Big Mama

Christopher obviously found his "other fish in the sea".

Only he wasn't fishing in the sea.

And he wasn't looking for another fish...right, babe? RIGHT BABE? ;)

He certainly doesn't know how to treat a lady, that's all I can say. He dumped her right back in Flaming Gorge where he found her. Apparently, one bloated belly woman is enough for him.

Phew.

Congrats on the biggest (and only) catch of the

Annual Testosterone Extravaganza at Flaming Gorge!

(Note: This little beaut was 21 pounds, just for the record. I know you wanted me to post that, Chrisotpher...)

(Another Note: So maybe the fish wasn't exactly a girl, but I figured she LOOKED kind of girly for a fish...something about her lips....)

Loveys

Just three of my latest Loveys (meaning things I can't get enough of):

The only reality TV show in which I would ever consider participating. LOVE it...


I can do anything with spray paint--and I have.

There aren't enough watermelons in the world to keep my family's appetite satisfied.

Sugarloafers a'Loafin'

Welcome to your first glimpse into the most dominant, elite group found in human kind.

You've probably heard of them.

Sugarloafers ring a bell?

Yeah, I thought so. You'll find them at the top rung of the Human Race ladder, followed not-so-closely by the Bayhillers.

(I'd like to take a moment to dedicate this post to all my Bayhiller friends a couple rungs down who may not be my friends after this...)

The following photo documentation captures the most recent gathering of this exclusive group.Our rising generation of Sugarloafers.

A physical manifestation of the fun that is Sugarloaf.

Our attempts to reach out to other superior races.
Attentive Sugarloafer Youth showing great interest in his Elders' endeavors.
A demonstration of the sharing attitude among Sugarloafers.


A Bayhiller and her young auditioning for the part of Sugarloafer.

A Sugarloafer mother enjoying the ambiance naturally created by fellow Sugarloafers.

An on-so- happy Sugarloafer couple.

Typical Sugarloafer delicacies which include an abundance of watermelon, various barbecued meats and, of course, shaved ice provided by Box and Cox Snow Shox (thanks, Nicole and Jake. I think it's official).

Shower Yearn (or Girl's Camp 2008)

One never knows what might be lurking in the wilderness.

During Girl's Camp, I discovered firsthand the intriguing--and at times, dangerous-- specimens awaiting an Anti-Camper.

Luckily, I narrowly managed to snap a few photos of the oddities I unearthed during my 4 day stay in the badlands.

#1: Crazed YW leaders lookin' for a fight.

#2: Vicious Canoe Tippers gloating in yet another water logging of 3 unsuspecting teenage girls

#3: Miss Tibblefork Mermaid Pageant
hopefuls
#4: Underwear on a stick

#5: (Pause for roaring laughter......sorry, can't quit laughing...........)

#6: Exotic tribal beauties
#7: Flute whittling turned bloody
(Yazmeen, I told you to whittle a trumpet...)
#8: Pervert, shirt-diving moths and degrading caste system games (Scum)

#9: Savages...lots and lots of savages

#10: Egg laying elephants on nests

**Due to its graphic nature, a rare survival photo of the Anti-Camper 7 months pregnant, running on 5 total hours of sleep in a -10 degree tent and non-showered for 4 days, will not be shown.

BEHOLD THE HOTEL KEY: HOLY GRAIL OF THE ANTI-CAMPER

I am suffering from horrifying nightmares as of late. They feature frightening visuals like this:

And this: This:

And, horror of horrors, THIS: I am left but a shell after the emotional drain such formidable prospects create. Give me gnarly monsters or free-falls off cliffs. Give me an aggravated assailant, but Maker of Nightmares, take away the fearful images accosting me!

These nightmares can only mean one thing:

Girls Camp is near. Very, very near.

Ahhh!!

(Where, oh where, is my blasted hotel key?)

The very “C” word is a slur to my ears, an offensive cuss word spoken with utter carelessness.

If any of my dear readers are in the least “campy campy”, I apologize beforehand, but there are some eternal truths associated with…well, you know.

(Again I say, WHERE, OH WHERE, is that blasted hotel key?)

When one WILLFULLY and/or JOYFULLY chooses to embark on an adventure of the “C” word nature, the following are ALL ABSOLUTELY TRUE:

Truth #1: You are mocking the genius that is electricity, indoor plumbing and HVAC. Go ahead, slap Thomas Edison’s face and tell him you still feel good about sleeping in the wilderness.

Truth #2: You obviously don't read the Bear Community Newsletter. If you haven't already, it's time to sign up for their mailing list. Last month’s newsletter discussed the various pros and cons of eating chubby versus skinny humans. Too gruesome for you? Yeah, well, you should have read their April newsletter which featured favorite recipes from prominent people-eaters around the forest.

