Why I like the name Jack, #132

 I dare you to name a dorky Jack.

(There are none.)

If God decides to mock me and I somehow end up with another kid, that child will be named Jack.

Even if it's a girl.

That is all.

I'll think of a clever name LATER!

Dear Fall Funk,


I really don't like you.  If it weren't for Winter Inversion, you'd be my least favorite seasonal event ever.  Take a lesson from Summer Fun .  Or even Spring Seasonal Allergies.  I hope I give you a complex, you big jerk.

Hugs,


Meegan

***And now for something completely different***

My friends are a motley crew.

And she's the GOOD influence in my life.  I'm doomed.

 Mollee and her Smurf-a-Day eating habit are nothing, though, when compared to my friend, April, who enticed me to join a cult.  "Come and eat dinner, spend time with the girls and get away for a few hours,"  she said. 

So I did.

And then I joined a cult.  And, let me tell you, I'm a Mormon...wait...a Latter Day Saint (GAH!).  Anyways, I know my cults.  I should have seen it coming.   Especially when she yelled, "You fool! You fell victim to one of the classic blunders - The most famous of which is "never get involved in a land war in Asia" - but only slightly less well-known is this: "Never go against a Sicilian when death is on the line"! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha..."

Except replace "Sicilian" with "Mormon."  And replace "death" with "bunco." 

But that's just semantics.  I'm pretty sure my (now) fellow cult members take bunco a lot more seriously than the threat of death.  I have never seen such intensity.  At least, not outside of Las Vegas. 

Imagine a table with four women hunkered down over it, rolling dice as though their lives depended on it.  Dice were prematurely grabbed.  Hands were slapped away.   Stuffed animals were thrown.  Tears were shed.  And tomorrow, they'll go back to their normal lives as moms and teachers and therapists and pretend that NOTHING HAPPENED and that they are PERFECTLY NORMAL, THANK YOU VERY MUCH. 

But I know the truth.  And I'm in trouble, because I just happened to agree to sub on the night they drew for hosting duties for the coming year, and got suckered into being a permanent member of the group.

April, you're a bad influence.  You were there when I pierced my ears.  And then when I finally succumbed to peer pressure and joined my first bunco group.

(dramatic reenactment:)

Me:  This is madness!

April:  Madness?  This is Bunco!

I guess I should be glad she didn't kick me into a well at that point...

***And now for something completely different***

Pictures of the cutest Two-th year old EVER:

We could have given him only the balloons and he would have been perfectly content.

But some of our friends got him bubbles, and that pretty much made his year.

 

 

A few days later was Jon's 36nd birthday.  Like I need a bad influence in my life.  I'm my own worst enemy.  I giggled for hours after this one, folks.  Because apparently, I"m easily amused.

 Some of Gabriel's gifts inspired the BEST.  FAMILY HOME EVENING ACTIVITY.  EVER.

Awwwwww, yeah.

Peace out.

Five things I didn't blog about due to the onset of Fall Funk

Hiya, my peeps.  Long time, no see.

After a pretty intense chastising from Mirror-Jon (yeah, Josh, I mean YOU!) regarding my dereliction of various duties, I've decided to drag myself out of my Fall Funk.  I've been wallowing in grief over the passing of summer long enough, and I've missed relating several seriously blog-worthy events.  So, in no particular order, I give you....

What Was Going on in Our House Whilst I Was Fighting an Overwhelming Urge to Crawl Back Into Bed, Eat Chocolate, and Watch Bones

1.  I pierced my ears.  Well, I didn't pierce my ears.  A friendly and helpful Claire's Boutique sales associate trained in the art/science of Ear Piercing was responsible for the actual piercings.  Her name was Jamie, which made me like her in spite of the fact that I was paying her a surprising amount of money to put holes in my ears.  As it turns out, the experience drove home the reality that I am, in fact, a walking Far Side character.  I've known for years that I have a bulging eye that is neither a thyroid problem nor a tumor, as Dr. Doom n' Gloom the Optometrist predicted,  but merely a freakishly bulging eye that doesn't affect my vision.  I guess he just wanted me to be self-conscious about it for the rest of my life.   (Thank you, Brian Regan.  You nailed it.)  Now, in addition to my bulging eye, it has ALSO been pointed out to me that my ears are excessively uneven AND one of them has a crease RIGHT WHERE THE PIERCING SHOULD BE.  Put all that together with my FrankenToes and it's amazing that I even go out in public. 

