Coke Bomb

Well, it was a good run.  I thought to myself the other day that it had been quite a while since I last publicly humiliated myself.  Which means of course that I was due for some red-faced trauma. 

So tonight I picked up Brig from work and then we ran to the grocery store to pick up a few things.  I have been feeling under the weather with a cold and have spent the day trying to keep the laundry going while also trying to keep my teething baby happy who also caught the dreaded cold.  I wasn't cooking.  So we picked up a few things for dinner. 

I've been trying to cut Coke out of my life once and for all.  I know, I know, don't laugh.  I know I've tried this several times.  I read that you have to cut back your intake so you don't get agonizing headaches from withdrawal.  Long story short, I had already had my allotted Coke intake for the day, but was feeling sorry for myself because I had had such a rough day so I thought...I'll just have a glass tonight to unwind, reward myself for dealing with...daily life?  I don't know.  I have a problem with Coke, alright? 

So I plucked a Coca-Cola from off the drink aisle and handed it to Brielle to keep her occupied.  Brig gives me the look.  The one that says,  Is that really necessary?  I smile smugly in reply.  I just love when you can have a complete conversation with someone without saying a word. 

Now we are in the cereal aisle and we each pick out a box of cereal.  Ava chooses Lucky Charms and promises me she won't just eat the marshmallows.  Brig picks out Shredded Wheat.  And I, who usually doesn't eat cereal get a craving for Grape-Nuts.  So I set the box in the cart.  It is then that it happens. 

Brielle in her eagerness to intercept the box of cereal drops the Coke bottle.  It hits the ground and immediately begins spraying all over.  Brig and Ava jump back like two cowards.  I rush forward into the fray, carbonated shrapnel pummeling me.  I pick up the bottle and try to twist the lid back on and instead of it stopping it starts spraying more.  My husband helpfully yells, "Stop untwisting the top!"  For the record I do believe I was doing righty-tighty but he claims I was pulling a lefty-loosey.  I guess we'll never know.  I get the situation under control and look down to see that my white shirt is soaked with Coca-Cola.  I giggle as I always do when I'm slightly mortified. 

Ava and Brig must be shell-shocked because they are standing there just staring at me like I'm some stranger.  I soggily pad over to the self-checkouts to inform the attendant there that there has been a spill on aisle 3.  I assume she will use the overhead intercom to say, "Cleanup on aisle three!"  But I am mistaken.  She instead hands me exactly two sheets of paper towel.  What?  Can't spare a square, lady?  I take it back to aisle three where Ava and Brig have made themselves scarce.  A nice man says, "Oh I was just going to tell someone about this mess.  I can tell by your shirt that you must have had something to do with it," He said glancing down at my see-through white shirt.  I flush red and try to position my arms over my chest acting as if I am just scratching my neck in a very awkward way.  "I think you're going to need more than two paper towels, though." He continues.  And then like a knight in shining armor he flags down a passing bag boy and handles the situation. 

I finally meet back up with Brig and Ava.  Ava says to me, "You must be pretty embarrassed, Mom."  The little turd.  I cajole them for leaving a wounded soldier in the throws of battle.  Brig smiles sheepishly and says, "Well that's what you get for buying a Coke when you're trying to quit."  If he wasn't so cute I'd wring his neck right then and there but my arms are too sticky and my blouse is ruined and I just want to go home to lick my wounds.  My Coke-flavored wounds. 

Conversations between a Husband and Wife

Admittedly my goal each day is to have the house in pretty fantastic shape when my husband walks through the door each day.  Sometimes I succeed, but most days he walks into complete chaos.  As evidenced by Monday afternoon. 

Mondays are no good anyway, because Mondays are laundry day and I despise laundry day.  Always have, always will.  I look forward to the day when Ava and Brielle can do their own laundry.  I'm already training Ava and I've fooled her into thinking it's "fun."  Sucker. 

I was in between folding batches when Brigham walked through the door.  I was sitting in the recliner surfing the internet for pictures of haircuts for my husband.  Really important stuff.  His first words were, "What the?"  Oh, did I mention I was holding a bag of frozen rhubarb to my left breast?  Any guesses why?  It might have something to do with this person...

