Fluent Brittish

Someday I will be able to give my blog more attention. For now I am limited by the the lack off free time my child will allow me. It’s SO.NOT.FAIR! Until then, may I remind my sweet Book Exchange pals to send their books by Thursday (i.e. November 1). Audrey is super awesome, so I have already received my book. Audrey, please give yourself five extra credit points, just don’t apply them to our upcoming game because that’s SO.NOT.FAIR! Wait! What’s that?!? An upcoming game with Audrey? Why, yes. Audrey and I have put together a little friendly competition between the two of us as part of NaBloPoMo. I guess you can consider this my official announcement: I will be attempting* to participate in National Blog Posting Month by posting everyday in November (blame lack of links on Nicky who is currently climbing the stairs. If he falls down, I blame the Internet for occupying my interest. Must… be… quick…).

*No promises.

I woke up early this morning and couldn’t get back to sleep because my mind wouldn’t stop thinking. Usually when this happens (which is 90% of the time) my thoughts are filled with lists of tomorrow’s chores; random ideas for church activities, blog posts, or upcoming events; or the ten things I need to remember to pick up at Wal-Mart. This morning was a little bit different. The topic that stirred my thoughts into restlessness: polygamists. That’s right. I couldn’t sleep because I was thinking about polygamists.

I remember being about twelve years old and going on vacation to Goblin Valley in southern Utah. It was hot, HOT down there, and as my family and I wandered through the park climbing a top the ‘goblins’ for pictures, I saw a family dressed in very unsuitable clothing for the conditions. The boys were in turtle necks and long pants; the girls in long-sleeved dresses with bright colored socks. My mom told me that they were polygamists. I’d heard of them in my Utah History class, but I didn’t know they were real, at least in a modern sense.I tried not to stare, but it was almost like seeing a celebrity on the street. I didn’t want to invade their privacy, but I couldn’t simply look away. They were too fascinating.

Since then, I’ve seen my fair share of polygamists around Utah. In August I saw some in Park City, and last week I saw two sister wives at the fabric store. I still stare, but I try to smile and be friendly (as long as they don’t park their shopping carts in my way).

My greatest run-in with a polygamist family was unexpected and left me with a lot if information I didn’t previously know. I used to work at a country store at the local dairy. I had been working with a girl named Jennifer for a while, and one night the store was completely empty so Jennifer and I sat down to have some ice cream. I was teaching Sunday School at the time, and I told Jennifer how I would be teaching the next day and how I dreaded it because the boys in my class were a nightmare. Jennifer told me that she’d never been to church before. Without my asking, she continued telling me that her family was religious before she was born, but they had stopped practicing their faith. I assumed that they had been Mormons, but I found myself intrigued by her openness so I asked, “What religion were they?” She told me that they were members of the FLDS church, a sect that broke off from Mormonism but is not affiliated with the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints and maintains the practice of polygamy.

Again, appreciating her openness (and out of desperate curiosity) I started asking a basket full of questions. I learned that her dad had been a polygamist with three wives. Two of his wives ended up leaving him so by the time Jennifer was born, her dad was only married to her mom, but he had shared custody of fifteen children.  The family had always lived in my community, even when practicing polygamy (this I found strange because most polygamists live in their own communities or on private ranches. I had no idea that some lived within normal neighborhoods like mine. I mean, how could they all fit in one small house?). Jennifer’s dad had been a Mormon in his youth, but as an adult decided that he liked the ideas of the Fundamentalists so he joined them, found himself three wives, and started breeding. I don’t know when, exactly, he stopped practicing polygamy - I guess he had no choice when his wives started leaving him, but at the time I knew the family, none of them followed the dress codes or lived the religion. The dad, however, continued to socialize with the FLDS people, and had arranged a marriage for Jennifer… to a 43 year old man. She would be his eighth wife when she turned 18. Jennifer expressed her grief over the issue of her ‘arranged’ marriage and told me how she planned to get out of it: she was going to have sex with a lot of different guys because the 43 year old wouldn’t accept an ‘unclean’ woman to be his wife.

I left work that night trying to decide if Jennifer was for real or if she had just told the biggest, fattest lie she could so she could keep my attention. I learned over time that she was being truthful, and by the end of my employment at the dairy, Jennifer’s mom had divorced her dad, and he was left with no wives.

Polygamy is so interesting. It’s a life style I will never desire or understand. I’ve heard rumors of brainwashing and blackmail involving the people of the FLDS church. All I know is, I’d never want to share a husband, and I’d definitely never put my trust in a man like Warren Jeffs. To each his own.

