Shout Out to My Mom

BTW, blog dreams really DO come true! I got some sweet new sheets for Christmas. No more hoochies on my pillow!

Thanks Ma!

For my birthday I'll write blogs about how Marc hogs the ipod and his laptop, and how a hybrid car would really help me to save the environment.

Misery Loves Company

Women have this fixation. Sick female=expectant mother. Who knows where it started, as if women didn't get sick all time from things like rollercoasters, video games and (those damn) Van Damme movies. Women want to see babies-if they're not gushing over their own, their ooing and ahhing over someone elses. They are baby crazy. And if you're like me, childless after 2 years of marriage, you would feel the pressure rising. I can't mention that I feel a little woosy without a flock of hens hovering around, clucking about a bun in the oven. But this post isn't about them, it's about me. I, too, fall victim to the pregnancy preoccupation.

It’s the day after my wedding. We are driving from frigid Salt Lake to sunny LA so we can catch an early morning flight to Hawaii. Shortly into the trip, I start vomiting and shaking like a rabid horse. Hello, where did this come from? Was I carsick? Did I have the flu? Was I PREGNANT? The day after my wedding… is that even possible??? After a long pit stop in Vegas, we came close to missing our flight. I sat doubled over the entire drive and was a complete mess on the way to Maui. A day of resting on the Hawaiian beach brought me back to normal, but I still worried... would we be honeymoon parents? That was definitely not part of the plan. But how could I be sure? What was morning sickness like, anyway? My question was soon answered when I checked my voicemail and learned that much of my family was suffering much like I was. Whether it was bad eats or a sick nephew we may never be sure, but the news was bittersweet. I was sad everyone got sick at my reception, but happy at the same time. I was so, so relieved not to be a honeymoon statistic.

I had another intimate moment with the toilet this morning. More like 6 intimate moments. The last time I threw up was almost 2 years ago to the day. (Our anniversary is Jan 2^nd, feel free to congratulate us in blog form.) I was in perfect health yesterday as we flew back from Wisconsin. I never flinched as I ate my Quarter Pounder, fries and most of Marc’s salad. (Writing about it now, however, reminds me of my renewed vow never to eat McDonald’s again). So bowing at the throne today I thought to myself, this isn’t what morning sickness is like, is it? This feeling came completely out of left field. Again, not part of the plan, but could I actually be in the family way? It’s a little much to think about when it’s not on the agenda.

But again, my mom soon called to tell me the extensive list of family members that were also sick. **Stay away from the salami**

And yet again, I was a little glad everyone else was sick, too.

Today in Primary

I co-teach 6 year olds in primary. Today we learned about baptism.

Teacher: "When we are baptized, we go completely under the water. So we say we are 'baptized by' what?"

Kid #1: "Inversion!"

Kid #2: "By a virgin?!"

Kid #3: "I'M A VIRGIN!"

Trust me, the live version was classic. Can I please see that on TiVo after I die?
My thoughts? Good for you, Kid. We must be teaching you something right after all.

Top Ten Things I Love

Top Ten Things I Love

(or at least that I can think of right now)

1. Jäger Sleeping

I love him awake, too, but life is a lot easier when he’s sleeping. No standing in the cold waiting for him to pee. No chasing him around the house while pulling wads of Kleenex out of his mouth. No feeding, switching out toys, bribing with treats or cleaning out cages. Just a few bursts of spastic twitching and a loving, cuddly little critter. And peace. Glorious peace.

2. Redheads

I have this theory that with redheads, only the strong survive. And I love them for it. I’ve fallen in love with Jäger, our sweet little redheaded stepchild. I’ve dated more redheads then you’d probably like to know about. My best friend has red hair. I hope my kids have red hair like my sister’s kids do. But that won't happen if my husband has any control. Which, technically, he doesn’t. Ha!

3. Being carried to bed

When I was little I used to pretend to fall asleep on the couch so my dad would carry me upstairs. It still works well with the hubbers…

4. Sleeping in Sunday mornings and cuddling with Marc

We don’t have church until 1pm, so we have all of Sunday morning together. It’s our on morning a week to chill, read, have breakfast, or do whatever we want. Heaven!!

5. Sundays in general

I’ve had to work almost every Sunday for over 2 years. I finally got it off, and it has turned into the most marvelous day of the week. I can relax, go to church, take walks, read, etc. I feel sane and centered when I get my Sundays.

