Raptors are the new chickens

Let's face it. Chickens are funny. Just saying the word chicken makes me giggle. Put a chicken in any situation, and bam, that situation has its hilarity quotient elevated exponentially. Squirrels, cows, and the dun-dun-dun prairie dog are acceptable substitutes.

Well, listen up people, because we are taking this thing out a whole new door.

Brace yourselves....

Velociraptors.

Not funny at first, you say. Well, check this out:



If you are a facebooking type, check out the group "The Notebook would be better with velociraptors" for more fun and frivolity. It's certainly the most fun I've had this morning.

P.S. I have the most awesome brothers-in-law.

*Update!* My very own raptor pic, by special request!

Spring chicken, part 2

My boss's wife was in the other day and we were chatting about all things pregnancy related. I told her that I've already had 4 ultrasounds done because I am past the cut-off age for being a spring chicken (maternityally-speaking). She said:

"Wow. So you're thirty-years-old already, huh?"

And I said:

"Yes. Yes I am."

Four minutes

My wonderful husband insisted that I get a massage last week. I was informed that I needed to specify "prenatal massage" when I made the appointment so they could be sure to have a certified specialist available for me. Because I am that special.

The massage, of course, was heavenly. The lights were dim, scented candles flickered on the shelf, mood music filled the air along with the aromas of luscious oils and lotions. She worked my back and shoulders, then wrapped my feet in hot towels. I confess, I might have drooled a wee bit on gigantic pillow supporting my head.

Naturally, I was on my side, since laying face down these days is akin to trying to balance myself on a watermelon. (A watermelon that squirms around and kicks when you put pressure on it.) At the midpoint of my session, my masseuse asked me to flip over to my other side.

Uh-huh. Right. First of all, I have one of the salon's gigantic pillows stuffed between my knees "for support." Just above that, there is the watermelon-belly, so I'm not exactly the most nimble person right now. Then there's the matter of the massage table. It's not wide. As a matter of fact, I'd call it "fairly narrow" or even "exceptionally narrow." It's not like I can just flip over. I have to turn, skooch, turn, skooch, turn, skooch, so I don't end up in a big heap on the floor.

Oh wait, yeah... a big naked heap on the floor. Let's not discount the modesty factor. I'm trying to keep my bits covered here as well. But as the gigantic pillow between my legs turns with me, it flaps the sheets around, and I'm only a few thread counts away from giving my 19-year-old masseuse with the pierced lip a huge eyeful. Poor girl. She didn't know whether to try to help or just avert her eyes and let me holla when I'm a bit more situated.

Turn, skooch, turn skooch... was that a breeze I just felt? Nevermind, keep moving! You're wasting valuable massage time with all this turning and skooching! Turn, skooch, turn, skooch. Gak! Pillow tangled in sheets! Disengage! Disengage! Still covered? Check. Keep turning! You're almost there! Turn, skooch, turn, skooch. Oh wait, you're only on your back. That's only halfway there. Stop flailing like a upside-down turtle and put your back into it. Heave-ho! Turn, skooch, turn, skooch.

Eventually, I made it to the other side. With my modesty intact, thank you very much. Total turning time? Probably about four minutes.

Can I get a little refund for that?

Pretty pretty princess

Because I'm not deaf, dumb, and blind, I'm aware of the current "Princess" trend among young girls today. I won't come right out and state my opinion, but please be advised if any of you give my daughter pink apparel with the word "Princess" emblazoned in sparkles across the front, there's a good chance that will be the day I decide she has too many clothes and that some of them must be donated to charity right away.

The other night, a friend came over with his two young daughters. They wanted to watch a movie, but had already seen almost everything the family section of our DVD collection had to offer. They finally settled on Disney's "The Sword in the Stone." During the exposition scenes at the beginning of the movie, a little voice piped up:

"What's this movie about?"

I figured she didn't understand what was going on, since the backstory was being sung by a guy with a very warbly voice. "Well, you see that sword in the stone? Whoever pulls it out gets to be king..."

"Oh. Is there a princess in this movie?"

"I, uhhhhh... a princess? Well, the story is about that boy there, Arthur..."

