar face in your For The Strength of Youth pamphlet or Relief Society/Priesthood manual. Yes, that's me posing with an elderly woman. No, I don't "go about radiating sunshine, developing happiness and lifting up thos who are discouraged, and bringing joy and comfort to those who are in distress" often as the caption would have you believe. No, I don't weigh 300 pounds as my chin would have you believe. No, I didn't think the photographer was serious when she told me there was a chance the photo would be used more than once. Yes, I should have taken her seriously since the photo has now appeared in two issues of the Ensign, the Liahona and the aforementioned manuals. No, I am not a fan of that photo. And no, I don't say that like a girl who "hates" her yearbook photo and tells all her friends it's the "worst photo ever" because she knows she looks smokin' hott and wants all the high school boys to look it up and swoon. This photo is anything but smokin' hott. It's smokin' terrible. And why The Official Photo Selector for Churchy Matters decides to use it over and over will forever be my life's greatest mystery. Does this feel like a back door brag post? I promise it's not. Because I really hate that photo. I hate that it looks like I hadn't brushed my hair in years. I hate that I wore such an unflattering top. I hate that my chin is so chinny. So please, please, please do NOT tell me that it's a cute photo. Because if that's me looking cute, well, then there's really no hope.

over troubled waters

I really didn't anticipate the problems procrastinating my last name change would create. For a year it really wasn't a big deal. I'd say it wasn't really a deal at all. But then offspring entered the picture and suddenly things like "legality" and "insurance" and "birth certificate" became a big part of our lives, and it was sort of too late to try and make the switch, and then I got the new drivers license and now it looks like I might be a Morley for a while longer, which I guess still isn't really a big deal BUT my insecurities get the better of me and I feel judged and I overcompensate with verbal vomit. Was that run-on sentence confusing? Allow me to show, not tell. Every time we sign in at any given medical facility (a common occurance as of late), they ask my name, my husband's name, and Ivy's name, and after I shamefully say "Morley, Walter, Walter"  I then try and make my ring and band visible, and start in on my well rehearsed "yeah, we've been married for two years and I still haven't changed my name, silly me, I just can't seem to get around to it, yadda yadda yadda, blah blah blah, defending my honor, etc." As if the receptionist at hospital registration cares about wedlock.

Ivy jumped from 6 pounds 12 ounces to 7 pounds 7 ounces in one week. FINALLY, another member of the Walter home who really knows how to eat. Stephen knows how to nibble. I know how to put. it. away. And apparently so does Ivy, as evidenced by her new cheeks:

o.r. they?

I tried to upload these at the same time as my lovely portraits (See: Monday) but blogger was being grouchy. So here they are today for your pleasure and further Walter family humiliation:



Further proof that either:

a) Marriage is rough

b) Colorado has not done us any favors aesthetically

or

c) That DMV photographer hates humanity and has unleashed on the city of Longmont a scourge of really terrible driver's license photos, much like Pandora opening her box in legend old.

My money is on c.

ooh you think you got it

I might be starting off the relationship with my daughter on the wrong foot.
When I wake up every morning at 5:00 for a bathroom trip, I panic when I don't feel her moving. Yes, I panic every morning. You would think that after nine months I would learn that she just doesn't move before the sun rises, because like any sane person, she's sleeping. But no. I haven't learned, nor is it likely that I will in the next week or so. Instead I drink a cold glass of water and poke my stomach until I feel a kick. Imagine sleeping peacefully in your bed, hours before dawn. In walks your mother. She throws a glass of chilled water on your head and pokes your bum until you move. Would that not make you mad? And if she did that every day, would you not be dealing with some serious resentment? Do you think Ivy will forgive me? Or will she hear my voice for the first time outside the womb and scream, "WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU CRAZY LADY?!"

remind me later

Look at that young, bringht, cheery, thin Utah driver with the hair that's doing just what it's supposed to do. It's too bad that one of the only two good pictures ever taken of me was merely the size of a quarter and not plastered on a billlboard somewhere. But the miniature nature of the portrait stop me from feeling a boost of confidence everytime I was required to pull out my ID. Yes, that's me, I'd reassure the cashier/bouncer/highway patrolman with my eyes. No, I don't model, stop it, you're making me blush (all said with my eyes). Lest you think my vanity is getting the better of me, I guess you're right, but let me remind you that this is one out of only two good photos ever taken of me, so I had to milk as much pride from it as possible until the time came to take a new license photo. Unfortunately that time came last week. 