Truth #3: You are endorsing bad hygiene. Outwardly showcasing the joys of non-teeth brushing, non-showering, non-deodorant wearing, dirt-rolling behaviors. You are sorely afflicted with a psychosis of the worst kind.

Truth #4: You are voluntarily offering yourself as a buffet for the mosquitoes, thus ensuring their survival for another season.

Truth #5: You are openly acknowledging that you enjoy strange bumps and rashes on unmentionable parts of your body. And that you prefer not knowing where they came from.

Truth #6: You prefer the smell of dirty canvas dirt-infested flannel to fresh sheets.

Truth #7: You think dirt underneath your fingernails must surely be a sign of ruggedness.

Truth #8: The grittiness of dirt in your teeth makes you feel alive.

Truth #9: You are hospitable toward campfires and enjoy offering your hair and skin as a nest for the nauseating smells emitting therefrom.

Truth #10: You find packing up your entire house in backpacks and duffel bags, loading it in a large truck or trailer, wrestling with a tent, searching for and hauling wood and water, cooking dusty food on a single burner stove that reeks of propane, using a hole as a bathroom (consequently providing entertainment for woodland creatures) and sleeping in a drafty, smelly, drippy canvas house, relaxing and invigorating. And then you especially like the part where you come home, drop the dirty backpacks and duffel bags on your nice, clean floor, unload your entire house, put it back in its proper place, wash all the laundry, scrub in the shower for an hour to get the dirt out of creases and comb foliage and mud balls out of your hair. Oh, and then vacuum and Febreeze your car. Yeah....THAT is fun.

In addition to my hotel key, does anyone know where I might find the Fast Forward button that makes it Friday afternoon, meaning Post Girls Camp, Post-Wilderness Experience, Post-Warm, Cleansing Shower and Hearty Welcome Back to Civilization?

If not, dirt, grime and grease, here comes the Anti-Camper...

Knitted Vests in Bangladesh

Despite what you may think, Jason Bourne is not running from the enemy. He's not running from terrorists or blood-thirsty power mongers or maniacal foreign assassins.

Look closely at the panic on his face.

Such an expression is caused by something much more frightening than the previously mentioned threats.
It's actually impressive that he's so calm, cool and collected, given the circumstances.

"WHAT CIRCUMSTANCES?" you ask in curious, breathless anticipation.

His TEN YEAR HIGH SCHOOL REUNION.

THAT is what he's running from.

THAT is why Jason Bourne entered the CIA and dropped off the map.

And THAT is why I'm entering the Witness Protection Program--and, just to cover the bases, applying to the Central Intelligence Agency for dangerous missions and obscure job locations.

The only problem is I didn't enter the Program early enough and my CIA application is pending.

"They" found me.

And then they contacted me.

And then....I actually attended my 10-year reunion.

!!!!!

I could have endured brainwashing, torturous behavior modification techniques, a six-month disappearing act, secret ops and dangerous weapons shoved in my face. I could have endured a life of secrecy and anonymity, a complete overhaul of me as I know me....

ANY of the above, but NOT the Reunion.

Now, take another look at Jason's face. Do you detect even the smallest trace of panic?

Nope. Gone.

You know WHY?

He evaded the Reunion and as a result, moves forward with peace of mind, knowing he didn't waste a perfectly good Saturday night.

The threat is gone...at least for another 10 years.

Okay, okay. So my reunion wasn't THAT bad. Really. I'm taking a bit of dramatic license. I saw quite a few people that I was delighted to see. (And didn't recognize quite a few more--ten years is a long time in terms of hair color, style and amount...)

However, it does go in my

"Kind of a Waste of Time" Life Experiences pile.

High school was fun enough, I suppose. I was highly involved, had lots of good friends, successfully passed notes undetected and only tripped in the halls once--all of the things that make a memorable, worthwhile high school career.

But REALLY, let's be honest...life began in college. :)

*That's when people started talking to each other without first asking for social credentials, which table you sat at during lunch and if you were ever in band or dated anyone in said organization.

*That's when it suddenly became normal and highly acceptable to date a guy with a beat-up car. (You were just glad he had a car so as not to walk everywhere when you went out.)

* That's when maturity became relative.

**That's when if you decided to knit and wear your own vests, people recognized it as artistic expression and placed their orders. (Note: I don't actually know how to knit, so please don't place online orders. Also,I don't care for vests as a result of the 80s, but would endorse anyone wearing such a creation.)

Anyway, you get what I'm saying.