"Oh. It's not about a princess?"

"Well, no. There might be a princess at the end. I can't really remember."

"Oh." She darted her eyes about, looking for an escape.

"But there are a lot of cool things in this movie! There's, uhhhh... castles, and uhhhhh, knights and uhhhh... magic. And Merlin! Have you heard of Merlin?"

"No."

"He's a wizard... Like... like in Harry Potter!"

"Oh. A wizard. Okay."

Phew. To her credit, she did watch the whole movie. I think she even enjoyed it. Even without the princess.

Dilemma, part 6

I've gotten a couple of e-mails from a co-worker asking about DMV fee increases for 2009. I don't know the answer to her question. The DMV knows the answer to her question. That's what I told her the first time she asked the question. "I don't really know. You can call DMV to find out, though," was my reply several weeks ago.

The next time she sent me an e-mail with the same question, I ignored it. Because I'm passive-aggressive like that.

Today, there was a new e-mail, same subject. I responded with. "I don't know. Only DMV knows for sure." That was as lighthearted as I could be given my current irritation level.

What I wanted to say was, "I still don't know. Why do you keep asking me this question? The reason I don't know is because I haven't called DMV to find out. The reason I haven't called DMV is because it's not important to me right now. When it becomes important and I am forced to find the answer, I will do so. It seems important enough to you, however, to ask me (the wrong person) about it 3 times. You are just as capable of finding out from DMV as I am. So please do so and stop asking me. And in case that's not direct enough (since my previous suggestions that you call DMV yourself have gone unheeded), YOU NEED TO CALL DMV PERSONALLY TO GET THIS INFORMATION. I AM NOT GOING TO."

I'm not planning on having a discussion about this with her, but if it comes to that I will certainly try to find out why she keeps asking me. Does she think I get a secret bulletin from DMV that gives me information that she doesn't have? Does she not have the phone number for DMV? Is she just trying to fop it off on me?

I suspect the real reason is this: She started wondering about it in November. It's been on her to-do list since then. She probably thinks it must be nagging at me like it's nagging at her. Eventually, I won't be able to take it anymore and I'll break down and call DMV. I must have done so and just not communicated the information to her so eventually, at some point when she asks me the same question I will have answer.

But she's wrong. The only thing that's nagging me is her.

So, here are some options:

1. I ignore her every time she asks about it.
2. I keep telling her that I don't know and that she should call DMV if she wants to know.
3. I tell her that she has irritated me so much at this point that even if I did know, I wouldn't tell her.
4. I call DMV myself, just to get her off my back.
5. I don't deal with the issue directly, but instead turn the conversation to why, WHY DO YOU KEEP ASKING ME THIS?

I'm sure there are other options. Your opinions?

World, meet Liam. Liam, the World.

Hey you! Head on over to coolestfamilyever to get a first look at Liam (Official title: CoolestNephewEver). Doesn't he have the fluffiest little cheeks and roundest little belly you've ever seen? We've not met in person, but I hear he's scrumptious. Nom nom nom!

My father-in-law called last night, beaming about his new grandson (and his new car) and we had the following conversation about hairbows:

Him: And did you see all that hair? It's a good thing he's not a girl otherwise, *voice dripping with disdain* someone would have tried to stick a bow in his hair already. Wait a minute, you're not planning on sticking a bow on my granddaughter's head for her blessing, are you?

Me: Nothing bigger than my fist, I promise.

Him: No, really...

Me: Not really. I dunno. It depends on what she looks like. Personally, I think only bald babies need hairbows. Ironic, I know. Babies with hair don't really need decoration up there. It's only the really shiney ones who need a bow to break up that great expanse of forehead/scalp.

Him: *Harumph*

Me: But, I promise, if there is a bow involved, it will be very small and very tasteful. You probably won't even notice it.

Him: *Harumph* Okay. I better not.

You know it's an awesome day when I get to have a discussion about infant haberdashery with my father-in-law. Oh yeah... and a beautiful new nephew. Let the nommings begin!

