The "s"-word

There are lots of things that are not so great about 2nd story apartment/condo living. Trust me- throughout college and early married life, I hauled enough bags of groceries (and, for that matter, couches) up rickety metal stairs to last me a life time. I have no-so-fond memories of the rusty steps at the ol' GC Numero Cinco in Logan that would surely have gifted me a lovely edition of hepatitis C should I have tripped. Wrenching our overstuffed chair in to el condo was an interesting adventure, and getting it out was even better. Like the rest of us, the furniture seemed to gain weight while we lived there.

Point is, there aren't a lot of benefits to living up. 'Cept for one.

No spiders.

I could prolly count on one hand the number of spiders I saw taking up residence in my lifted residences. For a wimpy gal like me, this is a big deal.

I'm sure you can guess where all of this is headed. Though I know it's silly, I like to pretend that Paddy, Lupe, and I are the only living things in our house. (I barely count Enrique, our sucky beta fish. I should give him more credit; the guy lives for weeks on end without food. Oops.) This lovely dream was shattered several days ago.

It all started out as a seemingly innocent problem-- a lightbulb in the basement burned out. When Paddy tried to take off the cover, however, he (loudly) discovered a giant, awful, horrifyingly large arachnid had taken up residence in the light. Not only that, but it was not at all happy about being disturbed.

I thought about sparing you the gorey details, but it's just too awful to keep from sharing. Basically, we called Tommy (ye ol' little bro) in a panic to locate some spider spray as we were fresh out. (I was without spider spray? Honestly, it shocked even me.)

When Tommy arrived, the boys planted me on the stairs to man the flashlight while they launched a full-fledged round of chemical warfare on that thing. In true spidery fashion, it didn't go down without a fight. I'm not making this up: the thing actually reared up onto his back 4 legs and pawed at the air. It was awful. I'll tell you something, though-- my husband sprang right into the sky and whacked that thing into oblivion without hesitation. It was so sexy.

We sprayed the perimeter of the basement, and I'm about one spider carcass away from calling some professional to cover my house in Diazinon. Curse those eight-legged freaks.

I hurt.

Riddle: What do you get when you take one very out-of-shape social worker, add two not-as-out-of-shape friends, put them in jogging shoes, and bake for 13.1 miles?

Answer: Very, very sore muscles. Especially when you mix in sleeping in the back of the Jeep for three days to avoid scabies. (It was worth it.)

This past weekend was the Bryce Canyon Half Marathon. We finished in fine fashion, and we weren't last. Here's how it went down.

By the numbers:

Number of miles from our home to Bryce Canyon: 262
Number of nights we spent in Bryce Canyon: 3
Number of minutes it took for us to choose this:

and this:
over this:
and this:Approximately 0.5. Something about the stained curtains and carpets and greasy looking bedsheets sped the decision. Pretty much around the time Paddy began praying for forgiveness using the Bible out of the "nightstand" (read: plywood box wedged tightly between the two beds) to kill the giant bug (who appreciated the accomodations more than we did), we began brainstorming for other sleeping arrangements. I'm not generally picky, but I do have rather strong feelings about lice, bedbugs, and stinky towels. Thus, we spent the weekend in the Jeep at the campground.

Number of times Paddy tried to hit a chipmunk with a rock: 54

Number of times Bri succeeded in hitting a wood pecker with a chunk of cement: 1
Number of times Paddy and Bri tried to catch an antelope: 3

Number of times they wanted me to take their picture coming back sans antelope: 0
So they hid. Unfortunately for them, they forgot the friggin' rad zoom feature on my camera. Bwa ah ah.


Number of times the wind blew my hair into my face while taking a picture of the cool t-shirts we scored with our entrance fee, making me look like a nerd: 1



Time the race began: 0600
Distance: 13.1 miles
Number of free packets of Udder Butter they included in our race kits: 1


Number of times I wanted to sit down in the middle of the highway: 1. It lasted 4 miles.

Number of times any of us pooped our pants: 0. We did see a few people headed determinedly for the bushes, though. Amazing how fast a tired person can run when it means crapping behind a sagebrush vs. crapping in the middle of Highway 12.

Number of pictures Paddy and the boys took of other sweaty people while waiting for us: Approximately 26.

I'll spare you those. For my own sense of accomplishment, you do have to see the three of us.
Our medals say "Finisher" on them. Nothing like that generic term to make a girl feel special. Maybe I can take mine down to Al's Trophy and get them to engrave "sweet spirit" onto the back.


Number of hours the boys had to wait for us to trudge across the finish line: 3

They were as proud of their accomplishment as we were of ours. As they told us (repeatedly): Spectating is hard work.

Number of times we almost barfed from the horrid Euro B.O. on the Bryce Canyon shuttle: 8

Who knew Bryce Canyon was such an international destination? Not I. I'm ok with that. Bring me your huddled masses yearning to see red rock, as far as I'm concerned. But please. PLEASE. Learn the fine American art of deodorant. Sheesh.

So, even though it was 150 degrees out, and even though I was so sore I was waddling like a duck, the stench did encourage me to get out of the bus and see the sights.

