Trust me. . . she's amazing.

OK, so you are all aware that I don't like to use this blog for promotion. . . unless it's shameless self-promotion then it's a totally different story!!  In fact, most (if anything) I write about products or people on here is either weird in nature or not what the average person would call 'positive.'

Well, today I'm breaking away.  This blog goes in the Shorty McGee club because it's Friday afternoon and rather than read, you should just listen.

This girl is magic.  You know that old adage 'She could sing a phone book and it would sound amazing'?  Well they made that up to talk about her. 

Sara B. . . thanks for all the road trips.

Videos from a favorite. . . happy listening.

Classic tune.  Otis would be proud.

Great recovery in the middle. . . made me giggle.

And last but certainly not least, the song that I've had in my head for the last three days.  Weezer is good but Sara B makes it better.  Go ahead and dance.  For this there is no shame.



Social me this, will ya?

Did you know that I do Social Media as part of my job?  I know you'd never guess it by how infrequently I update my blog these days; call it the world's greatest irony.  So what.

This morning as I was doing my normal social perusing (aka snooping into other people's lives that they've chosen to discuss online), I saw this video that politely explains why we all need Google+.  (I was a skeptic at first too but no, the video wasn't produced by Google and it's actually mildly entertaining. . . especially the part where the 'Social Media Guru' comes in.  Just so you know, all gurus ARE bald.  What up, David?!)

Needless to say, in all my anxiousness, I got totally overwhelmed with the thought of signing up for yet another social network.  Seriously?  Do I really need to do this for another hour a day?  I can't even be funny frequently enough to keep my Facebook and Twitter updates fresh once per day let alone bringing on the 500 pound gorilla, Google.  I just can't do it.  I can't.

The part that is frustrating (as I'm sure you also were drawn to if you watched my easily-embedded video - thanks Blogger, ahem, Google) is that there is some great functionality in this new interface, stuff that is pretty dang useful.  It has left me sitting at my desk re-enacting a scene from a horribly dramatic movie where the girl gets married and then realizes that she's in love with another man: "Whhhhhyyyyyy?  Whhhhhhyyyyy?  Where were you when I needed you four years ago, Google?  It's too late!  How can I choose?"

As of late, I've been pretty negative Nancy about the whole Social Media thing anyway, leaving me to wonder why I'm having a Jessie Spano-sized freak out over Google+.  I complain all of the time about how sick I am of Facebook - not necessarily about the functionality of it but the lack of candor, maybe, that people exercise when choosing to update.

As I said earlier, I make a pretty conscious effort to be at least a little amusing in my status updates on both Twitter and Facebook (if not before, the pressure is certainly on now); adding value (I choose entertainment) is always important when publishing Social Media content.  I have noticed as of late though that reading Facebook updates parallels watching the nightly news immediately following September 11th - it's nothing but depressing.  Somewhere along the Facebook timeline, the general populous has decided to use Facebook's power for evil rather than good and it's getting pretty old.  If you fall into this category, my apologies but this conversation is long overdue.

I've made a list of all of the things that drive me crazy about the use of Social Media (namely Facebook) and why they are no-nos in my book.  Agree or disagree, it's fine.  But at least now you'll know why you maybe didn't make it off the cutting room floor next time I clean house on my "friend" list.  Here we go:

• Location, location, location.  It's an old real-estate mantra that apparently the FB community has taken to heart.  If you are going to be at dinner for an hour and want to check in some place, good on ya.  If you are planning to be gone for a week to a remote village with no cell phone access and you left your pearls (I know, it's a mystery novel cliche) on your nightstand, don't announce it.  You might as well tell me where the key is so you won't have to pay for a broken window in addition to your now missing pearls.  (Please note that when I say "me", I don't actually mean me.  I'm not a thief.  But someone might be.)  I've said on several occasions that a great date night activity would be to spend an hour gathering a list of all of the people you know are out of town, look up their addresses on the trusty interweb and go to their houses and leave a post-it note saying "Knew you were gone.  Lucky it was us and not someone shady.  Love, The Facebook Bandits."  Good times, right?  That would scare you straight.

         These updates are most dangerous when paired with the next FB over site:

• How do we know each other?  If I can't (within 20 seconds. . . and that's stretching it) process how we know each other and recall the gleaming status of said relationship, you're not making the cut.  Don't add people that you think you saw at Smith's once to your friend list.  It's not safe.  You know that guy who you saw at that one sweet party that you talked to/asked to move his car so you could make curfew?  He's not your friend.  And he might be a creeper.  (Please note that when I say "he", I totally mean he because generally, and the incarceration numbers can back me here, men are more of the PHYSICAL creepers.  I will not, however, disregard the fact that you boys need to be equally as careful with adding the ladies so you don't end up with a bucket of crazy on your hands; she likely won't physically hurt you but she could destroy you otherwise). 

         All I'm asking is for a little caution.  I know it's everyone's dream to have the most "friends" on FB and the most followers on Twitter but I'm going to just lay this out - you aren't Ashton Kutcher and you never will be so let go of the dream, man.  Let it go.

• Drama, anyone?  Have you noticed that Facebook has turned from a narcissists bragging playground ("Got a new truck!", "Had a hot date!", "Man, I'm amazing!") to the most heart-wrenching complaint fest of all time?  I can't even log into Facebook without a box of tissues;  (OK, the old me would have been sympathetic and had a box of tissues.  The new, more seasoned me just gets really annoyed by it.  I'm just being honest.)  It's become the one place that you can get mass amounts of sympathy about the most ridiculous, "This happens to everyone" kind of stuff.  (It's basically reminiscent of this blog post. . . complain, complain, complain.  See what you're doing to me!?")

         Not that Social Media isn't a great place to get support for the trials in your life or to offer condolences to those that have trials, I'm just saying "Enough already!" with this kind of stuff:

1. Worst day ever. . . I hate Monday.  (we all do.  Monday is the official end of what we call the weekend - a time for relaxation and enjoyment.  Who wants that to end?  Nobody.  We all hate it.)
2. I hate bad drivers! (Again, we all do.  never once have I heard someone say "I love bad drivers!"  Never once.  Plus, you just entered the "bad driver" category by being on Facebook while you're behind the wheel.  Knock it off.  Someone is likely Facebooking about you right now.)
3. Why me?!?  (I don't know.  None of us actually do.  And, just as a side note, God isn't on Facebook.  I checked.  Perhaps another mechanism for asking that question might be appropriate?  Just sayin'.)
4. I can't sleep.  (Here's a thought: get off this glaring box called the computer and do something a little more soothing like reading a book.  Besides, how could anyone sleep once they get fired up reading all of these negative things on Facebook!)

You get the point.  As a general rule of thumb, if you were to say your complaint to someone's face and their only response would/could be "Oh.", don't post it.  That's life.  We're all going through hurt arms and bad days and tired feet and broken lights.  Crap happens. . . but I don't want mine to be published for ever and ever. . . except maybe in my blog.  :)

Kids these days. . .

I've found myself over the last several months having conversations that end in me saying "How old AM I?"  I ask this because these conversations generally revolve around youngsters and how messed up their lives are becoming.  Am I THAT old?  Have things REALLY changed that much in 15. . .ish. . . years?