Anyone who ever participated in high school knows exactly what I'm talking about.

And that's why I can say "Check" to my 10- YEAR REUNION

and

"Pass" to my twentieth. :)

Besides, no one will be able to find me. I'll be non-existent in Bangladesh. (With Jason Bourne? Hubba hubba.)**

** ONLY KIDDING. That was for you, babe! :)

Traitor Belly Buttons

I am desperate.

I have adopted drastic measures to which I never thought I would resort.

Brace yourselves because...I am a Stork Stalker.

Let me explain.

I can't help it. My belly has overtaken my entire body and I am left a helpless victim under its seizure. Apparently, my Belly is my new boss.

I no longer have control of my vertical balance. At any moment, I could topple forward from the weight of The Bump. I addressed the matter with said belly. Its solution? To push my backside out equally as far as my belly to create better equilibrium. I now have two large bumps--one on the front and one on the back. Thanks.


Swimming is nigh unto impossible--I am but a flotaition device. Don't worry, though...the Belly compensated for this also. It made me so unattractive in a swimsuit that I have no desire to step foot in even the smallest of puddles. Problem solved.


I feared lest my good friend, Belly Button, would disappear forever, but The Belly Boss oh-so-generously assured me I had at least a solid 2 weeks to keep my friend around.

TWO WEEKS?

Belly Boss then informed me It had given Belly Button an all-expenses paid vacation to the Bahamas for a few months.

And Belly Button took it graciously. He said he had been feeling "stretched thin" lately. (Sorry...couldn't resist.)

Belly Buttons are traitors.

I AM NOTHING BUT A NEARLY-BELLY-BUTTONLESS BELLY. A BOSSY,GREEDY, SPACE-HOARDING BELLY WITH HORRIBLE ATTEMPTS AT COMPENSATION AND FAIRNESS TO MY SKELETAL SYSTEM.

This invasion has left me crying out, "Stork, WHERE ARE YOU? HERE, STORKY, STORKY!"

And, you see, that's why I became a Stork Stalker.

I tracked him down in a tropical clime and shot this photo just before he jumped in for a refreshing swim.

I entreated him to come out of retirement and resume his duties as a Baby Bringer. I showed him this photo of himself years ago, in hopes it would persuade him to take pity on pregnant women worldwide.

He enjoyed a nostalgic moment and then politely declined, informing me that inflation was a real drag on his paycheck and his hearing had suffered from years of screaming babies.

When I asked him if I could somehow entice him to just deliver my next kid, he laughed and said, "If your next kid is big like your last kid, I'd suggest UPS Ground." He claims he's "getting up there" in years and his beak muscles aren't really up to it.

So I'm forming a coalition to Bring Back Stork. There's got to be SOME stork SOMEWHERE that is interested in the career for which they were intended, their very calling in life...

I'll find sponsors, I'll give the stork free stuff. I'll transorm my backyard into a Stork Paradise free of rent and HOA fees, for crying out loud!

Would ONE of them just PLEASE STOP THE BELLY INVASIONS!

You Are Peppermint Flavored Gum

You have a sharp mind that is always churning. You are mentally hyper. You're always thinking of something. And while your mind is always on, you're not the most physically active person around. Some people make mistake you for being lazy, but the truth is: you never relax. You tend to get so deeply into your projects that you ignore everything around you. You are creative and cutting edge. You love telling people about your newest ideas and discoveries.

What Flavor Gum Are You?

Roly-Poly Love

Attention all Roly-Polies!

**The Roly-Poly Associatino of America is issuing a warning to its members regarding a certain 2-year-old's newly found fascination.

No roly-poly is safe!

Please keep off all sidewalks and areas visible to toddlers. There are no casulaties to date, but victims are exhibiting symptoms of PTSD from being forced to repeatedly roll into balls in fear for their lives.**

On a recent walk up the street, it was apparent that Bennett and I had interfered with some kind of Roly-Poly Convention. They were everywhere, scrambling to do whatever Roly-Polies do at a gathering. And we greeted each one in turn, adding a solid 15 minutes to a 5 minute walk. Bennett was very kind...just intrigued. I have a feeling this adoration is not--and will not--be reciprocated.

In addition to a recently discovered love of small, helpless critters, Bennett has become a

Renegade Sprinkler Runner.

Sounds serious....AND highly-skilled.

Surprisingly, one's resume does not have to be lengthy. In fact, Bennett got into the business without so much as a single credential. He just followed all the right steps.

For interested parties, follow these steps to break into the profession:

Step 1: Get dressed in church clothes. When you arrive at your grandparents' house in Price on Mother's Day, seek out the closest running sprinkler.