6. Massages

Massage is a beautiful thing. It’s become a staple in my life. So much so that I have to trade with another therapist every other week or it gets ugly. Sometimes I’ll spend the entire 50 min looking down at my clients in envy.

7. Stinky Face Man

Come use our bathroom sometime. My favorite piece of artwork adorns the wall.

8. Lindt truffles (chilled in the fridge)

That says it all.

9. Cheesy pick up lines

I tend to think of myself as a natural flirt, at least I was in my single days. Back in the day I had all kinds of tricks I’d use to get a guy’s attention. I would win his heart with gems like: “Hey, are you from Jamaica? Cuz JaMakin’ me crazy!” Laugh if you must, but the pick up lines became a way for a reserved girl like me to feign (and eventually gain) confidence in social situations. With men or women, cheesy pickup lines are always fun to laugh about. I still throw them around in moments of lightheartedness.

10. Crying at the beginning, middle and end of a good book

If you haven’t read Les Miserables yet, read it. It’s beautiful.

A Billboard for the Human Soul

Sometimes you don't know what you'll see when you lift the sheet. Aside from the various random skin explosions and other maladies most of us occasionally suffer from, I get up close and personal with various works of art plastered all over the human body.

The human back has become a billboard for the soul. I've seen countless latin/celtic/asian phrases, mythical creatures such as fairies and dragons, and naked women lying atop crescent moons or swinging in the jungle. Every time I see one, I spend much of the massage wondering what experience, dare, or now hazy evening in Cancun inspired this particular tattoo. Here is one such experience.

The other day I massaged a kid, mid-twenties, tan bod/bleached tips... typical Palm Beach surfer-type. His tattoo, tracing the length of his spine, in large samurai-esque letters read:

N
O
R
E
G
R
E
T
S

Maybe there was a good reason for it. I can understand why someone would choose "no regrets" as a slogan to live by. I myself make a sincere effort to learn from my mistakes, move on and put the past behind me. But how ironic to get a personal mantra tattooed on your back? Couldn’t serve as much of a reminder...

And then what happens when he turns 40, the love handles are in full swing, and due to gravity, those carefully etched letters are looking more and more like an Exxon Valdez oil slick? If that surfer body gets beached, not only can he never regret getting the tattoo, but he's not allowed to regret it. To laser it off would even assume some level of shame. But at least he won't have to look at it!

Now don't get me wrong, I'm not against tattoos, if they don’t suck. I've even tried a couple times to talk Marc into getting a matching one with me. Definitely nothing lame, it would have to be totally sweet. Like Jon Stewart. Or a Liger.

Trust Issues

Recent conversation with my husband:

"Marc, were those girls from Orem High?"

"Why do you want to know?"

Whoa! A little paranoid?!

"I'm was just wondering, did they go to Orem High?"

"No, you'll put it on your blog."

"I'm not telling anybody, it was brought up and now I'm curious. How did you even know those girls? Did you go to school with them or what?"

"I read your blog and saw that question, so you can understand why I assume you're going to post it."

What's this?! Now, I'm offended. So suddenly I have no discretion?? Why the secrets? What other information does he keep from me while I'm at a keyboard?

My retort:
"It's not your place to withhold information from me because you assume I'll do something with it. Just tell me," I said. It was a knee jerk defense. I said it boldly enough, but will it actually work?

Slack-jaw. Dumbfounded expression. He's not sure how to respond. And the woman in me is loving every beautiful second of it.

"Damn, woman! I forgot I was your bitch!," he mustered in his best goofball voice.

It made me smile. Hey, he didn't say I was wrong, did he?

Too Frugal?

Every night, two teenage girls sleep with my husband and me. They’re not hot, and that’s why it’s annoying.

My husband has a pillow he got before his mission. From two teenagers that used to flirt with him at his job. They “custom made” him a pillowcase. HA! If that thing was an original then I have a love child with Kevin Federline. (Hmmm, I guess who doesn’t these days…) No question, these suckers were mass produced, passed out to every hormone driven young man about to spend 2 years at a safe distance from anything with eyelashes. These chicks weren’t messing around, they were going to marry an RM if it was the last thing they’d do.

Picture it: two brunettes, about 17, all cutesy with their heads together, hands to the chin in true Glamour Shots style. It’s like straight out of a Doublemint add, with a caption reading: “this will have to do til your mission is thru”.