Exhibit A, ladies and gentlemen.  Look at those choppers.  Talk about gnashing of teeth.  I'm in nursing Hell.  In fact I bought $25 worth of formula and a few more bottles.  I guess that's what happens when you bite the hand...er, boob, that feeds you.  Meanwhile Ava pops up next to me and asks if she can have some.  "Have some what?" I ask her. 

"Some of what's in the bag, Mom." 

"As you can see, the bag is in use.  No you may not."

"But mom!" 

Brigham takes in the state of the living room which is in full rumpus room mode.  It's like a few rockstars decided to trash the place.  Ava is an old pro, and Brielle can create a lot of damage for a 9 month old.  I start out fighting the good fight, but eventually I threw in the towel.  Like I said, Mondays.   I'm not good at being vigilant about making Ava put away toys when you get out new ones which all moms know is the secret to the universe.  Anyway, Brig refrains from saying a word about the state of the house and instead says, "Looks like you've had a rough day."  Which is essentially code for Good Grief, woman you're a mess!  The bags under your eyes have bags, and your hair rivals Medusa's thrashing snake dreads.  Aren't you in the same clothes you were in when I left this morning?  There is something to be said for restraint.  I thank you, husband.

"What are you looking at?" He asked after changing into basketball shorts and one of his collection of forty t-shirts. 

"Hair styles for you.  It's about that time," I say glancing up to his thick locks that have become more and more wild with length. 

"I was thinking I'd just shave it all off." 

For the record, I'd like to state, and this is not to brag but to merely point out the truth...my husband has great hair.  He's shaved his head before and he looks pretty good.  No sharp pointy angles on his skull or inexplicable soft spots like those mushy bruises on apples.  Still, I like it a bit longer.  The problem is his hair has some curl to it and some body.  So it can start to look a bit, dare I say mullet-like if left to it's own devices.  So I thought I'd help him with his communication skills when he goes to get his hair cut.  I thought, let's start with some visual aides. 

I know, terrible picture.  It was quite small though and I had to make it bigger.  This is Roger Federer, world renown tennis player.  Confession: I only ever watch tennis when this guy is playing.  And I don't watch it for the thrill of victory or the agony of defeat.  I watch it for this reason:

Look at the height on that hair!  I'm mesmerized by it.  When he and Nadal play against each other it's epic.  Battle of the flowing locks.  Who cares who wins the match, we're all winners just for having watched all that hair.  Anyway when I showed Brig this picture he just rolled his eyes.  I guess my crush is more obvious than I thought. 

Next I showed him this picture.  This man is named Nacho.  Yes, Nacho.  I usually steer clear of nachos because the goop you put on top seems faker than velveeta...if that is even possible.  Velveeta is like the Frankenstein of cheese product.  A unholy union of chemically altered ingredients forged in the depths of Mordor.  Lord of the Rings, anyone?  No?  I guess I'm the only nerd in the room.  I digress.  Let's just say I like my cheese the way I like my men...real and stinky.  As evidenced by my fragrant list of ex-boyfriends.  Just kidding.  Kind of.   I like my cheese the way I like my religious leaders...aged and holy.  Bu-dum-bum.  I've got more but I'll spare you. 

Nacho Figueras is an Argentinian Polo Player and model of some note.  He calls this look "latin Manhatten".  It's his go-to facial pose, just like Zoolander's "blue steel".  All kidding aside, look at that hair.  It's long, sure, but still structured.  When I show this picture to Brig he says, "I can't have a hair cut like that because I have a big forehead."  I've never thought he had a big forehead.  Maybe love is blind, but I'm pretty sure that he is way off on this forehead notion.  So I start combing the internet for people who really do have big foreheads.  Who knows how many of the photos that popped up had been doctored, but man, there are some big foreheads out there.  I came across this picture and it made me laugh and laugh. 

