This morning I see an email from my mother. The subject line reads, "Re: Naomi".
Her note says, "Wow, what a nice mom! I will try to remember to come"
Confused, I read further down to the original message. It read as follows:
From: Alycia Moore
Sent: Sunday, June 21, 2009 3:04 PM
To: Mom
Subject: naomi
Naomi has been a really good daughter so I was thinking if I SHOULD HAVE A PARTY AT MY HOUSE
AT TUESDAY, JUNE 23 THERE WILL BE CAKE
LOVE,ALYCIA
I wrote back to mom that I had no idea what she was talking about. Mom asked if that message wasn't from me, as it came from my email. (Mom, didn't you see it was sent at 3pm on Sunday? Hello! We were sitting by each other in the airport waiting to board the plane at that time.) I have since determined that my stinker, Naomi, got onto my laptop and emailed the message to mom. GRRRR. I'm thinking we should have cake, but Naomi will have to sit and watch us eat it without her.
If anybody else was including in this bogus invitation, please disregard.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Give me a head with hair
Okay, so Sean complains everytime I get Naomi's hair cut. He's even gone so far as to say to Naomi that boys won't like her if she keeps her hair short. It's not like she's got a buzz cut - it's a cute bob. Since Sean is the morning parent, and he refuses to learn how to do hair for girls, I'm okay with the short hair. Naomi got her first cut after I got tired of seeing her climb off the school bus with her hair obviously uncombed from sleeping in it the night before. Now that she's older, she can style her own hair. We started to grow it out, but when it reached her shoulders, she bugged me to have it cut until I gave in.
Last week, I started vacumning the house. It was one of those days where I couldn't stand to avoid the little areas, so I was moving furniture and going under beds, and into the walk-in closet. It was there that I met the vacumn nemesis - loose shoe string. It clogged up the muy, muy expensive Dyson that Sean bought last year. After spending an hour trying to cut the shoe string out of the brush motor with tiny manicure scissors, I had to call it quits and put the girls to bed. I later got it out and asked Sean to help me figure out how to get the stupid shoe lace out. The torque was apparently so much, that the string melted onto the spin brush thing (stop me if this gets too technical). While Sean and I are taking apart the Dyson, Sean begins exclaiming how gross all the hair wrapped around the brush is (and considering I already weed wacked out a ton of it out during my previous efforts to remove the shoestring, I don't see what he was whining about). I pointed out that hair in the vacumn brush was the consequence of girls having long hair, and wasn't he the guy always telling Naomi and Charlotte to keep their hair long?
I kid you not. He looks up at me and says, "yeah, but I'm pretty sure this is all yours."
Can't win.
Last week, I started vacumning the house. It was one of those days where I couldn't stand to avoid the little areas, so I was moving furniture and going under beds, and into the walk-in closet. It was there that I met the vacumn nemesis - loose shoe string. It clogged up the muy, muy expensive Dyson that Sean bought last year. After spending an hour trying to cut the shoe string out of the brush motor with tiny manicure scissors, I had to call it quits and put the girls to bed. I later got it out and asked Sean to help me figure out how to get the stupid shoe lace out. The torque was apparently so much, that the string melted onto the spin brush thing (stop me if this gets too technical). While Sean and I are taking apart the Dyson, Sean begins exclaiming how gross all the hair wrapped around the brush is (and considering I already weed wacked out a ton of it out during my previous efforts to remove the shoestring, I don't see what he was whining about). I pointed out that hair in the vacumn brush was the consequence of girls having long hair, and wasn't he the guy always telling Naomi and Charlotte to keep their hair long?
I kid you not. He looks up at me and says, "yeah, but I'm pretty sure this is all yours."
Can't win.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
I AM NOT A CROOK
Many of you already know, I travel roughly once a month for work. I go, look pretty, smile hard, and try to charm doctors into buying more than they originally thought they wanted. It's something I've helped my job grow into, and has turned out to be financially rewarding for my boss and personally rewarding for me.
For each trip, I usually end up buying me something new to wear. That's my "bonus" to myself for the 15 to 20-hour work days. On my last trip, I whipped out a pair of pants I bought a few weeks before. When I arrived at the hotel with my traveling companion and co-worker, Amy, I started hanging up my clothes. Imagine my dismay when I felt a lump at the base of my new black pants. The dang things still had the light tan electronic do-dad pinned to the ankle of one leg! I don't know how on Earth I (ad the sales clerk) missed it.
I had no other options to wear. When we travel, it is encouraged that we do not check our luggage, everything has to fit in our carry-on bags. I had packed exactly enough for me to 1. wear a work dress that evening for a 3-hour student lecture and 2. the shirt/pant combo for the next day.