I started thinking about my fondest memories from when I was young and how if a kid tried to pull of now what we did then, they would either be to tired to keep up or bored after about seven seconds because there are no text keys.  I'm sad that my kids won't have the same crazy fun that I had. . . and at the same time, I'm more sad that my kids won't get the discipline I got growing up (you know, the kind where the neighbors mom wasn't afraid to teach you manners).  Kids need that.  Ugh, see, I sound old.

Anyway, in honor of my days of yore, I've decided to make a list of some of the "That would never happen today" activities of my yester-year.  This is good times.  I hope you can relate.

• Micromachine races down the driveway.  I always wanted the monster truck because it would make it over the cracks.  Because I was the only girl, I generally got the Porshe with no lift and got stuck every 8 feet.
• Baseball in the street.  Tag in the street.  Roller skates in the street.  We did everything in the middle of the street.  We'd yell "Car!" on the rare occasion that one of our mom's would pull in after getting groceries but generally, the street was a safe place to be.
• When mom pulled in with the groceries, we helped.  We were expected to.  My schedule was never more important than my mother's and my dad made sure we understood that.  We helped bring in groceries and then we stayed and ran them down into the storage room or the bathrooms or wherever they needed to go.  Bottom line, we helped.
• We had sword fights every year with Christmas wrapping paper tubes.  Kids now would think that is "lame and boring" but it was quite fun.  We beat the tar out of each other every year for about 30 minutes (that's about how long all of the paper rolls would last until they we annihilated).
• We had camp outs in our backyard.  My dad would humor us and set up a tent and there wouldn't be TV or phones so we played outside until it was time for bed.
• We had to pick up the phone without any idea who it was.  It was actually kind of a treat when the phone rang.  We didn't get called or contacted nearly as much as kids do now and when the phone would ring, we really hoped it was for us. . . but that's the great part, nobody knew!
• We were on time.  We had to be.  It was completely inconvenient to stop and find a pay phone and (assuming you had your day planner with the person's number written down) call them to tell them you'd be 20 minutes late.  So, we just weren't.  We scheduled things, left plenty of time for travel and didn't bail out at the last minute when something better came along.  We showed up, on time, and with everything that we needed.  Otherwise, we were a waste.
• We read and wrote our own material.  No Internet to copy from, no sir.  We had to go to this building called the library and go through card catalogs and find books related to homework.  Then, we had to read.  A lot.  We could photocopy but that does nobody any good.  We researched and read and it was actually kind of difficult.  I would say that it paid off.  We will always be more resourceful than ChaCha.
• We played Kick the Can and Sardines a lot.  If you don't know what that is, go to the library.
• We got hurt.  We had fights with neighbor kids, we wrestled in the front yard.  We got bloody noses, bloody knees, scratched faces and bad sunburns and not one person ever called protective services.  Kids sometimes get hurt. . . and it's no body's fault.  And parents, know that it's OK if your kids get hurt.  It'll make 'em tough.  Look at you.

Taking the "option" out of Adoption. . .

Stay with me as I make my point, please.  Don't bail out half way through this one because I don't need you parading around saying that I'm a heartless crazy.  (Unless you were doing that before this blog post then, proceed).  I'm hoping we can start a good discussion about this so if you have information that I may "clearly" not be aware of, make it known in the comments.  I'd really like to better understand this topic. So obviously the best way to do that is to blog about it first, right? 

I'm at a point in my life where I am, as people would say, "not getting any younger."  My clock is ticking and prime time is coming to an end and all of those other cliche comments about the female reproductive system are rearing their ugly and only partially-accurate heads.  I'm not ancient, but I'm not that spring chicken that everyone references when it comes to talking about having babies.

That said, I'm also not planning on having a baby tomorrow (a biological impossibility) but hopefully, sometime in the not-so-distant future a little one will grace our home we'll have the family we've always hoped for.

So, I think this is clear but in case it isn't: babies are on the brain.  Right now, all of them are cute, all of them are fun, all of them scream ridiculously loud!  (Isn't it funny how you really start to notice that when you're thinking about having one in your house?  It's like noticing how much puppies pee the second you decide to get one!  Crazy!)

As we've been thinking and talking of kids, we've (like most people) started thinking about all of our child-having options.  We're hip.  We're "with it".  We realize that not all babies come into a family the same way.  So our discussions always, of course, include adoption.  As I've looked around and read a little (I can't emphasize the LITTLE part of that enough - I'm no expert), one thing continues to come to mind: Why is it so dang difficult. . . expensive. . . difficult??

I'm a strong advocate of adoption for two very important reasons; two of the brightest spots in my life were adopted by my brother and sister-in-law and I couldn't imagine our family without them.  Dallas and Sarah did what so many are desperate to do - bring two incredible and smart kids into their home and offer them a life they wouldn't have had otherwise.  I watch these kids and see the lives that they are being provided in a loving, caring environment and my heart jumps into my throat!  I'm so grateful for my fam and for the mothers of these incredible kiddos for giving them the opportunities that they might not have had otherwise.  My gratitude knows no limits.

While my exposure is limited to my sphere, I have seen enough to know that there are a lot of kids that aren't as lucky - they don't have moms that are thinking about their futures and decide to place them in homes where they can flourish.  There are thousands of kids out there without moms and dads, without homes and without choices.  These kids (sometimes multiple siblings at a time) are abandoned or parent-less for a variety of reasons and still, desperately, need homes just like their counterparts.

So I know you're thinking "Car, I know why adoption exists. . . I didn't come here for that."  I know.  I'm painting a picture - some would say for dramatic effect, I say because I don't know any better.

Here is my point: Why, with thousands of kids in this predicament from all over the world and hundreds of good families willing to give at least some of them homes, is it so hard to make the two sides pair up?  I know families that have been on lists for YEARS waiting to be able to adopt a child and I also know that there are thousands of kids that need good homes - need, supply, need, supply.  This system isn't meeting the basic economic formula! 

In addition to the time these people are waiting to be found, the expense associated with processing fees alone is enough to put a person into years of debt - that's before you even start clothing, feeding and providing shelter for these little faces.  In addition to that you have multiple week-long trips abroad (if applicable, of course.  Don't go buying a ticket to Guam if you are wanting to adopt in Kansas - that's just silly.) to sit in a hotel room and wait. . . the list could go on.

I'm not naive.  I know that work costs money - I work at an ad agency for goodness sake and we bill by the hour; adoption takes work, and rightfully so.  But I look at the expenses associated with these adoption services (which can vary greatly by country, by the way, which confuses me even more) and I wonder how families can afford time and time again to pay these astronomical fees that can go toe-to-toe with a down payment on a large house. 

Should the adoption agencies continue to do thorough background checks on people submitting for adoption?  Yes.  Should they be able to prove that they will provide adequate love, living space and life to these kids? Absolutely.  Visas, legal fees, transportation, all of it costs and I can't imagine that any of those things could or should be cut out of the process but I also wonder how many more families would get involved in this incredible process if it weren't so intimidating??

I know that there isn't an adoptive parent out there that wouldn't do it again and I'm positive that every kid has been worth every penny that's needed to change hands and every hour sitting in a hotel room.  At this point, I've only reaped the benefits of the system in my niece and nephew, without any of the work.  I may need a navigation lesson, I suppose.  Or a ticket to Guam?

Words of Wisdom. . .

Dear Super-Fast Phone Number Guy,
Thanks for leaving a message on my machine.  I got most of it, except that pesky phone number part.