Apparently someone thinks she has a big forehead.  I don't see it.  But I'll tell you one thing, and I've expressed my feelings on this before in a previous post...I don't trust skinny cooks.  Give me Paula Deen.  You know she's been sampling some of what she's been fixin' to make, ya'll.  She's been sampling, because it's darn good.  Giada on the other hand, well, who knows.  I've never tried one of her recipes yet.  It's the principle of the thing. 

We never did come to a consensus on a hair cut.  But we laughed and laughed while discussing it.  Maybe you had to be there. 

Fashionable

I hear hats are in for the Fall.  These are just as good right?

 

I said, RIGHT?!

 

Next thing you know, Princess Beatrice and Princess Eugenie will be clamoring for a similar creation.

Guess who started crawling this past week?

This girl!

Please, no more pictures.

Keeping My Sanity through the Long Cold Football Season

We went to Brig's annual department summer barbecue for his work.  Because of the BYU/Utah game, attendance was not spectacular.  The nice thing about being from Logan and having gone to Utah State is that I have no dog in that fight.  I'm really not a big football fan anyway.  I remember in my first year of marriage I naively suggested to my husband that maybe he shouldn't watch football on Sundays as he would get so worked up and chase the spirit out of our apartment faster than Jerry Rice running for a touchdown.  Never mind that the spirit was not my main motive.  I just wanted my t.v. back.  I remember him looking at me and saying, "You knew who I was when you married me."  Actually, I didn't.  And he didn't really know me, but who's keeping track? 

In our first month of marriage I returned home from work.  It was chilly and all I wanted to do was to slip into something more comfortable.  Yes, I was a newlywed, but it wasn't any lacies from Vicki's that I was slipping into.  It was my tried and true Denver Broncos sweatshirt I had stolen from my brother's closet while he was on his mission a couple years before.  I looked high and low and couldn't find my warm sweatshirt.  I finally got Brig's attention as he was taking a break from yelling at the television screen as if somehow the quarterback might hear him if he put a little more heat into his blistering barrage.  He briefly denied any knowledge of my beloved sweatshirt's whereabouts.  Then he quickly got back to berating the big oafs running up and down the field a thousand miles away.  A few months later he admitted that my Denver "Donkys" (as he calls them) sweatshirt had went swimming with the fishes at his hands.  That's some serious loathing.  Ah, the great mysteries of marriage. 

Since then I've endured eight long seasons of football.  Both pro and college.  In fact the first thing Brig did when we got to our hotel room on our honeymoon night was turn on the t.v. to check the score on the BYU football game.  He's a hopeless romantic.  The first couple of years I tried to figure out all the rules of the game.  I'd try to at least watch his favorite team play.  But it wore me out quickly.  The thing is I'd be fine with one or two games a week.  But watching his favorite team is not enough.  He needs to watch nearly every game being broadcast on t.v that is humanly possible.  I'm not complaining.  Well, maybe a little.  But mostly now I am resigned to it. 

For years I've tried to get back at him for this insane obsession of his.  So I make him watch "Say Yes to the Dress" with me as well as his personal favorite, "I Didn't Know I was Pregnant" complete with re-enactments.  What's truly amazing about that show is that there is enough people out there who didn't know they were pregnant to constitute a whole series dedicated to telling their stories.  That show disgusts him.  It offends him.  It's absolutely fabulous. 

I'm sure I'm not alone in this.  I'm sure there is a huge cross-section of American females who lament the opening game of Monday Night Football.  Monday Night Football, please.  Except when it's on Thursday night and Friday night and Saturday night and Sunday night.  It's a flippin' travesty...to coin a phrase.  I think often of those brave, long-suffering women out there fighting the good fight.  In the kitchen making bacon-wrapped jalepeno poppers so their men can burn their taste buds off while enjoying a three hour game.  They, like me, pour themselves a stiff drink of their beverage of choice...mine is Coca-Cola, utter a little prayer that February will come soon, and plot their revenge whenever the remote control comes their way.  To my fellow comrades...I salute you. 

Snail Circus

Ava loves snails.  I can't explain it.  Snails are not particularly cuddly.  Maybe it's that Spongebob has a pet snail named Gary.  Anyway, I came outside to see what Ava was doing the other day and she said, "Step right up!  Come and see the amazing Snail Circus!" 