The question is this: does something as cheesy and horrible as this really serve a purpose? If so, then it’s either:

a) Make missionaries dream about the chicks on their pillows for two years. After long hours of simply staring at the picture, the poor missionary can still only dream. Oh the torture!

or

b) Make missionaries lust after the chicks on their pillowcase for two years. After the ogling gets old, what should they do, kiss the appliqué goodnight? I’m not any expert on mission rules, but making out with your girly pillow is likely considered a “gray area”, if not for the sole reason that it’s just creepy.

or

c) The make-out option again. I for one am appalled at their implication that it’s okay to make out with two chicks at the same time. And a threesome with a missionary? They’re sick puppies I tell you.

So I hate having these girls sleeping with us every night. These girls just aren’t all that. If they were Eva Longoria or Halle Berry I would at least give them credit. But they’re not, and they think they are. And I have to sleep with it.

To my relief, Marc never used this pillowcase on his mission. It was crisp and new when I pulled it out. Why would I put such a horrid thing on my bed? Marc’s pillowcase ripped, and it was last resort that turned into a temporary replacement. (Unfortunately, it’s my own fault, I forget to buy some new sets EVERY time I go to Target.) The plus side is that if you turn it upside down you almost forget they’re there.

So then why is the pillow always face up in the morning??

My Thoughts Exactly

What do I think about while giving a massage? NOT SEX. You don’t always ask, but you always want to know and there it is. There, now you can relax. Same goes for that dirty sleaze looking for a happy ending. Only 19% of women think about sex daily, so it’s not likely that you’ll be my weekly fantasy Mr. Severe Halitosis & Hairy Back Man. Let me reassure you, your therapist is thinking less about sex during the massage than you are. Your therapist is only there to take care of you. The sickos get weeded out FAST, massage isn’t a job you can do for long if your hearts not in it. (But as an additional sidenote, if you feel uncomfortable, say so!)

I can pretty much guarantee that rubbing oil all over your naked body is doing absolutely nothing for your therapist. (Well, unless you are of the “Thunder from Down Under” that a friend of mine used to massage. That’s excusable though, especially when she and all her girlfriends got free tickets for the show. I never experienced it for myself, but put simply those men sell sex. Or the illusion of it; I’m not about to be responsible for starting any rumors.)

There, now that’s settled.

I’ve been doing massage for almost 4 years, so I can function well on auto pilot. I’ve seen almost anything and learned that it all comes down to my intent and touch. Not to get into energy and loose my credibility, but being able to let my mind wander keeps me grounded. If I get too consumed in my clients issues, then I hold onto them-physically, emotionally, and mentally. I have to filter it out or I’m stuck with it.

I actually think of giving a massage as a form of meditation. Truth be told, my mind could drift off almost anywhere, from books I want to write to what I could blog to my future family. I get a rhythm and my best ideas start to flow. I believe I’ve mastered the art of staying connected with my client and keeping enough distance to stay sane.

Now, on to the fun stuff!

The stories, oh the stories! I have a certain level of client-therapist confidentiality that I have to keep up, as long as I want to keep my job, that is. Although I do have some goodies I’ll pass on over time. Sometime soon, I’ll post the one about the woman sprinting off the table en route to the bathroom, all the while holding a stained sheet tightly against her butt. That’s always a crowd pleaser, but I warn you, not for the weak. Stay tuned and I’ll try to come up with more.

Curse These Blogs!!!

Why the frustration? I’ve been thinking about writing a blog for a while now. Problem is, I come up with all these great ideas and trash them once I see the mess they become on screen. But this is my forum, so screw all the rest, right? Heck, the crazier the better. Understand though, I’m the one who can dance anywhere, but I hate raising my hand in class. It’s like baring your soul, this blogging business. Then again, this is finally my outlet for sharing the secret obsessions, thoughts and eccentricities that make me tick. And boy do I have those. However, I’m afraid that maybe over time the sweater will unravel and there I'll be, bare-chested to the world. And instead of the buxom bikini model I’d like to be, I’ll be reminiscent of an 11 year old boy. You don’t have to tell me, I know it’s scary.

So what the heck, I’ll give it a shot. Even if it turns out my secret desires aren’t as juicy as I give them credit, at least I can say I sank my teeth into the succulent fruit of blog-dom. Hop on the band wagon, Melbo, it could be a bumpy ride.