Amy got onto her phone web browser, and we called the help number for EXPRESS (ooops, did I name drop?). The cute customer service rep that answered listened to my dilemma, and when I asked if there was some secret to prying that watchacallit off, she seriously told me, "Ma'am, I don't recommend doing that, because there is a sharp pin that could hurt you." Ohhhh, a sharp pin! Save me! Who am I? Sleeping Beauty to be afraid of a pin? Seriously, even I know I shouldn't even consider trying to pry the tag off because it might rip the pants that I paid ***ahem, blush*** full price for.
I told her I was actually calling to see if she could direct me to a close-by store, where hopefully they could take the tag off. She gave me the names of three malls that were within 20 miles, and told me to call her so she could call the store managers and have them wait for me to come in. Unfortunately, I didn't have a car, and the hotel shuttle only had a 5-mile will-drive-you-for-free area. I could pay for a cab (there and back), or I could go to a nearby boutique mall (with store names like BCBG and Armani) and buy something else to where that probably wouldn't match the accessories I packed. ....sigh.
My ultimate decision? To wear the pants to the student reception, with some ingenious camouflage, and wear the dress the next day. In case you can't tell... yes, it's duct tape.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Let me check your tire pressure
Last Christmas, I was browsing through Costco and found a digital tire pressure gauge. I had numerous “slow leaks” on my old Camry. My father long ago gave me a silver pen-shaped gauge that you would put to the tire, and watch the tiny ruler with the minuscule writing on it pop out when you firmly pushed to the tire. Problem was – I always wondered, did I push it on firmly enough? Did I just bump the ruler and make it slide further out than it was? What number exactly is that tiny line supposed to be on the gauge? Is my constant re-testing actually letting all the air out of my tires?
Anyhow, I’ve always hated the stupid thing. I never was confident that I had properly measured my tire pressure. I would beg my husband or my dad to do it, because I have no problem pretending to be the helpless female. Upon seeing the digital gauge, I snapped up that $20 tool, and decided to see if this would help me out. I opened the box and put the gauge in my glove compartment, untested.
Two months later, my new RAV4 had a light appear on the console. I diligently looked it up in my owner's manual and saw I had low tire pressure. I was pretty impressed – I didn’t even know my car could tell me that. On the Camry, I would look and think, “isn’t that tire looking a little low?” At that point, it usually was REALLY low, much to my father’s disgust.
Excited and a little nervous, I whip out my brand new tire pressure gauge, park by the free air dispenser, check the sticker located on the inside of my door, unscrew the tiny little lid, and press the gauge to the valve. It beeped and showed exactly what my tire pressure was in BIG, FAT, LIT-IN-NEON numbers. I repeated the procedure with all four tires, identified which tire was 2 lbs below the recommended psi, and filled that tire to the correct amount. I AM WOMAN, HEAR ME ROAR. I was so excited that I called my mom, told her all about it, and offered to check her tire pressure for her. Frankly, I think she must have thought I had lost my mind.
A few months ago, that special light appeared again on my console. I pulled over, confidently pulled my gauge out and went to check my pressure. All the tires were .5 lb of the recommended guideline. I shrugged and went to get air and fill them to EXACTLY the correct pressure and saw this air compressor required quarters. Since I didn’t have quarters, I decided I would wait until I could get to a free air dispenser. I figured it shouldn’t be a big deal, because they weren’t even a pound low. Three days later, I finally get to a free air pump and fill each tire to the exact amount. The tire light remained lit. I was upset. I know I did it right! Obviously, my crappy RAV4 was already broken. The electrical system must be shot, or some pricy sensor located in the tire had broken down.
Peeved, I took my car into the dealership and explained the problem to the service concierge (fancy title for mechanic). “I know I did it right”, I told the man, “I checked that all the tires are exactly the recommended pressure. I even have a nifty digital gauge that I KNOW I am measuring it correctly. Something must be wrong with the car!”
“Did you check the spare?” he asks.
“Right” I reply, “and I need my muffler bearings replaced and my blinker fluid refilled. I may be blond, but seriously!”
The man started laughing. “You don’t believe me? I’m serious – there’s a sensor on the spare.”
He sends me inside to wait and 10 minutes later I’m called to collect my totally super-awesome RAV4 (repenting for calling it crappy). It was my spare tire, attached to the rear door, that was low. Red-cheeked and laughing, I left the dealership.
Anyhow, I’ve always hated the stupid thing. I never was confident that I had properly measured my tire pressure. I would beg my husband or my dad to do it, because I have no problem pretending to be the helpless female. Upon seeing the digital gauge, I snapped up that $20 tool, and decided to see if this would help me out. I opened the box and put the gauge in my glove compartment, untested.
Two months later, my new RAV4 had a light appear on the console. I diligently looked it up in my owner's manual and saw I had low tire pressure. I was pretty impressed – I didn’t even know my car could tell me that. On the Camry, I would look and think, “isn’t that tire looking a little low?” At that point, it usually was REALLY low, much to my father’s disgust.