Ava had corralled four snails.  She had decided they were snail versions of our family.  In this picture I am the one closest to the lens hiding in my shell.  That's about right.  Ava is right next to me.  And little Brielle is hitching a ride on Daddy Brigham's back. 

 Oh no!  Ava is trying to escape!

Ava was thrilled when Daddy Brigham took the initiative and climbed onto the "balance beam" (AKA Ava's pink hula hoop) himself.  What a dare devil.

When I told Ava that French people eat snails loaded with butter and garlic and call it escargot she scowled.  I do believe she thinks the French people are monsters.  How could you look at a slimy, adorable snail and think...appetizer?  Oh Ava.  Gotta love her. 

Kindergarten, Here We Come!

The day before I was a wreck.  I kept crying off and on through out the day.  How was it possible that my little baby was five?  Weren't we just blowing out a solitary candle on a birthday cake? 

She was my first baby.  She came to me right when I needed her.  She has taught me things about myself I could have learned no other way than by being her mother. 

I put on a brave face the day of.  Brig was off of work that day.  It was nice to have him with us.  I worried if she'd be okay. 

When she sat down on the rug and turned to a girl next to her and said, "Hi, I'm Ava.  Want to be my friend?"  I knew she'd be okay.  We hugged her good-bye and as soon as we walked out of the school I collapsed into a cascade of tears.  Brigham smiled and put his arm around me.  He suggested we go to The Olive Garden for lunch.  Ah, that boy.  He knows how refined carbs cure all my hurts.  They are the diet kryptonite to my superman.  Those bread sticks really are like crack.  Not that I've ever experienced crack, except when it comes to the garden variety plumber's crack.  Anyway, the point is my baby's done gone to kindergarten. 

I'm sure she'd never do that to me, would you, Brielle?

Daddy and His Girls

 Girls need their Dad's.

 They make them feel safe.

 They often give them the confidence to do the things they know their little girls are capable of.

 Dads need their girls.

 They give him a perspective on the world he's never truly known before.  A girl's perspective.

They smooth out Dad's rough spots.  They make him feel the full responsibility of protecting and nurturing them.  I've heard it said that boys stay your boys until they are someone's husband.  But girls stay your little girls forever. 

What Ava Saw

Ava snuck off with my camera while I was in the shower one day last week.  Even though she got her own camera for Christmas she still prefers ours. 

 My eyes!

An extreme close up of the t.v.  Can you guess that cartoon?  It's super annoying and I don't like Ava watching it.

Yep, we're still hanging on to our old box t.v.  No flat screen for us.  Vintage is just the way we roll.

Ava got this train set when she was one year old.  She hardly played with it then, but for some reason when we pulled it out for Brielle to play with she always steals it and plays with it.  I think it's more about sibling rivalry.

 Hello neighbors!  Lot size here is like sitting coach in an airplane. 

 A very well-manicured coach. 

The End.

People I Love

I was so fortunate to have grown up just a few blocks from my grandparents.  There door was always open to us grandkids, as well as their cookie jar.  When our Miller cousins were in town sometimes their house was pretty full to capacity of grandkids and they never seemed anything but happy to have us all there although I'm sure we made more work for them. 

Brielle and Grandma Shirleen and Grandpa Denzel.  Not in Den-ZEL Washington.  His name gets pronounced that way all the time.  It's DEN-zl, people.  I'm sure he'd never complain though.  He's just that nice. 

My grandparents are big sports fans.  They watch football and basketball together.  Grandma gets into it just as much as Grandpa.  Maybe someday I'll be like that.  For now I just roll my eyes and go into the other room when Brig is on a football bender. 

Us Clark girls.  Oh and Grandpa.  The guy who used to drive the Book-Mobile would always say to me, "You're one of those Clark girls, aren't you?  I can tell."  Well, partly true, yes. 