You see, you spoke very clearly throughout most of the message, enunciating your words and using impressive vocabulary.  That is until you asked me to call you back "ASAP" (which, just as a sidenote, is generally considered the "urgent red flag" of the phone world) and then rattled off your phone number like you were Tom Cruise diffusing a bomb; all I actually heard was 415-shma-shmeeeeh-smah-extension smeh-smah-2.  While it was impressive that you have your phone number THAT memorized, I don't.  If I tried to dial that number, I am as likely to reach you as I am to order some delicious Chinese takeout in your same area code.

In the future, if you really need me to call you back "ASAP", hurry up your message and use the two seconds that you shaved off to actually tell me your phone number at a speed that I might be able to dictate.  I'm not a court reporter, man.  I'm a girl with a pen that occasionally needs a scribble to get moving.  Breathe your way through that phone number part and I promise you, I'll call you back next time.

Don't feel sad.  Your friend, The 10 min Message Guy who Didn't Bother to Leave a Phone Number After all of That!, is getting his letter as we speak.

Sincerely,
The Girl with Too Many Messages

Old habits die hard. . .

I'm a creature of habit, that's the truth.  I don't deal well with change.  In fact the idea of making a major life shift makes my heart rate jump just enough to mimic a slow jog.  It's weird though because I love adventure.  The problem is that it better be planned-for, packed-appropriately, scheduled-in adventure or I'll have nothing to do with it. 

That's just how it's always worked. . . we planned for everything.  Us Hamblins have all had planners or date books or calendars ever since I can remember.  (One of my favorite things still to do each year is to go and find next year's planner. . . same exact model and layout as last year please or I will hyperventilate, I promise you.).  We grew up knowing where we were to be at what time and in what clothes.  I promise you that if you need to know how much a gallon of milk cost in 1997, my mom has it on a grocery list somewhere in her planner (it's basically a Mecca of information and I have zero doubts that the cure to cancer is hidden somewhere in those leather-bound walls).

Anyway, the point is that this is the way it was. . . and continues to be today.  My name is Carlee and I am a plan-aholic. 

Does this neurotic 'planning' thing sound familiar?  Does it feel 'comfortable' and 'good'?  It does to me too because that's what I'm used to and frankly, couldn't even SEE life any other way.  I'm like a Clydesdale with Franklin Covey blinders on.

So, I shocked my system a little bit.  What did I do?  I got married.  The therapy that it has brought to my twisted mind is worth all of the extra laundry, promise.  Living with someone else and sharing everything with them has surprised. . . no shocked. . . no STUNNED me as I've seen how many other ways there are of doing things.  Trev is more of a fly-by-the-seat of his pants kind of guy than I've ever been a day in my life.  (I'm too busy figuring out which pants and why those pants and will flying by them make them rip?).  He's organized and responsible but he certainly doesn't own a planner. . . and, I'll admit it, probably shocked by the number of "to-do" lists a single person can have - four at once.  I know, I'm embarrassed for me, too.

Just looking at our two ways of doing things got me thinking. . . I've always been a big planner because, as previously stated, that was my world.  Mom and Dad had planners so it was only right that I had a Fisher Price one, right?  Right.

This relentless love affair with to-do lists and planning got me thinking about how many things I do in my life just because that's. . .well. . .that's just how you do it!  Call it being afraid to venture out or call it naivety for just assuming that it was the only way to do things.  The bottom line is that I'm looking at my legacy and wondering how much of it is Carlee and how much of it is Pavlov. . . simply a learned habit. 

Let's take steak, for instance.  My parents eat their steak medium-well.  So do I.  I have all of my life.  I never ordered it any other way because that's how we order steak.

Or banking.  Where do I bank?  We'll I wouldn't put that on the web, silly.  But it's the same place that parents bank.  Why?  Because that's where we bank!  Who needs a better reason than that?

My point is that I'm a lemming sometimes; it's easier to assume that other people know all the right answers than to have to research it myself.  The problem is. . . how will I ever know what my tastes are if they are always based on the tastes of others?  Confucius say: he who can't find his own tastes will never eat tomatoes. . . or something like that.

I successfully broke one of these habits some years ago and it was totally liberating.  I used to use my online banking to verify that my checkbook tracking was correct.  Read that last sentence again, slowly.  Yes, I was a checkbook believer and couldn't imagine ever swiping my debit card without recording it in the book of life. . . er. . . my checkbook.  I saved receipts for days on end and wrote them all down and then verified that I got them all through the power of the Internet and online banking.  Does that seem silly?  Well, it's what I knew.  So, I decided to be brave and only write down the actual checks that I wrote (which amounts to about two per month) and just verify my purchases and balances online.  It was tough at first but man, there was nothing more liberating than changing a habit that did nothing but inconvenience me to start with. 

So I'm on a mission to change things up.  I'm aiming to find things that can be done a better way - different isn't good enough, it needs to be BETTER or why change?  I'm going to break some habits and improve some schedules. . . maybe tone it back to two "to-do" lists.  The thought of this makes me really excited I should celebrate!  Maybe eat a steak. . . and I think I'll take it medium.

Costuming

Note to the general public:

If you cannot leave your house without already having multiple fights with your clothing, surrender immediately.  Discard the clothing that is bothering you because I can promise you this with 100% certainty:

IT WILL BOTHER YOU ALL DAY.

Today's nemesis: Tights.

That is all.

Diary of a Chubby Girl

I'm writing this post with total awareness of its implications - I just want you to know that.  Sometimes posts like this get written in hopes of receiving notes of encouragement or kind words and while your mental notes are appreciated, they are unnecessary here.

This was all sparked by an off-hand comment made to me today at work.  A co-worker and I were discussing an informational video that they had seen online and I asked them to forward it so I could watch.  After several minutes, they re-appeared in my office and said "No offense, but there is part of the video that has to do with obesity and the affects that it has. . ." This, my friends, is where I stopped listening and started internalizing what had just happened.  "No offense. . ."  What did that even mean?  I shouldn't be offended that they talk about obesity or I should be more self-aware. . . I'm not really sure but in case there was ever any doubt about how I see myself, I'm going to clear it up right now: I am chubby.  Been aware of it for years.  There, the cat's out of the bag.  Newsflash: The chubby girl knows!!!  I hope we can all relax now and stop filtering our comments about weight and health.

Most of the people that will read this know me well and know that this isn't a new revelation.  In fact, it's one that I've dealt with my whole life.  What I haven't done (until this very moment) is have a very real, out-loud look at my self image.  I've tried everything short of therapy to try and understand who I am and why the chips (mmm, chips. . . jokes, jokes) fell the way they did so maybe this will help.  Then again, maybe it won't but here it goes. 

The battle of the bulge didn't start last week for me - I didn't wake up on Wednesday and think to myself "I think I'm a bit overweight!  How did this happen?"  As much as I wish this was a day-to-day battle over whether I liked how I looked or not, it hasn't been.  In fact, I would dare say that there has probably been no more than a 30 day period in my life where I truly liked the way I looked. . . and man did I look good in those Pampers.  Do you know what it's like to struggle with body image every day of your life?  Sadly, a lot more women than are willing to admit it fight this battle every morning.  I've been one of them. . .but I'm thinking about stopping.