It could be the 25 pregnancy pounds, the expired hair cut, the muggy DMV air, the rule against tilting your head sideways in the picture, or the photographer who seemed vexed by my very existence, or all of these factors combined that turned that bright, young Utah, driver into an unkempt 58 year old woman who still has yet to change her last name to that of her husband's (MY BAD).

As far as baby arrival is concerned, I've made exactly the same amount of progress as I had made at the last doctor's appointment. So it looks like I'll be pregnant forever.

and whiskers on kittens

I had high hopes for my doctor's appointment today. I imagined Dr. N taking one look at me, exclaiming "GADZOOKS! Get this woman to the hospital! There's a baby on the way!" Instead he said, "See you next week." Yargh. Never before in my life have I looked forward to pain. But now every twinge, every shooting sensation and every back ache ignites the hope that maybe labor is on the way. I rejoiced when I threw up, knowing, just knowing, that contractions would start soon. Nope. It was just a bad sandwich.

I should not talk to strangers, and not for the safety reasons Officer Friendly covered in elementary school. I should not talk to strangers because I am psychologically/physically incapable of carrying a conversation like a normal, well-adjusted human being. While in line at the airport, the girl behind me asked where I got my shoes. I should have told her where. Instead I told her where, why, my feelings on the particular brand of shoes, my reasoning for buying said brand, when some online sales occur, and how to best keep them clean. Then, having nothing left to say, I turned around to face forward again. Then, realizing just how strange this behavior was, I decided to hide in the bathroom for seven minutes, wait for that section of the line to pass, then rejoin the line in the back. Better to lose my place in line than try and think of any possible way to convince the shoe-admiring stranger that I am not afflicted with sharetoomuchthenpretendweneverstartedaconversationitis.

must be Santa

I just realized how easy it would be to get a job as a mall Santa this year. What with my naturally rosy complexion and my twenty pounds of belly- yes, twenty, I'm a dead ringer.
But it's not just my appearance that's old-manish lately. After I woke up from a nap, Stephen recited a poem he wrote in my honor:
"The love of my life lies on the couch,
Softly,
Sleeping,
Snoring."
Sweet, right? And accurate. I snore. Pregnancy makes me snore. And dependent on antacids. And my vision seems to be slipping? I'm just a beard away from Grandpadom.

the western front

Happy December!
This is possibly my last full month of pregnancy. Holla back! Besides holding our new baby, I think I'm most excited for the pregnant paranoia to end. Everyday I learn about some new potential complication or terrible something that could happen between now and delivery. And everyday I'm more convinced it will happen to me (us). Is this what parenthood is? Will I spend the rest of my existence worrying that my children will wrap the umbilical cord around their necks or stick their fingers in sockets or drive too fast?
Speaking of parenting, Stephen and I are supervising my cousins while my aunt and uncle are out of town.  Our job is to make sure they're nourished and to school on time, which means driving my aunt's car, which means trying to determine what all the many different buttons do. You would think I would know better than to push the red button marked SOS, but I swear I thought it would open the garage door. Instead it connected me to an emergency response operator who did not think it as funny as I did that I called by mistake. I would venture to say she was highly unamused. My bad.

first you're worried, then you're hurried

 EP7X6B5395J6

I had some time on my hands, so I decided to take a walk and photograph the changing leaves in our neighborhood. Ollie and I meandered down the road, stopping now and again to shoot a tree. After pausing at one especially vibrant deciduous, I glanced behind me and saw a very looking nervous mother sitting in a parked mini-van. She was staring directly at me. I've never considered myself to be particularly threatening looking, but I guess to her the image of a predator is a pony-tailed pregnant woman walking a miniature schnauzer. I quickly walked away, and seconds later looked back to see her dart into her house. I came home a little embarrassed and told Stephen all about it. As is often the case, he had a very different interpretation. "Well there was obviously something in her house that she didn't want you to see," he said. "Probably a dead body," I added, letting my imagination run a bit wild. I both like and dislike Stephen's approach. I like that it means I'm less likely to show up on America's Most Wanted. I dislike that it means a hit man is more likely to show up at my door.

Anyway, here's the photo that may get me arrested/killed.

Probably not worth it.