My Aunt LaRainne.  I hope I spelled that right.  I never seem to.  She is my Grandpa's older sister and she's incredible.  I've never heard her speak badly of anyone.  And every time I see her no matter how I'm dressed or how frizzy my hair is or how much weight I've gained from the last time I saw her she always tells me how absolutely beautiful I am.  I'm sure I could show up dressed like Lady Gaga and she'd still tell me how wonderful I looked.  She seems to have a boundless supply of energy and is such a great matriarch to her beautiful family.  I love these people and wish Ava and Brielle could grow up just blocks from them like I did. 

What's in a Name?

Ava started kindergarten this week.  We knew that there was going to be another Ava in her class.  I said to her, "There will probably be a lot of other Ava's growing up because since you were born it's become more popular."  Instead of her taking this as a negative thing...which to me it kind of is, she said, "That's because Ava is the most beautiful name in the whole world."  Smart girl.   The second I told my husband that there was another Ava in her class he said, "Is there a Marisa?"  The name he wanted to name Ava.  Haha.  And no.  There wasn't a Marisa.  I've made peace with the fact that her name is going to be more common and link her to a specific time period, although I never intended to give her a name like that.  I still think it's a beautiful name...obviously.

The only hesitancy I ever suffered with the name Brielle was that I worried it sounded like I made it up.  Or that it was a "Utah" name.  I detest made up names.  But I really loved the sound of Brielle.  This week I was asked if it was French by a woman who named her daughter Francesca, which I think is a very pretty name to spite that some might nickname her Franny.  I was embarrassed to tell her that I did not know.  I just liked the name.  As if I hadn't given a thought to the origins of the name at all.  To tell the truth I had made a deal with my husband that our second child was his to name.  For the nine months I was pregnant I rejected nearly all of his name suggestions.  I won't get into specifics but let's just say that someone is a fan of made-up names.  If it were up to me that pretty little dark-haired baby with bright blue eyes sleeping in the next room would be named Tess right now.  Or Ivy.  Or Matilda.  Don't judge me.  My husband hated Matilda, too.  For those contemplating naming a baby Brielle, I will give you one word of warning.  Lots of people think her name is "Brill".  Maybe it's my lazy tongue, but I find myself having to slow down her name when I tell someone what it is for the first time.  BREE-elle.  If that doesn't work I say...like BREE-Anna.  Still some people are puzzled by the name, like my sweet grandpa who still pronounces it "Brill".  And that's fine.  Sometimes you just don't care for a name.

I confess I like distinctly feminine names for girls.  Maybe it's because on the first day of school for many, many years teachers would inevitably call out, "Dennis Cooper!"  "Dennis!"  And I'd say, "It's Denise."  Notice the E?  A childhood crush even took to calling me Dennis just because he knew I hated to be called that.  Boys.  One thing is for sure, I was destined to be named with a "D" name.  You see my parents are Dan and Debbie, so they thought it would be cute to name the whole brood with their common first initial.  Well, as my mom tells it after the first two it seemed odd to break the mold.  If it were up to her she would have named me Melody.  No offense, I know a very sweet, beautiful girl named that, but I'm glad Mom was confined to strictly D names.  My dad liked the name Diane for me, but it happened to be the name of his ex-girlfriend and so of course Mom was having none of that.  I've often thought what other name I would have chosen given my parents specific parameters.  I think it would have been Daphne.  But it's far from my favorite name.

My husband does not like his name.  Having the first and last names of the first and second prophets of the Mormon faith may be a bit much for him to live up to.  Although to be fair he was named after a great-great-great-great grandpa who crossed the plains and so was a contemporary of the prophet Brigham, instead of being specifically named after the prophet himself.  Brigham is virtually unheard of outside of Utah and Idaho.  When we were on our honeymoon I still remember the guy who picked us up in an airport shuttle in Orlando thought his name was Vikram.  Which is a common Indian name.  For the life of him he still couldn't pronounce it after Brigham corrected him.  I call my husband Brig.  I had a manager when I worked at Lowe's who was from the south who thought my husband's name was Greg for the longest time.  Hehe. 

I'm not sure why I got into all this.  But anyway, there you have it.  Random thoughts on my family's names.