Step 2: Run through that sprinkler as many times as you can. Get thoroughly soaked. Invite your cousins to join in, especially if one is wearing a nice dress and the other has on his church shoes.

Step 3: Laugh loudly and add an occasional squeal so your mom knows she'll totally ruin your fun if she dares make you come in and dry off.

Step 4: Surrender to the mother figure when she makes you come in and dry off. It's just easier this way. And it's all part of your plan, anyway...

Step 5: When Mom goes out to the car for a change of dry clothes, bust out the back door and run through the sprinkler in your diaper.

And that's it!! You're now an official Renegade Sprinkler Runner! Congratulations!

Estrogen's Secret Gathering Place

Many are unaware that Estrogen recently had a secret weekend getaway.

And when Estrogen gets away, she GETS AWAY.

In style.

In luxury.

And even better, on the cheap. (Thanks, Calli's dad!)

Four grown women and eleven almost-grown young women from our ward headed to the gorgeous Zermatt Resort in Midway, Utah, last Friday for an overnighter. As leaders, we had promised the girls a nice, fat reward for a challenge issued at the beginning of the year.

We payed up--without actually having to pay...(Again, thank you, Calli's dad...)

HONORABLE MENTIONS OF THE OVERNIGHTER:

No tents involved.

No outhouses.

No flashlights.

No campfires.

(These all magically appear to torment me in June when Girls' Camp rolls around. Oh man. I'm already invoking self-talk methods to prepare for my once-a-year-only-and-forced-upon-me-by-my-calling Tent Experience. Gulp. Hurry...change the subject. I can feel myself getting woozy...)

Sleeping bags DID accompany the group, but they were used int he following fashion:

Pizza boxes were piled upon the table, chip and candy bags littered the ground. Swimsuits hung dripping in the showers from 3 1/2 hours of swimming. Embarrassing questions were asked and answered in a high-stakes game of "Have You Ever?" Pillows and blankets (and even a homeless pair of underwear) were strewn about the room...

And it was only 2 a.m. There were hours to go yet.

3:00 brought Ghost Hour...

4:00 brought Ghost Hour to a creeped-out halt...

and somewhere around this time,

the lamps were turned off...just in time to get up at

and head home.

Additional Notes:

If you think bodily functions will not be discussed because you are surrounded by seemingly refined girls, you're thinking is amiss and must be adjusted accordingly.

Three women between the ages of 25-30 saying, "No running in the hallways" apparently translates, "Go ahead and run in the hallways. In fact, the later, the better."

Jasmine has secret diva hair, Julianna needs to wear a mouthguard, Rachael and Calli ALMOST divulged secrets in their sleep had their words been in English, and Talyn is a good bodyguard in the dark of night. Isabel hates ALL people (not discriminatory) and Tyrnee actually DOES love her sister, although they do not kiss on the lips (necessarily noted). Jane is scared of bubble sheets. Stacey likes to get the dirty juice on everyone and Abby is related to Gumby. President Carla gets bed privileges, 1st Counselor Emily gets couch privileges and because 2nd Counselor Nicole thinks alien romance is more exciting than 4 a.m. conversations, she gets the floor.

Shea and Christopher have figured out how to be bodyguards from 2 bulidings away.

Estrogen needs a nap after a good Getaway.

Tasty

A new Delicious Word:

CONCUSSED

(as in, the state of having a concussion)

Emotional State of Foliage

"NO, NO, PLEASE!" the eight tomato plants shouted to the Tomato Gods. "Anyone but HER! We want to LIVE, do you hear? LIVE, not SHRIVEL and DIE!"

This is what I imagine the eight tomato plants I recently acquired were shouting at the top of their tomato lungs when they noticed just WHO had plucked them from their promising growing career.

I have not been, shall we say, the most SUCCESSFUL tomato raisin' woman in the past. And word has gotten around the Foliage Community.

I'm sure my tomato plants screamed out a warning to the Marigold family moving into my front flower bed. The Marigold family probably alerted the English Daisies (my favorite flower) moving into Pot #5 and the English Daisies most likely passed the warning along to their neighbors down the row. (I'd tell you their names, but I have forgotten--the Purple Flowers is the best I can do.)

HOWEVER....

their botanical little selves may be in for a pleasant surprise and a long, productive life.

You see, my soul --in conjunction with my stomach--cries out for SALSA, SALSA, SALSA and I must cultivate only the juiciest salsa material.

My tomato plants have received unmatched nurturing and an outpouring of parental concern.

My front yard yearns for color and beauty and this non-green thumb is determined to at least become green-ish.