Waste not

I was sitting at the drive-thru window at Burger King yesterday, waiting for my Whopper Jr. (with cheese, no onions) and I noticed that I could see a sign on the wall which was clearly intended only to be viewed by employees. In angry, bold letters it proclaimed:

"EXCESSIVE USE OR WASTE OF THE FOLLOWING ITEMS WILL COST YOU YOUR RAISE!"

Underneath the message there were pictures of supplies and condiments which would normally be given to the customer with a drive-thru order.

Ketchup packet = 5 cents
Napkins = 5 cents
Salt = 5 cents
Straws = 5 cents
Sporks = 5 cents
Dipping sauce = 10 cents
Salad dressing = 10 cents

Clearly, this particular Burger King is trying to cut out some unnecessary expenses. I mentally applauded their efforts, especially since time and time again I have been given enough napkins to wipe the faces of a family of ten or 27 ketchup packets after telling them I did not need ketchup for my fries. (Is it so unthinkable that someone might want ZERO ketchup for their jumbo-size order of fries?)

Threatening employee raises seemed a little extreme to me, but desperate times and all that, so whatever works, I guess.

I had to laugh, though, at what I found in the bottom of my bag when I got back to the office...

Two straws.

Monday, Monday

There was an extremely rude and irate message on my voicemail this morning. It went something like this:

"Ummm, yeah. HELLLLLLLLLO! Is there anyone there? HELLLLLLO! I'm looking for someone to answer the friggin' phone! I've been calling and calling! Is anyone there today???!! HELLLLLLO! Come on! Answer the phone!! I need to talk to someone and no one is aaaaannnswering! You just don't answer the phone on Mondays? HELLLLLLO! HELLLLO! Answer your friggin' phone! HELLLLLO!"

No, moron, we don't answer the phone on Monday because we are closed. You would know this if you had listened to the message which played when you called which said, "Thank you for calling Andrea's Illustrious Company. Our hours are Tuesday thru Saturday, 9 am to 5 pm. We are closed on Sunday and Monday. To leave a message, press...."

In addition, what decade are you living in? Do you really think you can call a business, select the option to be transferred to my voicemailbox, and expect that, even if I am sitting at my desk ignoring you, I will be able to hear your brainless HELLLLLLO caterwauling and that will make me pick up the phone? It's not an answering machine, it's voicemail, ya jerk.

And finally, if it is soooo important that you talk to someone, why not leave your name and number? Because I would have loved to return your call this morning and let you know how immature and idiotic you sounded demanding to have your call answered on a day when we are not open for business.

So many idiots, so little chance for retribution.

This is why I keep my mouth shut

I was admiring someone's hair in church a few weeks ago. I was sitting a few rows behind her and couldn't help noticing her hair was perfect. A sleek, shiny bob angled to perfection. And it wasn't just the cut I admired. The color was awesome. Multi-faceted but oh-so-natural.

I like my hair. I really do. It's nice. It looks good right when I get done styling it in the morning. It's soft. It's practical. It keeps my head warm. It has a lot of potential.

I know it could be more. I could be more stylish by keeping up with the latest cuts and colors. But I lack the desire (not to mention the resources) to encourage its full potential. The people I know who have stylish hair spend a lot of time and money to have stylish hair. They have special relationships with their hairdressers. They see them more than they see some of their friends. Hair is a priority for them. It involves getting up earlier in the morning. It involves scheduling their activities around their every-six-week-set-in-stone hair appointment. It involves working a second job to afford a cut and color.

I have no issues with this lifestyle. These women look great and I wish I could be one of them. But I can't right now. That's okay, but it doesn't keep me from wondering what it would be like.

Anyway, back to the lady in church. I figured she must spend a bomb on her hair each month because either she just had it done (like MINUTES before church started) or she sees her hairstylist once a week without fail. It was seriously that perfect.

Should I say something to her? If I had put that much work into my appearance, I think I'd like to have my efforts recognized. But I don't really know her that well. Still, who wouldn't want to be told they look smashing? Might be one of those conversation/friendship starters. But could I really be friends with a woman who had such perfect hair?

No. I don't think so. It's bound to be the first of many dissimilarities which would lead to the ultimate demise of any fledgling relationship I might initiate. I decided to say nothing.