I'm actually a very normal girl with a very normal appetite.  I know that it's shocking to the general public that people that are overweight actually do like carrots and I know that it shocks the hell out of most people when we ask for a box at the end of a meal because we can't eat all of our food (thanks for staring at us while we eat, by the way. . . it's very encouraging) but it does happen.  I like vegetables and fruit.  I also like pasta and french fries, just like your average eater.  I don't over-indulge on a regular basis.  I don't slap mayo on my 100% fried food in order to get it down.  In fact, because I struggle with my weight, I pay very close attention to the things that I put in my body. . . and I probably eat better than a lot of people.

I've been an athlete all of my life and I've never been prejudiced toward sports.  I have more belts and trophies than most people could dream about and they are NOT for serving water on the sidelines while I eat a donut.  I play basketball, softball, soccer and did karate. . . and I am decent at all of them.  I like to dance and lift weights and have run a 5k within the last year.  I will work and sweat and move more in a day than most people do every two.  Contrary to popular belief, overweight people aren't all lazy.  I get up early, I work long days, I visit family and contribute to my community.

I am healthy.  I have the cholesterol counts and heart rate to prove it.  My organs function as they should.  I've never drank nor smoked a day in my life.  My mind is sharp and full of ideas.

I say all of this to prove a point.  Despite all of my efforts, all of my awareness, all of my try and work and sacrifice. . . I'm still chubby.  Does it bother me every day?  Sure does.  I'll be the first to admit that I would adore waking up tomorrow and having the body that I deserve - the one that I've worked very hard for all of my life.  That would be ideal.  I keep waking up every day hoping. . .

But, more importantly, do I think I'm more than this?  Absolutely.  As much as I wish things were different and that this wasn't such a tough battle for me and millions of other people, I'm better than that.  I'm better than taking "offense" to your comments and staring and judgement because this struggle has made me sensitive and understanding and mindful of other people's struggles.

I know that it may be hard for some people to grasp but when you tell a chubby girl that she's chubby, you aren't likely telling her something she doesn't already know.  So, you can stop staring and whispering and talking about how I could "let myself get like this."  I'll tell you how - I did exactly the same thing that you all do every day.  This is just my battle.  All things considered, I think that my ailment, while very visible, is pretty minimal compared to what I could be dealing with, no?

'Nuff said. . . I need a carrot.

Let's Talk Thief. . . Update

SO, for those of you that were brave enough to read my original post, I figured it was fair that I give you a very brief update.

Went to court this morning.  Finally saw the little fella who had the nerve to take our things.  Frankly, I'm baffled that he was even able to reach the door handle to our truck.  He had this little face and the body of, well, a 10-year-old girl.  (This is a 10-year-old girl in 1990, not now.  Today they have implants and fake hair and lashes.)  He looked so small and I was sure that when I saw him I would feel this overwhelming need to hug him and tell him that he'll be OK. . .  False, I did not.

He's still claiming that he didn't do it DESPITE the fact that the cops found our phone in his room. . . you know, the one that was taken from our car along with a bunch of other stuff.  Anyway, because he claims that he did nothing, the prosecutor (my new hero) told the judge that we'd like to go to trial.  Bam!  Not getting off that easy.

So, we should be receiving a subpoena in the next 30 days (gee, I hope they deliver it to us during church again. . . I'm hoping to keep up my rep as the bad, bad seed in the ward that needs help.  You get more cookies on your doorstep that way.) and will be all set to testify during the first part of December.

Not over, making progress.  We'll keep you posted!

More things I've discovered. . .

So, it's been a while since I took some inventory of this crazy little thing called life and what I've learned.  In fact, it's coming up on three years.  My last post of this wort talked about Who I Am.  This one is going to continue that discovery process - it's a rocky road (mmmmm, rocky road) so buckle your seat belts and keep your arms and legs inside. . . OK, I'm getting carried away.  The point is, here we go:

1. I loathe yogurt.  But I eat it because it's good for me.
2. Yogurt makes me think about life and how many things I do that I loathe but in the end, really are probably good for me.  I think that they happen every day.  Laundry comes to mind.
3. I really like watching the Discovery Channel, a lot. Even the weird shows about fishing and truck driving.
4. I like the feel of the rain when it's warm outside.
5. I finally fell in love.  The forever kind.  Who knew that my first time would be a home run?  Honestly, I expected nothing less.
6. I really like coming up with new formulas in Excel.  It's nerdy, that's me.
7. I want to ride in a hot air balloon one day. 
8. Being a wife makes you quite a bit more selfless, if you're doing it right.  I can't wait to find out how it feels to be a mom.
9. Back to the yogurt thing. . . Black Forrest Cake Yogurt doesn't taste like cake at all, it tastes like yogurt.  Call it what you will but yogurt flavored like delish desserts can only be compared to one thing: putting lipstick on a pig.
10. I love my bed.  It's one of the nicest things that I own.
11. I've hit the tipping point where I finally feel like I'm worth more than I make.  I'm six years into my career and it's taken a LOT of extra work to feel that way.
12. I write lists about EVERYTHING.  I sometimes add things that I've done to my "To Do" lists just to check them off immediately.
13. As much as I complain about being busy, I make myself that way.  I like being involved.
14. We just got Netflix and I love it.  I know, it's like announcing that I just "got the Internet and it's really cool".
15. The more "stuff" you have, the more "stuff" you have to worry about.
16. Hobbies are important.  I need one that isn't reading.
17. The news makes me sad and the sadness usually outweighs it's "informative" benefit.
18. I've joined the millions who can say that they have "Tweeted".
19. My family more than tripled in size when I got married and I love every minute of it.
20. I'm more insecure than I ever thought.  The good news is that it all stems from really dumb things so I hope to move past it one day.
21. I think a lot. . . and fast.  I would guess my think to speak ratio is about 463:1.
22. I miss my grandparents.  It's amazing how that affects you as you get older.
23. My parents are the kindest people I know.  You could have everyone take a "kind" test and they would win.  I hope that their compassion was genetic and that people can one day see in me all that I see in them.
24. Stealing things is bad.
25. I like breakfast food the very most.  I could eat it all day, every day.

Shorter than last time, I know. . . and slightly more odd.  I'm I only learning weird things about myself as I get older?  Fun.

Let's talk thief. . .

So this has been one of the "list" topics that I knew everyone wanted to hear about but couldn't bear to write until I knew my blood wouldn't boil over while I wrote it.  I think I'm finally to the point of "purge" and can effectively get it out of my system.

For those of you that are used to me doing mindless chatter that may or may not be funny, I'll do my best to insert that as much as possible.  But this is probably going to be a journey of another kind - be warned.  I don't like being somber or philosophical in my writing because I get nervous and I don't do it well but I think it's sort of necessary during parts so here we go.  Not sad, just serious, sort of.  I'm also going to try and keep it to the points that matter.  The "in person" story is much more animated (as usual) so if you wanna hear it, give me a ring!

About a month and a half after Trev and I were married, we were pulled out of church by a Layton City police officer.  How's that for a start to a story, eh?  Yeah. .  that's what my debate coach liked to call an "attention grabber".  Thanks, Hop.  Now this was doubly cruel not just because we were pulled out but because we were new. . . and from what I hear, the church doesn't look favorably on criminal activity which is what it looked like.

