Super Important Topic: Booty Bling

I know, I know, you've been waiting with bated breath for my thoughts on this recent trend.  For full disclosure's sake I have to say that I am no Joan Rivers.  Four out of seven days of the week I'm in what most people consider pajamas nearly all day.  Unless I'm actually going to spend a significant amount of time around people I usually throw on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt while I play mommy all day.  I'm sure I'd be the perfect candidate for What Not To Wear.

That being said: booty bling...I don't get it.  Someone got a little carried away with the bedazzler.  The rhinestones and crystals adorning these jeans are not just in any old place, but smack dab on the bum.  Liberace would have been gaga for these jeans, I just know it.  For the most part I've witnessed this trend among the thirty and younger set.  I don't see it much here in Salt Lake City, but I do see it a lot in Bountiful in the shop I work in. 

For one, I don't appreciate having my eyes drawn to your backside.  Those jewel encrusted pockets are like an invitation for me to gawk at a place I normally don't gawk at.  As my mother says everyone has a bum, what's the big deal?  To a large extent I agree, but there are various shapes and sizes involved.  Which leads me to my point.  If you have a bum that is not anything to brag about, why in the world would you wear these jeans that draw so much attention to the area that all they are missing is a large neon arrow pointing to your derriere?  On the other hand if you just have a fantastic booty why do you need large shiny gemstones glued to your rear-end?  Gilding the lily if you ask me.  I get that rhinestones are pretty.  I'm practically a bird when it comes to liking glittery shiny things, but even I have no appetite for this trend. 

The pushers of these jeans have not only convinced teens and young moms to wear them, but sadly I've seen women pushing fifty and men sporting this look.  I don't care if you are 55 and look twenty years younger, congratulations on that but you still don't get a pass to wear hideous jeans that are best left to a fifteen year old.  And to the men out there: it's bad enough I have to tolerate seeing every square inch of your chicken legs and small flat bums thanks to skinny jeans.  Having my eyeballs assaulted with huge golden studs in the shape of an iron cross on the back side of your saggy over-sized jeans along with a huge pouncing tiger appliqued on your right thigh is where I draw the line.  Have a little self awareness.  Right now my thighs rival the circumference of an oak tree.  I am aware.  So much so in fact that I resist wearing cropped black spandex pants.  They look terribly cute under a long tunic and boy howdy how comfortable they must be but I refuse to reveal if my thighs contain a 16 oz. container of cottage cheese, or the economy sized containers they hawk at Costco.  So please, do me a favor...unless you are a flamboyant piano genius leave the rhinestones and other adornments on a piece of Cookie Lee jewelry.  My eyes thank you for your cooperation. 

Orange Julius Recipe

There are a handful of recipes that I have memorized, this is one of them.  I've been making it since I was 13 or 14.  I've been buying a lot of orange juice concentrate lately just for this recipe.  Ava is a little tyrant when it comes to this.  Just a couple of weeks ago she held my phone hostage with my mother on the line until I agreed to make it for her right then.   

One day when I was 15 or 16 and had apparently had a rough day at school I came home and decided to make orange julius.  Now most people who know me well will not be surprised by this story.  First thing I did was take a butter knife and tried to work half of the orange juice concentrate out of the can.  It was super frozen and was not budging.  After a few good college tries and a few cuss words under my breath I proceeded to inflict my mom's prized glass blender with the wrath of the butter knife wielded by my furious hand.   Blinded by my rage I did not think to consider what the result of a metal knife colliding with glass over and over again would yield.  Suddenly the blender was in shards scattered around the kitchen counter.  

Immediately all anger went out of me and my oh crap instinct shot through my body like electricity.  There was no hiding it.  I faced the music when my mom got home from Logan.  It was one of the few times she acted thoroughly put out at me.  I blame this episode of violence and subsequent acts of violence on inanimate objects on the Clark/Carlsen gene passed on from my Grandpa Denzel.  Heaven knows how many household objects have come to a quick end at the hands of my normally gentle grandfather.  My mother has also known the satisfaction of a broken vacuum flying through the air out the front door and onto the front lawn.  That will show it, Mom.  I've also seen her stomp the life out of a wide brimmed gardening hat.  I tried not to laugh.  She was pretty angry.  One time I chucked the Xbox remote control against the wall while Brig was at work.  Of course once again I failed to have the foresight as to what would happen and was left awestruck as it burst against the wall raining down pieces of plastic confetti.  I panicked and like a guilty Xbox murderer I booked it over to Fred Meyer's to purchase a new one so as to cover my tracks.  I ended up confessing the very same night.  I felt bad.  I could go on and on about the things I've broken in my childish tantrums but I'll stop there.  I'll let you recover a bit from the shock that I am not a perfect person. ;)  Oh and don't be concerned for the children.  I take my Zoloft daily now. 

Oh right, I was going to post the orange julius recipe.  Sidetracked.  Sorry.  

Orange Julius

1/2 can of orange juice concentrate

1 Cup Milk

1 Cup Water

1/4 or 1/3 Cup sugar (depends on how sweet your tooth is)

a cap-full of vanilla extract

10 ice cubes

Add everything to the blender, except for five ice cubes.  Blend until ice is crushed.  Then add remaining five ice cubes and blend until smooth.  Enjoy.  It's quite delicious and tasty if I do say so myself.  A good tip is to run the top of the can of frozen orange juice concentrate underneath warm water for a few seconds for easier removal.  It may just save your mother's blender. 

Oh and here are a few shots of me and my sweet little succubus (after I typed this I looked up the meaning and it was in no way what I was trying to convey, I will never again call my suckling child a female demon who seduces men.  Girl Scout's honor) girl taken by moi.  All I'm going to say is there are times when I look at a picture taken of myself and realize as if I am seeing myself for the first time how incredibly pale I am.  Give me some fangs and I'm practically vampiric.  I call this series of pictures A Vampire and her Succubus. 

If I knew anything at all about photoshop the above photo would be a likely candidate for adding on protruding fangs.

It Occured To Me

For all the new amenities they have put in family cars these days they neglected to put in one thing that I think would benefit all.  As I was trying to make my way from South Temple to 1100 East with Ava singing Scooby Dooby Doo over and over again while Brielle screamed her head off because she was a half hour past her normal feeding time it seemed I was doomed to hit every single red light.  I was strung tighter than a wire and it occurred to me that what I really needed was a way to stop the noise.  I've never ridden in a limo but I have saw a movie or two in my time featuring scenes involving limos.  What I needed was one of those privacy windows the drivers can put up that is sound proof.  With just a press of a button I could have the silence I needed to focus on getting us from point A to point B without exposing my children to my sailor's tongue.  It sounded like a better and better idea as I thought it through.  Sure, some would say that it would be neglectful and callous to shut your shrieking offspring off like that, but really there was nothing I could do for those two.  Ava wouldn't listen to my repeated requests to stop the racket and Brielle couldn't be fed unless I wanted to pull a Britney Spears and somehow have the dexterity to breastfeed and drive at the same time.  I imagined myself alone in the front half of the car surrounded by...silence.  Meanwhile my little angels could focus on reaching jet-engine level decibels.  Great idea, right?