Everyday for the past ten months, I’ve been engaging in a vigorous workout. As time passes, and I build up more strength, the workout becomes more difficult. The majority of the workout consists of a series of lunges, squats, lifts, and bends. It goes something like this:

• Squat and bend to pick up toys. Repeat.
• Raise five laundry baskets above head and run down three flights of stairs.
• Lift twenty-three pound Nicky weight from floor to high chair - back to floor - into crib - back to floor - on to changing table - back to floor.
• Lunge forward toward crawling baby as he attempts to make escape with poopy bum. Repeat in two-second intervals until bum is clean and fresh diaper is secure. Repeat again to replace pants.
• Using right hand, vigorously shake bottle until powdered formula is mixed. Repeat every 2-3 hours rotating hands.
• Carry twenty-three pound Nicky weight up the stairs, outside to the garbage can, into the computer room, and everywhere else imaginable during every waking hour.
• Using muscle contractions, fight to keep baby still while adorning socks and shoes. Repeat each time baby removes sock or shoe - up to ten times daily.
• Run to baby when he tries to go down the stairs. Run to baby when he touches electric appliances. Run to baby when he starts playing near coffee table with sharp corners. Run to baby when he tries eating a candy wrapper.* Run to baby when he starts beating the cat with his toys.

So seriously… why am I still fat?

*Or a marble…. or dryer lint… or cat food… or rocks… socks are okay, though

Nicky and I went on our first vacation without Scotty this week. A six hour drive landed us in Las Vegas with my good friends Leelee and Chelley and my nephew, T-Bone. Thanks to my in-laws, we had a condo waiting for us at the Jockey Club. Other than forgetting to shave my right leg before I left, the trip was awesome. Do you need some pictures? I think you do!

Nicky and Mom at the Bellagio

Nick and T-Bone confined to strollers

The closest I’ve ever been to Paris 

 Leelee and Britt teaching the facts of life

 The accordion man who kept following us around. Nick tolerated him, but T-Bone screamed at him (I look like I’ve got a five-year-old strapped to my chest)

Nicky at the M&M store (this is right after I dropped a container of M&Ms and sent them shooting across the entire store - all of the other customers advised me t o blame it on the baby)

 Creepy Statue Man (up close I could see his whiskers poking through his white make-up and had the sudden urge to pluck. Anyone have some tweezers handy?)

Nicky’s rice cereal incident at the condo

Babies at the Coke store

Nicky loves Coke

FAO Schwartz at Caesar’s Palace (AKA: Nicky’s wildest dream)

Nicklaus Amadeus Mozart

I’ve always made fun of these stupid bikes. Now I have to get one. Nick loved it!

My first real life purchase at Sephora

The fluffy dog rodeo 

It’s been a while since I bought my new car, hasn’t it? I mean, long enough that you’d think I’d have received my license plates already? Well, it seems that the license plate factory was running behind. My temporary plates expired on 10/11/07 and I received my plates just now, a mere fourteen hours before I drive said new car to Las Vegas.

Glad to be legal, though I’m sure I wouldn’t have gotten into too much trouble in Sin City with expired yellow papers hanging from my bumper.

Because of my upcoming trip to Vegas, I’ll be on a brief blogging hiatus. In the meantime, I need your help. You see, I was kind of hoping that my new license plates would read something funny or naughty, and it would be great because I could laugh about it and tell all my friends how the license plate factory accidentally made perverted license plates for me. I have no such luck. My plates read: PJV

Boring, eh?

So I plead with you, my favorite readers in the whole wide world, to to think of some acronyms (or opposite of acronyms since PJV is the actual acronym) for my license plates. As always, I will offer you an incentive. The best opposite-of-acronym creator will receive a special yet-to-be-determined gift from Vegas, and it will be much better than free porn cards off the sidewalk or a postcard of the Thunder from Down Under (who are mostly gay and stuff their white diapers).

So what does PJV stand for?

1. Because he is reasonable in every way. He never raises his voice or loses his temper with me. He is fair, forgiving, and logical. He knows that fighting isn’t going to solve the problem, and he is never disrespectful. He is a rare gentleman.

2. Because he cleans up real nice. Our current lifestyle doesn’t allow much time for dressing up and going out, and since Scotty works in a warehouse, his work clothes leave much to be desired. However, on the rare chance we get to go out and do something special, he’ll throw on nice clothes and shave his five-days-worth of facial hair and then he’s a real hottie.