AND IT WAS A GOOD THING I KEPT MY YAPPER SHUT. Several days later, someone told me that this same woman had been diagnosed with breast cancer and was undergoing treatment. She'd kept it very hush hush. Only her family had been told. No one in the ward knew until just recently. She didn't want a bunch of people talking about her and asking her how she felt and coming over to her house to help out. Because...

She was extremely self-conscious about loosing her hair and having to wear a wig.

That's right. Had I said something about her hair, it would have been akin to stuffing my whole foot in my mouth, deciding that it wasn't full enough, cramming the other foot in there as well and swallowing myself whole. That's how bad it would have been. Maybe worse. There's no way of knowing.

Take what you can from my story. Use it in your daily life.

Calling all callings

So, you know when you get that phone call during the week...

"Hi, this is Bishop/Brother Smith. I'd like to meet with you/you and your spouse sometime this week/before church on Sunday..."

You know it's a calling. If it was a talk, they'd just ask you over the phone. If they were going to release you without issuing a new calling, they'd just stop you in the hall and let you know. So, it's a new calling.

Then, there's the issue of who you are going to meet with and if your spouse is invited. Primary teacher? Bishop's counselor, no spouse. Young Men's President? Bishop, spouse required. Activities committee? Bishop's counselor, nabbed in the hallway between classes.

So what about when a counselor wants to meet with both of you? It's likely not a high-profile make-sure-the-spouse-can-support-you-in-this-calling calling. Otherwise, you'd be talking to the bishop's secretary to make an appointment. Could be a joint calling. "We'd like the two of you to work in the nursery." Or it could be two separate callings and they are just saving time by having you come in as a couple. "Sister, we'd like you to be on the enrichment committee and Brother, we'd like you to be in charge of the ward bulletin."

I know, I know... all callings are important. Any opportunity you have to serve in the Church is a good one and you will be blessed for it. Some callings are time-consuming and emotionally draining. Some call for you to linger in the background until needed. Some are require special talents that not all members possess. Some require no special training, just a commitment of time.

I'm not interested in trying to rank the importance of callings within the church. But I have noticed differences in the manner of issuance of the call which seem to correlate to "importance." The bishop vs. counselor issue. Or the spouse or no spouse issue. Or this:

"Brother and Sister, thank you so much for taking the time to meet with me today. We've been reorganizing some of our auxiliary organizations and have been prayerfully considering who the Lord might desire to fill these callings. The new auxiliary president has given me your name as someone he/she felt inspired to call as the new secretary in this presidency... We'll set you apart after church..."

Versus:

"Well, we've had a really hard time getting someone reliable in this calling. But the stake is really on our backs now to make sure that each ward has a representative. We thought of you because it would probably fit into your schedule and we need someone right away. I don't have any details about it, but I'll try to find someone to get you some information... If you want to be set apart, you can come down after church..."

I've experienced both. Isn't there anything between inspiration and desperation? Are there only certain callings inspired and the rest are just plug-and-play? Because it also seems like people are encouraged to go home and pray about certain callings but other callings are based solely on your availability and your willingness to serve. And I've got to say, it doesn't really make you feel like you will be contributing anything important when someone tells you "We picked you because you don't have a calling" as opposed to "We were inspired to call you."

I'm not complaining, I'm just wondering. Anyone out there have any insight as to how this works?

Bad boys, bad boys... whatcha gon' do?

I was driving to work this morning down a wide two-lane road near an elementary school. A school bus was stopped on the opposite side, its flashing red stop sign extended, waiting for the children to board.

Traffic coming from behind the bus had stopped and was waiting patiently. There were also two cars in front of me in my lane who were giving the school-bus-as-a-mobile-stop-sign law its proper due and waiting patiently. Well, the first driver (closest to the bus) was waiting patiently. The second driver apparently decided that 30 seconds was too long of a wait and chose to go around the first car on the shoulder.

It's too bad that she was in such a small car. Had she been able to see around the mini-van in front of her before passing it, she would have seen the black-and-white Highway Patrol cruiser sitting just half a block down the street.

I'm pretty sure she noticed when he flipped his lights on and motioned for her to pull over though. Now she's really going to be late for work.