I had just seen the uniformed officer after sacrament meeting and leaned over to Trev and said "That is sad.  There is only two reasons they come to church in uniform: to arrest you or tell you that someone in your family has been in an accident."  No sooner had those words left my mouth (that's what I call K-A-R-M-A) than we overheard the officer asking someone if they knew where Trevor was.  My heart hit my feet, literally.  Thoughts rushed my mind of my parents and Trev's parents and what could have happened.  I'm glad to say that I did not, for one second, assume that he was a drug dealer. See. . . we really are in love!

Trev went back and introduced himself and the officer asked Trev to step outside.  Heart, in the feet.  Remind you.  This is where the first lesson comes in.  As I stood in the foyer of our church building, by myself, new, obviously nervous, all I overheard was people talking about our family.  I heard everything from "That's so embarrassing" to "Go out and try to listed to what is going on, dad" and people laughing and pointing at us.  Trevor and I had done nothing wrong and yet because of how things "looked", we were completely judged.  I've never looked at other people in awkward situations the same way since. . . at least OUTSIDE of Wal-Mart. . .

It's amazing how a situation like that can change your perspective.  Nobody knew what was happening, not even me and yet we were immediately pegged as bad people who should be embarrassed.  I started thinking about how many times I'd done similar things by making assumptions and jumping to conclusions.  Bad Carlee.  That instant, that moment, changed me.

Come to find out, some of our stuff was recovered outside of a home near ours and the officers were trying to find out if we knew anything about our vehicles (that's right. . . plural) that had been broken into.  We identified the things that they had collected and made our way back to the house.

The police told us that in addition to our stuff, a young girl had been found on the lawn drunk as a skunk and had been taken to the hospital to be treated.  Oh, and she wasn't talking about anything that had happened.  The weird part is that we would have had to walk right past said girl, passed out on the lawn, on the way to church and we MISSED it!?!?  How in the world did that happen?  I mean, I can get caught up in my own business and get chatty but I would like to think I pay more attention than that!!  Second lesson: pay attention, particularly to your feet.  You'll never know when you have to step over a drunk.

So, after we talked to the police I did the only logical thing I could think of - I cried.  A lot.  We had a TON of stuff missing and it was a huge deal - a big Nikon camera, a laptop, a projector.  Sidenote: Let me explain why our trucks sounded like a pawn shop.  Trev uses a lot of electronics in his business.  We had been out the night before with the equipment.  We didn't generally, and never now, store our electronics outside.  All it took was one night of random laziness and kablam!

We talked with the cops, tried to figure out what happened, they (unfortunately) weren't very helpful.  I got frustrated, got mad, got sad, felt violated, felt nervous and then after the first ten minutes. . . seriously, it's a vicious cycle. 

And that leads us into lesson number three.  Don't steal things.  Let me tell you what it does to the person that you steal from.  Besides upsetting them beyond a point they've probably ever been and besides the fact that they worked for all of those things and you did NOT, you take every sense of security that they may have ever had about their home and their things and in 20 minutes, you wipe it out.  Completely.  You make them not sleep for weeks, you made them check the locks on my car. . . I mean their car four times every night and you make them get nervous enough that they sit through the most agonizing four hours of their life to get a concealed weapons permit. . .That may sound far-fetched but really, it happens.  So, don't steal.  OK, pumpkins?

Anyway. . . here we are months later.  Since this blog is already hitting maximum word capacity and we aren't even to the good stuff yet, I'm going to give you the Reader's Digest version, ready?  (If you want to skip the list, you can skip to the end for a spoiler).  Here we go:

• Cops: "Can't do much."
• Carlee: Whaaaaaaaat?  Crying. . .
• Waiting.  Nothing.
• Fixing truck.  Light bulb over my head.  Inspired.
• Carlee: "We need to check KSL."
• Trevor: "Found a camera, looks like ours.  Vague description.  Posted same day ours was stolen.  I'm calling."
• Calling.  Rings.  No answer.  Go to bed.
• Wake up.  Calling again.  Rings.  Kid answers.  No idea about the camera.  Makes me curious.  I start asking who the name is on the ad.  Find out it's kid's older brother.  SUSPICION RISES.
• Carlee's Trusty Office Mate says "We should Google the phone number."
• Google the phone number.  Apparently this kid is a long time electronics dealer on KSL.com.  Weird.  How many 13-year-olds have access to GPS systems, phones, cameras, computers. . . I could go on but you get my point.  He also has a habit of taking down his account after each sale.  Also weird.
• Feel like Angela Lansbury on a hunt.
• My buddy who works as a cop tells me that this kid has been in trouble a LOT. . . and caught attempting to break into cars before. . . oh and that he lives two blocks away.  This is where the phrase "coincidence" flies out the window.
• Call police, tell them info.  I'm excited.  They are not.  Nothing happens.
• Carlee gets stir crazy.  Decides to send a letter to the Chief of Police in Layton with all of the info. . . including a disclaimer that he probably hears this from people all the time and that I'm blaming anyone YET but this looks beyond suspicious and that I pay my taxes and every other patriotic or political thing I could think of about why someone has to do something.  Sidenote: Kids, don't try this maneuver at home.  I was desperate and angry and frankly, guided so don't inundate the C.O.P. with a ton of emails.
• Email returned same day with an apology, an explanation of how overworked the cops are (which they wouldn't be if we all listened to rule number three. . . don't steal things) and a promise to do something and look into it.
• Carlee is sad because while the response was amazing, how often do they actually do anything??
• Trevor "Um, I just got a call from a detective and they are in this kid's room right now and they found my phone."
• Carlee: Whaaaaaaaat!?
• Police station.  Nice, super hardcore detective.  Explains what happened.  Went to house, talked to grandpa, grandpa denied, cop said "Prove it by letting us look around", gramps said "Come on in!"  I LOVE GRAMPS!  Thanks for the permission.
• Cop comes in, cop finds phone, gramps goes silent.  Kid is busted. 
• Carlee feels like they should make a new detective show called "The Hansens" and we'll just help bust Internet crime!  I watch "To Catch a Predator".  We could totally hack it.
• Kid goes in to station.  Has "no idea" how the phone got in his room.  I used that excuse too when I had "no idea" how all the Popsicles got eaten.  Cute.  Boy refuses to talk.  Sidenote: is it weird that you can just refuse to talk to the cops and they let you leave?  That is certainly not how it works on TV and it was totally disconcerting.  Next time the cops come to my house because I'm quilting too loud, I'm not even answering the door!
• Kid says the camera was his mom's and he was selling it for her.  Not really possible since mom is in prison.  Yes, that's what we're dealing with.
• Cop charges kid with two counts of car burglary and one count of possession of stolen property. 
• Hansen's feel vindicated.
• Trevor gets notice in the mail that we need to fill out some statements for court.  Hansen's do so and are so verbose that it turned out longer than this blog.  They need to know how we felt, right?  Gosh.

OK, there's the bulleted list of everything that happened.  I know it sounds crazy and it was.  The bottom line is that we found the kid who took our stuff because he was not bright (and/or 13. . . they may be interchangeable) and posted one of our things on KSL.  We busted him, turned him over to the cops who busted him again and now he is in BIG trouble with the court.