Number of Mini Coopers Paddy promised me for finishing: 1. Scout's honor.

And we're safely home. One of the doctors I work with asked me today if I was limping. I am. I have an entirely new perspective on double hip replacements.

Paddy asked me if I was going to do another one. Maybe. But I have to forget how bad this one hurt first.

Back on the wagon

Paddy and I have renewed our vows. Not our actual wedding vows; those oughtta last a few more weeks at least. Rather, we have renewed our commitment to our house.

Buying a fixer-upper always sounds like so much fun. And I guess it is, when it comes down to it. It's down right exhausting, though, and I guess that explains why so few of our new switches and plugs have the plates on them to finish the job.

That is, until last weekend. That's when I not only attached plates with unabashed joy, but also busted out the spray paint and the drill and went to work on the outside of the ol' abode. Behold the improvements:

The old mailbox. Cute emblem, huh?

Vwalah! I ripped off the decoration myself and gave the whole thing a fresh coat of spray paint. Kindly ignore the small blemish where I tried to patch the hole left by the aforementioned decoration. I'm learning.

I am without words. These are, without question, the most atrocious house numbers that have ever been attached to brick. I wish you could have seen the whole contraption in all it's glory on the house, but as it turns out, I am a little squeamish about strangers knowing my house address.

Look at thes numbers! Look how pretty and easy to read from the street! You should have seen the look of pride on my dear Daddy-o's face when he saw his little girl could use a drill. Don't worry, I lined them up first.

(Disclaimer: a total of 2 screws may have been stripped during drill-use. Don't worry. I'm a problem solver.)

It's not so much that the light was hideous, but now that everything else was a clean, even black, it just looked silly.


I don't mess with wires. They're scary. My daddy, who is normally Executive in Charge of Coming to My Rescue, was swamped with High Council-ish things, and I don't wait well. Solution? Tape a bunch of newspaper to the brick and spray paint it while it's still mounted to the wall. Oh yeah.

Now if I could only fold all my laundry.

A good life. Just not my good life.

I need to know if I am the only person who has ever wanted to drop everything and move to New Zealand. I've put some serious thought into this. I could run a t-shirt stand on the beach, and Hubbie could be a deep sea fishing guide and (especially now that he's finally on board with the concept) we could both wear flip flops every single day. Lupe could hang out with me in the beach shack, and I could drink frozen lemonade all day long. It doesn't have to be t-shirts and fishing-- we could be bakers. I'm not even picky about it being New Zealand. I've researched Guam quite a bit, and I'm pretty sure I'd be reasonably content there, too.

Don't get me wrong, I know that I have a wonderful life. I have a good job, a beautiful home (or at least one that will be beautiful once we can coax the flowers back to life and get all of our crap arranged inside) and a wonderful family close enough to feed us Sunday dinners. I'm certain I would miss Redbox and Cafe Rio and Tanner Park and hanging out with the Janssens every weekend. I wouldn't miss the snow (except maybe exactly on Christmas Eve) or lake stink or 9-5 employment that prohibits flip flops entirely or that terrible theme song/jingle from Fox13.

Anyone else ever have lofty dreams of selling shot glasses and puca shell necklaces to tourists? Sounds beautiful to me.

I heart vacations

This is Patrick. Note that he is standing in flip flops putting dollars into pay-by-the-hour lockers at Disneyland. In flip flops. He's placing his soggy closed-toed shoes into the locker and walking off to enjoy the rest of Disneyland wearing flip flops. You have no idea how monumental this is for a wife like me. Walt was right. This IS the year of a million dreams.

Amazingly, the advent of the flop-wearing was but a mere detail in our very own California Adventure de 2008.

It's the story of how this boy:

and this girl:

had a great time celebrating their second anniversary.



Our tale begins at the Long Beach airport, which has a decidedly 60s sort of flair. It boasts a total of one terminal and four gates. I was blown away when half the passengers were invited to exit via the back of the aircraft. I'd never been on a tarmac before, and they didn't even make me wear a bright orange vest.




Just about the only downside to traveling without friends or family is that there really isn't anyone to your picture. When I was a kid, my mom made us listen to this tape of the Safety Kids. In one of the songs, kids are encouraged to 'look for a grandma or mother with children' if they are lost. I kept an eye out of anyone innocent looking to hand the camera to, but ultimately chickened out. I swear Southern California is fresh out of grandmas wandering around tourist spots alone. That's how we ended up with a bunch of pictures where you can see Paddy's arms holding out the camera in the reflection of his sunglasses.



It had been over a decade since either the Hubbie or I had been to D-land. Don't worry- we weren't lonely. Lucky for us they supply friends for free there. Take a gander at our new respective BFFs.


A thought: While waiting in line to meet my new pal, I had lots of time to ponder. Initially, I thought her job must be pretty easy. She basically just hangs out on a fake seashell waiting for small girls (and the occasional sarcastic grown woman) to snap pictures with her. However, I should point out that she did have to wear a fake sea shell bra and presumably itchy wig, and she had both of her legs (and hips!) crammed into a fin I probably couldn't fit my upper arm into. That must be why she talks so ridiculously slowly, even to grown ups.