3. Because he’s freaking hilarious. He’s always demonstrating his new dance moves and telling silly stories. He loves to tease people, especially waitresses because he claims that this will get us free stuff (it has yet to happen, though he did get us a dollar off a pie once). Most of his ideas and theories are completely absurd and leave me laughing for hours.

4. Because he is amazingly smart. I don’t know where he gets it from, but he just knows how to do things. He can fix a lawnmower, build a fence, install a phone jack, plant a garden, and repair a boat motor without even thinking about it. If I told him to drive me to Audrey’s house, he could without even knowing who Audrey is. He just knows.

5 . Because he gives 100%. Scotty has never hesitated to help me with household chores. If I ask him to change the laundry, he does it. He helps with dishes, vacuuming, mopping, and he even cleans out the litter box. He takes out the garbage and carries in the groceries. When he gets home from school at night after being gone for fourteen hours (sometimes longer), he still helps with Nicky. He does anything he can to help with my responsibilities as a wife and mother, even when it involves poop, pee, or vomit. Scotty has seen the worst of me and still loves me.

I think I’ll keep him!

Little Scotty and Little Britt in 2003
(why are there no pictures of Scotty and me from the past year? I must fix that!)

Today I took a journey to the town I grew up in. I only live five minutes away from that town, and technically that town is part of Salt Lake City in general, so I’m not sure if I get to refer to it as ‘my hometown.’ I’d like to think that I have a hometown so I can better appreciate song like Sweet Home Alabama, Mayberry, and My Town.* I don’t know what classifies a township or a city, and frankly, the subject doesn’t interest me much, so forgive me if my terminology is entirely incorrect.

My “hometown” is one of the many podunk places referred to as the ‘Armpit of Utah.’ Other than being the home of the tallest free-standing structure west of the Missisippi River and the supposed birthplace of SheDaisy (they actually lived on the other side of the border), my hometown doesn’t have much claim to fame. It’s an old place with a lot of Wrangler butts and boarded up buildings. Rodeo is the cool sport and everyone works at Reams Grocery Store until they’re 30. Outsiders gag at the thought of drinking from the town’s water supply. The local high school is sinking (yes, sinking, as in disappearing into the ground) and the cemetery looks like a place to bury pets and stash your wife’s ugly pink yard flamingos.

My dad still lives in my hometown as do two of my sisters and one of my brothers, and my nephew is a linebacker** at the sinking high school.

Though it’s a short five minutes away, my hometown has a culture and personality of its own. The people there are different; not better or worse, just different.

There are a few things that bring me back to my hometown: my family (obviously), my bank (though I usually go to the branch in my city), my dentist (love that guy), and the $5.99 store.

The idea of having a hometown is exciting to me. I love that I grew up there, and I love that most of my family still lives there. I just hope I never have to live there again. I hate pink yard flamingos.

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*Hey editor, are song titles supposed to be italicized or in quotations? I’m thinking quotations. You better inform me so I don’t screw up next time.

**Whatever that is.

A few weeks ago, I confessed my skepticism toward a certain furniture company. For the protection of that company, let’s simply refer to it as “IKEA. ” Little did I know that I would do my readers completely wrong by saying I’m not a lover of “IKEA.” I mean, I knew I was risking disagreement, but I thought we’d get over it just fine. Some of you threatened to break up with me and deny my existence, but it was all in good fun, right?

Since that day, my stats have plummeted drastically. I’d like to think that it’s just a strange coincidence, and that my readers have abandoned me due to some kind of plague and not because I insulted their beloved “IKEA” (not that I’m pro-plague or anything). I keep thinking that any day now I’ll have readers again, but the stats hold true to the doom of “IKEA Day:”

I think I have found myself in the midst of the Great “IKEA” Scandal of 2007. I feel kind of like that guy who made that comment and got kicked off public TV [insert rejected guy of your choice here].

I have a few options on how to redeem myself. My agent has contacted 20/20 to try and get me an interview with [insert named of that brunette lady who replaced Barbara Walters] so I can make a public apology, but they seem to think that my story isn’t going to make good media. Something like…. nobody cares about your personal blog, you’re not the first person in the world to hate “IKEA”, something, something, I dunno. You can ask my agent about it if you want, but the point is, I wish to make amends. I miss my readers. Sniff.