No, we didn't get our stuff back.  At this point, it's probably on it's way to Guam.  We learned a bunch, we cried a bunch, we grew a bunch and we learned the most valuable lesson: be careful about your feelings toward others and how much you let that run your life.  Hate and dis contempt and revenge WILL take over your life and drive you crazy.  We realized that early on in this process and vowed to not let it get the best of us and, luckily, it didn't.  As many times as I wanted to see this kid picking up trash and cleaning poo for what he did and as much as I wish we had our things back, I can't help but feel bad for him.  What would life have been like for me if I didn't have anyone that cared enough to know where I was at 2:00 in the morning?  How different would my life have turned out if I knew that my parents would never know that I had thousands of dollars worth of electronics in my bedroom that didn't belong to me?  I'm sure things would be vastly different for me now.

I'm learning (again) to love my neighbor. . . even if my neighbor is a kid who can't keep his hands to himself.

And the winner is. . .

Do you ever continue to read articles or blogs with titles like this one, knowing that the last time you entered any sort of contest was the sixth grade spelling bee but secretly hoping that somehow, by the grace of the contest Gods (they are Roman of course, in case you were wondering), your name is at the end of that sentence?  Admit it.  That's why you are still reading.  You're wondering if there is any chance that I might have done a secret drawing including all of my blog followers for that car that you've always dreamed of and I am about to read the winner.  Get your surprise face on because. . . drum roll. . . this is no such blog entry.  I have nothing to give away.  But maybe if I become less sadistic in my writing, I can convince a local eatery to give me some coupons or something?  No?  Anyway.

Declaration:  I'm starting a pageant.  Yes, it's true.  It's like that old advice that says if you are always behind the camera, you'll never have to be in pictures.  Can you see the parallel?  Not that anyone would ever force me to be in a pageant but you get my point.

Anyway, the pageant is going to be called the "Miss I've never done anything that could land me on the news nor have I ever taken nudy pictures America Pageant".  I had to add "America" in there because I think it's a pageant rule - there has to be some sort of geography limitation to my pageant so I may as well go big or go home.  Also, that may not be the correct spelly of "nudy" but I like it so it stays.  Ah, the joys of running your own business.

All of this came from all of the crazy news about these young ladies wanting to represent our country in a crown and, nearly without fail, their title being questioned because of some previous run-in with Hugh "the pretty boy" Hefner or one of his cohorts.  I'm sad that what was one (I think) a pretty big deal has turned into something so crazy and embarrassing.

So, here's the premise.  We will take any 14-30 year old girl who can officially state the title of my pageant and have it ring true about their life.  OK, now that there are 100 or so of you still reading and able to participate, we can proceed.

The age range is so wide for two reasons: first, 14 seems to be about the age when girls are really susceptible to bad things.  Isn't that sad?  I was at least a sophomore in high school before I knew enough about life to even think about getting in trouble.  (Quick note - that is all I did, too. . . thought about it.  Then I got back to doing my homework).  Second, and most importantly, if I narrowed the age bracket too much, we'd have no contestants.  Everyone good with the age window?  Good.  Moving on.

Sidenote: This is the part where I hope that you are all visualizing me up on a stage, dictating directions about my pageant.  It's more powerful that way, don't you think.  Got the visual?  Yes, I'm in something with glitter.

The pageant will consist of four rounds, each round offering additional points and are absolutely weighted because let's face it, some things really DO matter more than others.  The categories are as follows:

1. Thorough background check.  You might me asking "Wait, I thought we already established that I'm a good girl because I can say the title and have it be applicable to my life."  Wrong.  You underestimate me.  That "use your best judgement" attitude is how five of the last seven big pageant winners in this country ended up making the front page of the tabloids - their "best judgement" clearly wasn't "best" enough.  So, we're taking the proper precautions and doing a thorough background check BEFORE you step on stage.  We'll be gathering information from your friends and family and then showing it all to your mom.  If she shudders, winces or cries in any form, your outta here.  In addition, because you may have a hard core mom, if I shudder, wince or cry in any form, you're also out.

2. Intelligence.  Little to no weight will be put on the actual classes taken in school but more on how you performed in them.  What I'm looking for is to know that you understand your limits.  If you only took gym but got all A's, I say good for you for knowing your boundaries.  I'm proud when people can successfully admit that they will just never be a chemical engineer.  Know what you're good at, harness it and attack.  That's what we're looking for.  In addition, contestants will be forced to talk about social matters, media, politics, Jersey Shore. . . WAIT!  How did that get in there?  Not in my pageant you don't!

3. Talent.  I like this part of the normal pageants so I'm leaving it in.  But, to make things more exciting, every umpteenth year I will not be allowing piano playing.  I'll decide if this year is an "umpteenth" year two days before the talent portion begins so I suggest you have a back-up.  I'll leave in singing because I enjoy it, but I do put a clause on here that the judges can change your song selection if they don't like it; or I can if I don't like what it stands for.  Remember the title of the pageant, people.  This should be no surprise.  Sidenote: if you thought that this last clause probably meant that your rendition of "Hit Me Baby One More Time" probably wouldn't cut it, you're probably right.

4. Fashion.  For the first portion of the contest, you will be given $50 to put together your best Old Navy outfit and strut your stuff.  The second portion will be a random drawing of candid pictures of you over the last 4 years - this is how we will judge your fashion sense.  Important sidenote: if any of these pictures could be pictures of you laying on a bar at a frat house somewhere, I would revert you back to previous advice to get out now.

Based on these criteria and general likability, we'll find ourselves a winner.  If at any point the winner of our pageant does a naughty and gets herself on the news, not only will she loser her crown and all of the goodies that go with it, she will be sentenced to 500 hours of community service.  That's just how we roll.

Now I know this sounds a little difficult but imagine putting  THAT on a resume?  Employers everywhere would know for sure that you are not a liability and you could basically get into any setting with the President. . . or an audience with the Pope.  Imagine the possibilities.

Labeling

So I'm attacking another one of my "must write about" topics today and I decided to hit up a short one.  (You saw how long the engagement piece was and I just don't want to bore my small, but hopefully entertained audience to death!).  So here we are. . . let's talk labeling.

I'm not talking about the people kind of labeling because while I would like to get on an emotionally-charged, "this is good for humanity" soapbox where I tell how it's wrong to judge other people, the other side of that soapbox would have a giant tag that says "A hypocrite stands here" and I'm just not ready for that kind of ridicule or commitment; if I write about not labeling people, I'd certainly have to remove it from my list of "favorite bad things to do" and I'm just not at a point where I can stop yet.  So, you can stop feeling like this is going to be a guilt blog right. . . . now.  Moving on.

I'm talking about literal labeling - you know those little machines that print out labels, those ones that are basically like crack by way of addiction and like Costco by way of justification (can't you justify buying just about anything in bulk when you go into Costco?  "Well who wouldn't need a 10 year supply of hot pockets?" or "Of course mascara should only be sold in a 50 gallon drum.  I can refill. . .").  Once the labels start coming out, you think you have to label everything and it's a cold day in Phoenix before you can stop.

This all came to a head the other day when I was at work and noticed that the three utensil holders on the table all had labels on them, instructing the user (myself) which utensil I was about to use.  Right then then question came into my mind "Which comes first - knowing what a fork is or knowing how to read the word 'fork'?"  (It's an age-old mystery. . . just like the chicken and the egg.)  I would assume that most people can recognize a fork before they know how to read the word, yes?  Fair assumption?