The Husband had a delightful time pointing out what he thought were hilarious choices in verbage on the signs around Disneyland. He very carefully staged both of the following shots.

I guess jokes about private parts never stop being funny to a good old fashioned American boy. Oh well. Can't say that I blame him.

The day after Disneyland, we enjoyed a trip to the Aquarium of the Pacific. While I am not horridly frightened of all aquatic animals like Wendy, I do think jelly fish are about the creepiest things ever.

Sorry about the terrible quality of the picture. Given the contrast in lighting, I had a choice between seeing me pull a face and missing out on the jellies, or seeing the jellies while I look like a shadowy freak. While either could produce a good solid shudder, I ultimately chose jellies. Can you blame me?

You can't convince me that these brainless, spineless things aren't super creepy. Ugh. Far as I can tell, the only thing they are good for is trying out the 'aquarium' setting on the ol' camera.

On the flip side, the aquarium did have some cool stuff, too. This is me touching a real live sting ray, which, per the employee giving running commentary, still had it's stinger. Somehow I managed to ignore the fact that a relative of this cute lil' guy killed Steve Irwin. Rest in peace, Crocodile Hunter.

Of course, what's a trip out of the state without a visit to ye ol' In-N-Out Burger?

While munching on this delectable treat, I actually overheard a funny conversation from the booth next to us. A friendly looking chap with a shaggy mane and no shoes on was giving the following monologue:

And while I was there, I found out they totally had this stuff called fry sauce. I mean, that was what it was actually called! And people seriously knew what you were talking about when you said that! FRY SAUCE! I'm not really sure what it's made of... I mean, it kind of looked like Thousand Island dressing, but it didn't taste like that at all. It was actually pretty good! Weird, huh?

I guess maybe living in Utah is cooler than I thought.

Moving on...

We also checked out the Newport Beach LDS Temple. It was beautiful, and the grounds were gorgeous.

I enjoyed relaxing on the benches while Paddy scouted around trying to take pictures of the rabbits that apparently inhabit the sacred surroundings. He must've given up.

We also spent time on the beach wondering why we live in a state without any legitmate sand. I debated the merits of posting a picture of the mangy cat we saw at the pier, but settled on this pelican instead. I bet it had less fleas.

We took about 200 more pictures, but I'm sort of bored of this post even though I'm the author. California rocks, but their gas prices suck. Not that it's much consolation to the rest of us.

That feeling

Do you ever have that feeling? You know, the feeling that happens when you are leaving for California in approximately 29 hours which means you are leaving work in approximately 26 hours to head to the airport which sounds truly fabulous? The feeling when you just finalized plans to be in Disneyland on anniversary numero dos? The feeling when you've MapQuest-ed directions to an aquarium, the temple, and the beach because your gifted husband just talked a car rental representative down to a price cheaper than cab fare to the aforementioned destinations even though neither of you are 25 yet? The feeling where you're tempted to wear shorts and flipflops to work tomorrow but it might get you fired and if you're going to get fired over it then you may as well do it after vacation when you have a tan? And also you just checked everything out on weather.com and its going to be perfectly delightful?

I have that feeling.

Things I don't like.

I wouldn't say that I'm a real picky eater. I'll give most things a whirl, I guess. Generally if I don't like something there's a darn good reason for it, too. Examples:

a. Bugles. Besides clearly being the most disgusting snack food ever designed to fit on a child's sweaty fingers, I also barfed them up once. As everyone knows, once it comes back up, it takes a strong will to send it back down again, especially if it's cheddar flavored. My roommate in college and I had a solemn pact-- I wouldn't bring squash into the house if she didn't buy Bugles. In that regard, at least, we lived in harmony.

b. Celery. Stringy, first of all, and always crunching up perfectly good chicken salad sandwiches without a good excuse. Also, why does every Kindergarten teacher want to slap some peanut butter and raisins on it and call it Ants on a Log? (As a side note, sometimes I feel bad for raisins. They're like shrivled, embarrassed versions of their former plump fruit selves.) Anyway, it was gross enough before they named it after insects.

c. Beets. My coworker stained her shirt the other day with purple beet juice after having a plate loaded of them with a few wimpy pieces of lettuce underneath so she could pretend it was a salad. Plus, they were sliced with those sort of ridged knives that people cut baby carrots with to make them all rippley. Weird. Ever notice that they only do that to vegetables that don't have a normal texture? Like they're not quite soft enough to be pureed but still turn to baby food in your mouth? I've never once seen a self respecting ear of corn allow itself to be cut like that.

d. Mushrooms. Hello? Fungus? With the exception of our rose bushes and an occasional run-by with the lawnmower, our overwhelming back yard has been left largely to its own devices this year. While my petunias struggle out front, this charming little bud sprouted without a drop of encouragement from us. I'm sure many of my clients could think of lots of fun recreational activities to engage in with a little help from this:

Pizza, anyone? That's what I thought.