2.  USU football BITES.  They can't hold on to a lead to save their lives.  Or, as the joke goes, the USU football team goes to the dollar store.  What do they buy?  NOTHING, because they only have three quarters.  MWAH HA HA HA HA!

3.  Elijah's football team made it into the playoffs.  Now, this has been an ongoing blog-in-progress.   From the first day of practice when I astutely noted that the first thing that they teach the boys is How To Walk Like a Jock, I have loved  having Elijah on a football team.  After several years of pestering Jon about what the heck is going on, I can finally follow what's going on, more or less.  And, somehow, when the players are so little and enthusiastic, it's even more fun.  Especially when your kid manages NOT to break his leg.  That's always a bonus.

If you look closely, you can seen Elijah in the middle of the lump o' boys.  Or, we assume it's him, as there is no other boy with our last name on his team (we're the burgundy and gold team).  Having Elijah in football has actually brought out his awesomeness--I asked him if he wants to play again next year, and he does...but he's reluctant because the other boys swear and he doesn't like that.  I told him not to let the doofuses ruin his fun and to be the example.  Also, surprisingly, he tends to hold back.  When Jon and I were talking to him about this, he said he doesn't like turning on his "Hulk," because he's scared he won't be able to turn it off.  Seriously.  How awesome is this kid?  Very awesome.  AND he spontaneously started saving money for a mission.

4.  Conference Tacos. (In this section, names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent.) If you are unaware, conference tacos are greasy Tacos of Joy that my mom only makes on conference Sundays.  After a few rounds of being the one in charge of making them, I know WHY she only makes them twice a year:  they suck to make.  Good to eat, a pain to make.  Literally a pain, this year, because I inadvertently bought Super Splattery Oil (TM) to fry them in, and actually had hot oil spatter INTO MY MOUTH.  Also, apparently I'm still functioning with my pregnancy-induced brainlessness, because I actually made Jon send a semi-snarky text to my friend and taco making minion, April, asking her why she was late to the taco making fiesta.  As it turned out, I told her the wrong time.  FACEPALM.  She graciously came anyways (and bearing PIE, no less), and made the cutest little taco hor d'oeuvres (thank you, google, for spelling help.  I was so far off on the spelling that spell check could only put up its proverbial hands in surrender).  Back on the ranch.  While April was busy salvaging remnants of tortillas and prettying them up, another taco making minion, who shall be referred to as Xobyn (the "X" is pronounced like an "R" in this instance)...well, Xobyn was busy making tacos that Picasso would have been proud of.  They.  Were.  Awesome.  That is, awesome as long as you don't mind toothpicks going through your soft palate, because I think towards the end, she was just shoving extra toothpicks in to make a statement, and that statement was, "Please write a blog about my mutant taco-making skillz."  In Xobyn's defense, yes, they tasted the same.  They just looked mean enough to eat you first, if you didn't hustle with the sour cream and beat them to the punch.



5.  Ethan and the Baritone.  Ethan decided he doesn't want to play the viola anymore, which means that, with the new addition of a viola to my personal strings collection, I'm a violin away from being a one-woman string quartet.  Anyhoo, instead of the viola, he's playing the baritone, which is basically a small tuba.  His reasoning for the change?  I quote, "Being in orchestra is DORKY."  I didn't have the heart to tell him about band stereotypes.  Regardless, he seems to enjoy it MUCH MORE, which makes it all worth it.  By "all," I am referring to the cow that seems to have taken up residence in our basement.  Also, the fact that he doesn't seem to understand why emptying your spit valve on the living room floor is gross.

Before I leave you, a few gratuitous family pictures.

First, check out Gabriel's budding Mad Football Skillz:

What's a family hike without a Sith Lord?

She sleeps better at two months than Gabriel does at two years.

Special thanks to Oma Alfred for the pictures!

Peace out, my peeps!