I think that in cases like this, labeling just doesn't do it for me.  I can look down into the container and see what's in in just as fast as reading the front.  So, I pose the question to the masses: Is this labeling necessary?

I feel like it would be like me placing a label on my screen that says "computer".  Yep, sure is.  Or a label on the big brown block of wood at the entrance to our office that says "door".  Are we learning English?  Isn't it recognizable for what it is?

I respect labeling solid containers that you don't want to sift through for a certain holiday decoration or winter clothes but only if the contents aren't readily available for your perusal anyway.  When you start labeling clear totes or kitchen utensils, I start thinking that you were just bored and needed something to label. . . other than your neighbor (OK, you didn't really think I'd get through this entire blog without a little labeling guilt/humor, did you?  Oh you did?  That's cute. . .)

I tell you what, these label makers are like drugs (so I hear) or chocolate (so I know).  I'm actually surprised that I don't walk into more "organized" houses with labels on the cupboards in the kitchen - here are the cups, here are the forks, here are. . . wait a minute.  This actually sounds convenient!  Where is that label maker. . . .

I Smell Like Beer. . . .

OK, not still.  But it was a completely appropriate title for this blog.  Here's why:

My rockin' husband surprised me with tickets to go see Tim McGraw and Lady A in concert at USANA.  I was beyond elated, partly because of Tim and Lady A, partly because I loved the venue but mostly because it was a rockin' surprise and I never get surprised.  So. . . excited I was. (that's my inner Yoda coming out).

We made our way to USANA last night and parked our blanket somewhere near the back.  As at most country concerts at USANA, the place was packed, wall-to-wall so we were confident that sitting near the top would lead to a speedy exit.  Little did I know how true that very statement would become.

It was blazing hot and Trev and I decided that one set of $4 drinks would have to due for the night so we were baking like toasted cheesers right about the time that Lady A took the stage.  So far, the concert was rocking. . . except for this quite loud groups of 20 somethings that were standing over us and comparing tattoos and drunken escapades for about 25 min.  It happens though, right?  Right.

Just as Tim took the stage in his trademarked white tank and jeans and the sun was setting behind us so the temp was cooling off, a storm blew in and she was about 5'2".

I saw a "dude" (you now officially know what he looked like, right?  The pic in your head is accurate.  Just go with it.) approaching quickly from down the slope of blankets.  He was carrying what else but two over sized beer cans.  Let's pause for a minute and reflect.  I wasn't looking for trouble.  I wasn't scoping out the drunkest people (like I normally do) and waiting for a fight.  Trev and I had just relieved ourselves of the "Tattooed Teens" group so we were feeling pretty good about life.  You see what I'm saying?  Minding our own business.  OK, back to the story.

So as the "dude" approaches, I see a hand grab his bicep. . . a little hand.  The little hand is attached to a little arm and then a little body of a girl that you would swear is not a day over 16 except for the two beers that she is also carrying (maybe she was 16 and had a killer fake id?  Who am I to judge?) and the words that are coming out of her mouth.  I didn't even know that those words existed until 9th grade and I would not have had the prowess to put them together in that order at such a young age.  I would like to think that my writing has improved enough of the years that I could now be that creative in my wordsmithing if I chose to but this is not the time or the place.  My mom read this for crying out loud!

As they proceed to "chat" aka yell at each other, I leaned over to Trev and distinctly remember saying, "Um, they are fighting.  This is not good."  Over the next couple minutes, the happy couple "chats" some more, he grabs her arm, she slaps his.  I figure this is all about ready to die down so I turn my attention back to the star of the night, Tim McGraw!

Well, it seems as though I should have kept paying attention to Heidi and Spencer, er, I mean the happy couple because just as I am settling into Tim's show, all heck brakes loose and we found ourselves in the middle of World War III.  It was like slow motion.  The girl cocked her arm back (the one with the beer cup) and went swinging at the guys face.  To her credit, she really missed bad. . . like an epic fail.  I don't know how she managed to miss him completely but hit the girl in the glasses three feet away right square in the chops with her alcohol while simultaneously soaking about 5 other people near them.  A can of beer comes flying the other direction (I think originally intended for the guy's head), another miss!  Man, this girl is horrible.  More beer on the unsuspecting victims.  Did I mention that two of those victims were Trev and I?  Oh, I missed that?  I SMELL LIKE BEER!  Now you see why my title is appropriate, yes?

So, there we stand, soaked in beer.  The "dude" gives the love of his life a gentle shove backwards and storms the rest of the way up the hill.  I had about four seconds to talk myself out of jumping on his back, pouncing like a wild animal, and bringing him to the floor so that the soaking wet masses could take care of him.  I realize writing this now that I maybe watch a little bit too much Discovery Channel.  I am a lioness. . .

Clearly, we're all a bit flustered.  I smell like I've been drinking but without the side effects.  And from what I've read, the smell is the worst part!  Great, my first beer experience and it's in my hair and on my shirt and all I get is a whiff.  (Total sarcasm here, people.  Jokes, jokes.)  Everyone is looking around, wondering who to kill.  Wonder boy has made a swift exit out of the amphitheatre and his underage counterpart is making her way up the hill.  She looks a tad distressed and all I can muster to say to her is "Are you OK, Hun?" to which she so politely replies "Where did he go?!"

Inner monologue at this very moment: "Really?  You care where he went?  He just pushed you and you guys just dumped beer over everyone.  The ONLY words out of your mouth should be "I'm sorry that my abusive boyfriend pushed me over the edge and I got you all wet."  But no.  You ask me where he is?  You're grounded young lady!" 

Just as I'm about ready to tell the girl that I hope her KISA (that's knight in shining armor for future references) walked off the edge of a cliff, I muster a smidge of calmness and in my best "please take this for what it is, a giant blessing" tone, I say "Um, he left."  I really, sincerely hope that the next words out of her mouth are "Good."  but clearly, that's too much to ask for.  Instead, the little snot yells in my face "I'm FIIIIINE!"

Yup.  That about sums it up.  She goes after her boyfriend (probably because she can't drive yet) and we are left wondering what in the heck went on.  Trev is, um, not happy.  Did I mention that this was his first big concert?  Yeah. . . there go my plans for concert hoping next summer.  He's mad, I'm wet and confused.  At this point, I don't know what Tim is singing about so we decided to leave.

Before we pack up our beer-drenched blanket, Skipper comes back in and stops right next to me.  I think "OK.  Here we go. She has her senses back about her and I'm about to get an apology."  Why do I keep hoing for things?  A million dollars.  World peace.  A chance on Name That Tune.  WHY???  My chances for this apology to actually happen are about as good as me replacing Drew Carrey as the host of The Price is Right.  In true fashion, the girl stares at me for four awkward seconds, turns and walks off.

At this point I"m perplexed.  Was she looking at me and contemplating if she wanted to fight with the girl that checked on her after her "bf" shoved her. . . because let's get this straight right now: if she would have started to fight me, I would have eaten her for breakfast.  And I'm not kidding.  I really think that I've had pieces of steak larger than she is.

The other side of me wonders if she was thinking about apologizing - I'm hoping she was.  And that even though she didn't talk, she was trying to tell me "thanks" without other people seeing her weakness.  Who knows what motivates people to do such a thing?  Pride? Anger?  Probably a fierce combination of the two.