Because of the Great “IKEA” Scandal of 2007, I didn’t participate in the Great Mofo Delurk last week by calling on all of you lurkers to expose yourselves.  Simply put: I don’t know if there’s anyone left to delurk, but if there are any of you hanging around sipping your little cups of tea whilst reading this and thinking to yourself, “I really like ‘IKEA’ but I also like Britt, so I’ll forgiver her,” you should say so now so I don’t have to cry myself to sleep again tonight. And if you are out there lurking and reading my blog without ever leaving a comment, you should comment today so we can proceed down the path of lifelong friendship.

I try to take good care of my belongings, but I’ve been cursed with clumsiness. I always spill things, drop things, and break things. I’m a clutz, what can I say? For today’s Friday Five, allow me to present to you some of the mishaps that have occurred in my home over the past year.

1. What’s an ‘amily’?

‘Amily’ is what happens when I try to spell ‘family’ but leave the ‘F’ on the floor for too long, and it gets stepped on. What sucks even more is that I bought the letters on clearance at the craft store, so naturally, they are sold out of ‘F’s. The solution: Buy a ‘P’ and  cut it down to look like an ‘F’ then hope that no one steps on it.

2.  Who let Britt play in the mud?

One day I got ambitious and decided to patch a bunch of holes in the walls throughout the house. Our living room walls are textured, and I still have the glaze, so I thought it would be easy to repaint the areas that had been repaired. Notice that one wall is brown - it used to match the rest of the walls, but when I tried to cover up my patchwork, I couldn’t get the glaze to blend with the rest of the wall. I ended up having to paint the one wall, but I had also patched a few holes on another wall, and I couldn’t cover them without painting the entire living room. I was eight months pregnant when this mishap occurred, so  I had to keep my painting to a minimum.  We still have uncovered patch work in the corner of our living room. The solution: Hang something over the mud (but being in a corner, it looks really weird having some random thing hanging there).

3. It can’t possibly be 5:00 already!

Do you remember when I made this clock (on the old blog)? I was so excited about it. Last week it fell off the wall and it hasn’t worked since. It suffered some slight damage, and it hit the light switch on the way down so the black paint rubbed off on the switches.

Geez, Britt! Why are your light switches so dirty?

4.  A chip off the old bowl

I have a bowl stand in my kitchen. Some people like it, and some people think it’s stupid that I use bowls for decorative purposes. They have a point, though, bowls are for food. The truth is, sometimes I wash the dust out of the bowls and use them, but last time I did, this is what happened:

5.  The ‘M’ was also a problem

Now that you’ve read about my mishap with the letter ‘F’, I can tell you what happened to the letter ‘M’. After I bought the letters to spell ‘family,’ I went to the thrift store and bought some frames, painted them black, and put the letters on the glass. Then I went to Wal-Mart and bought some super glue (yep, I think you know what’s coming) . I glued the glass into the frames and when I went to pick up the ‘M’, it was glued to my kitchen table. I pried it from the surface and was able to fix the frame, but the table took a lot more work.

Fortunately my table was a hand-me-down, and I’d painted it once before. I ended up sanding the remnants from the frame off the table and repainting it black. I used a roller to avoid brush strokes, and instead, the table was covered in roller fuzz. After the paint dried, I applied some vinyl letters around the edge of the table so it reads, “Bless this home with love and laughter, friends and family forever after… bla bla bla…”As I rubbed on the lettering and peeled off the transfer paper, it peeled up the paint. I couldn’t sand and repaint at that point because the vinyl letters were already adhered. I just had to touch it up and deal with the fuzz and peeling paint and hope that the varnish will hold it together until I can afford my own kitchen table.

Table after first paint job (three years ago)

Table now

The first time I sat down at my newly painted table to eat, my cereal bowl stuck to the table and left a ring. I think I better take a year off just to be safe. That includes cleaning.

While I was putting T-Bone down for his nap today…

…Nicky helped himself to a bowl of apricots - which I had placed on the table so they’d be out of reach.

When I removed his clothes, I was greeted by a waterfall of Trix cereal pouring from his overalls. I then found the box of Trix - which I had also placed on the table - laying in the side of the couch with it’s contents having been dumped on the floor, most of which rolled under the couch.

Lately Nicky has had a fascination with the Apple Dumpling Gang DVD. He likes to pull it out of the DVD basket and play with the case. I moved it to a higher shelf so he’d leave it alone, but in the five minutes I spent with T-Bone in the other room, Nicky had pulled down the basket and pulled out each DVD looking for the Apple Dumpling Gang.

Have I mentioned that he doesn’t even crawl yet? Boy, I’m in for it.

Babies in my care for the day: 2

Poopy diapers changed by noon: 5

Hours until T-Bone’s mom comes to get him: 6

Deep breath.