Excited and a little nervous, I whip out my brand new tire pressure gauge, park by the free air dispenser, check the sticker located on the inside of my door, unscrew the tiny little lid, and press the gauge to the valve. It beeped and showed exactly what my tire pressure was in BIG, FAT, LIT-IN-NEON numbers. I repeated the procedure with all four tires, identified which tire was 2 lbs below the recommended psi, and filled that tire to the correct amount. I AM WOMAN, HEAR ME ROAR. I was so excited that I called my mom, told her all about it, and offered to check her tire pressure for her. Frankly, I think she must have thought I had lost my mind.
A few months ago, that special light appeared again on my console. I pulled over, confidently pulled my gauge out and went to check my pressure. All the tires were .5 lb of the recommended guideline. I shrugged and went to get air and fill them to EXACTLY the correct pressure and saw this air compressor required quarters. Since I didn’t have quarters, I decided I would wait until I could get to a free air dispenser. I figured it shouldn’t be a big deal, because they weren’t even a pound low. Three days later, I finally get to a free air pump and fill each tire to the exact amount. The tire light remained lit. I was upset. I know I did it right! Obviously, my crappy RAV4 was already broken. The electrical system must be shot, or some pricy sensor located in the tire had broken down.
Peeved, I took my car into the dealership and explained the problem to the service concierge (fancy title for mechanic). “I know I did it right”, I told the man, “I checked that all the tires are exactly the recommended pressure. I even have a nifty digital gauge that I KNOW I am measuring it correctly. Something must be wrong with the car!”
“Did you check the spare?” he asks.
“Right” I reply, “and I need my muffler bearings replaced and my blinker fluid refilled. I may be blond, but seriously!”
The man started laughing. “You don’t believe me? I’m serious – there’s a sensor on the spare.”
He sends me inside to wait and 10 minutes later I’m called to collect my totally super-awesome RAV4 (repenting for calling it crappy). It was my spare tire, attached to the rear door, that was low. Red-cheeked and laughing, I left the dealership.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Testimony of an 8-year old
Yesterday, Naomi decided she would bear her testimony. Excited, she looked at me and said, “I’m going to go up there next!” She climbs over her little sister and myself to get out to the aisle, and marched for the back of the cultural hall to the front of the chapel. Adjusting the mike, she announces, “I know the Church is true, and I love my neighbors ‘cause they are nice. Yesterday I was going to do the dishes like my mom told me to, but I was taking too long. I got spanked hard and it hurt a lot. My mom spanks really hard, I couldn't EVEN MOVE! And my mom said, “GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!” so I left to my neighbors and cried there for like 20 MINUTES! Anyways, my neighbors are nice and I love them. In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.”
Honestly, after the “my mom spanks really hard”, I probably missed some of her testimony. I was too busy crawling under my chair. I was so embarrassed and laughing so hard, I was crying. The lady I visit teach was sitting behind me. She patted me on my back. Naomi probably got the biggest laughs, now she’s got a taste of the attention, I’m afraid of what the future will bring. I had to resist the temptation to get up and share my testimony and say, “let me tell you what really happened”. Luckily, maturity prevailed.
After sacrament, a half-dozen ladies stopped to tell me they weren’t judging me – they’ve all been there. One of the brothers told me as I dropped Charlotte off at nursery that he isn’t allowing his children to share their testimonies until they are 18. My Sunday school teacher started the lesson by looking at me and laughing uncontrollably. My neighbor turned around and patted my hand. Naomi’s primary teacher stopped me as I was picking Charlotte up to let me know she told Naomi that testimony sharing was to talk about the gospel, not tell stories. I was asked to give the opening prayer for Sunday school, the closing prayer for Relief Society, and a member of my bishopric called me that evening to let me know they didn’t think I was a bad mother.
Anybody want an eight-year old?
Honestly, after the “my mom spanks really hard”, I probably missed some of her testimony. I was too busy crawling under my chair. I was so embarrassed and laughing so hard, I was crying. The lady I visit teach was sitting behind me. She patted me on my back. Naomi probably got the biggest laughs, now she’s got a taste of the attention, I’m afraid of what the future will bring. I had to resist the temptation to get up and share my testimony and say, “let me tell you what really happened”. Luckily, maturity prevailed.
After sacrament, a half-dozen ladies stopped to tell me they weren’t judging me – they’ve all been there. One of the brothers told me as I dropped Charlotte off at nursery that he isn’t allowing his children to share their testimonies until they are 18. My Sunday school teacher started the lesson by looking at me and laughing uncontrollably. My neighbor turned around and patted my hand. Naomi’s primary teacher stopped me as I was picking Charlotte up to let me know she told Naomi that testimony sharing was to talk about the gospel, not tell stories. I was asked to give the opening prayer for Sunday school, the closing prayer for Relief Society, and a member of my bishopric called me that evening to let me know they didn’t think I was a bad mother.
Anybody want an eight-year old?
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