Either way, it was time to depart.  Adieu Tim and the Dancehall Doctors.  Maybe we'll have another sunset.  But as for last night, we quit things quite early so that we could go home, lick our wounds and make sure I didn't smell like beer.

Oh My Gosh. . .

Here I am, less than a week later and I'm keeping my promise.  I told you that I'm turning over a new leaf and I stick to my word.  Never mind that I've said that I'm turning over a new blogging leaf nearly ten times on this blog - this time I mean it.

So, at the time of posting, I have four votes on my Blogger Guilt blog so we're going to please the loyalists first and talk about what they want to hear.  Let's talk engagement, shall we?  Ah. . . we shall.

So, it was a cold day in February.  Sidenote: do you ever wonder why the temperature matters on stories like this?  Especially when the temperature is seasonally normal?  Maybe it would be worth noting if I said "It was February and 90 degrees outside" or "One snowy day in August."  But no, it was February and it was cold, just like it should be.  Mother Nature was behaving herself and piling on the expected 4 feet of snow, just in time for Valentine's Day weekend.  Nothing special about the weather, so scratch that.

Trev and I made plans to go to Moab with his sister Hollie, her husband Jared and their two kids, Anna and Logan.  We love hanging out with their family and were excited to travel with them and do what they and Trevor love - go Jeeping.  I, personally, had never done such a thing.  I'd been to Moab, with a Jeep actually, but my dad washed it the second that it got dirty.  Trails?  No.  Not unless you consider the state highway a "trail".  So, for all intents and purposes, I'd never been jeeping before and I was nervous with anticipation about what the weekend would bring.

Truth time: OK, I was more nervous about packing food than I was about actually going in the Jeep.  You see, we've camped before but generally there was a stove or something to heat up food.  Trev told me a couple of days before we left that we needed to pack food for the two of us for the entire trip - and don't forget that we'll be in the car for two days.  Brilliant!  So now I was less nervous about climbing cliffs in a vehicle than I was about making sure I bought the right kind of beef jerky.  Who thinks like that?  Me, that's who.

So we got up early Thursday morning to head down to Moab.  We, of course, had to do a "Pre-Jeeping Shoot" in the kitchen while I was packing up:

Nice, huh?  Who knew we were so chipper in the A-M?  Yeah, me neither.

So we headed to Moab in a pretty decent snowstorm.  Trev had been working on his Jeep relentlessly for the previous week so we were excited to finally be heading out for our big weekend adventure. 

At this point in time, Trev and I had been dating for about six months.  We'd talked about marriage and about how we felt about each other and really, it was just a waiting game at this point. . . and that went over REALLY well with me, if you can image?  Historically, I've proven that I love to wait.  Nope, no serious action required.  Waiting is half the fun.  Like right now, I'm currently waiting for the day that I no longer have to work and can just watch Oprah.  I don't actually WANT that day to come - just like waiting for it. Are you catching my sarcasm?  Yeah. . . waiting was no bueno.

Anyway, we took a very pleasant and surprisingly short ride and hung out all afternoon, waiting for the McKeeths to show up.  We went to a nicer-than-planned dinner on  Main Street.  You know those times when you walk into what you think is a fairly casual dining environment in your sweatshirt and jeans, only to find out that a plate of pasta is about to cost you $20 and you are too embarrassed to leave because you are in a sweatshirt and have a desperate need to prove to these people that you, too, can afford this pasta you just normally "choose" not to indulge in.  Yeah, that's what we were feeling.  So. . . we ate the pasta and sadly, it was worth every penny.  I say sadly because it made us want to go back. . . bad.  I hate when that happens.

OK, back to the movie.  The next morning I got up and threw on, surprise, a sweatshirt and jeans.  At least I had the sense to straighten my hair.  Hollie says that if I would have walked out in a baseball cap, she would have taken immediate action and had me do something with my hair.  Thank goodness for good people in your life that have your back on really important matters. . . like your hair on what you think is just a normal day but will soon turn out to be magical.

Enter car troubles.  Trev's jeep wasn't running right so we spent the next hour hanging out in the parking lot of the hotel, watching the kids ride their scooters.  Good thing Trev and Jared are handy with the steal, if you know what I mean. . .  I mean that literally - like a steel pipe and tools, not a gun.  But thanks for the lyrics, Warren.  Jeep fixed.

We started up Poison Spider Mesa, a fairly "easy" trail that only requires that you Jeep be completely vertical in a few places.  Sidenote: have you ever been able to look out your front windshield and see the pavement. . . directly in front of said windshield?  If your answer is "yes" then either take my condolences for your car or my congratulations for getting out of Moab alive!  Wasn't expecting that.

We rode for a while and took pictures and had a swell time until we encountered a decent amount of snow on a fairly slick rock face.  Just our luck, Moab had received more snow this year than they had in the previous 20 (we learned that from the locals that were sitting next to us at the previous night's expensive dinner) which makes Jeeping a little more challenging.  Once we decided that we weren't going to get over this obstacles, we sat around and looked for another trail on the map.  OK, truth time again.  Hollie and Jared and Trev looked for another trail.  I was about as useful as a three-year-old helping with a term paper.  So I did what any adult would do. . . I walked around and kicked at the snow until they were finished.

Anyway, we started making our way back on the trail that we had just nearly conquered and decided to stop for lunch.  It's officially test time.  Did I pack the right meat, the right toppings, the right bread?  Would he eat the granola bars or the jerky or the fruit?  Only time would tell but I was ready for Trev's hungry stomach with an arsenal of deliciousness.  After all, we'd only had cereal for breakfast which only makes you fake full (cereal and Chinese food own that category) so I know that he was hungry 20 min after we left.  I was all prepared to make a meaty sandwich and sit on a rock with my cute bf and take in some sun.

I pulled out our little cooler and constructed what I thought was a pretty tasty treat.  As I turned to hand it to Trev with my proud mom look, he took the sandwich and said "Can I go sit with Hollie and Jared?"  Wah, waaaahhh.  "You aren't going to wait for me?  After I slaved for 2 min to make you a sandwich?  No kiss?  No Donna Reed moment?" I said to myself in total dismay.  He was still standing there, waiting for approval.  "Yup."  That's what I mustered.  "Yup."  Ah, the poetic justice of it all.  "Yup."  Off he went.

Now what?  A-ha!  Another sandwich.  He must have been disappointed because of the quantity.  Why wouldn't he be?  Look at all of this bread and meat and I made him one lousy sammy?  So I slap myself together a not-so-good sandwich and rush over to join the convo.  Just as Trev is polishing off his sammy (and not looking pleased), I chime in with "Want another one?!?"  "Nope.  Thanks."  That's it.  I'm never packing camping food again.

So, resigned to my non-cooking station, I stay and chat with Hollie as Trev makes his way back to the truck.  He emerges with his backpack, again not looking too happy.  This backpack has not left Trev's side the whole trip.  Oddly enough, I didn't even think to ask what was in it.  I just assumed some important Jeeping stuff that we needed.  I did try to stick bread in it this very morning and got a resounding "let's put it somewhere else" but oddly enough, I didn't think twice about it and just agreed.

At this point, Trevor is walking up to me and says that he has a present for me.  To answer your question, no, I didn't think anything of it.  We were two days away from Valentine's so I just assumed that he had a card or something that he wanted to give me early.  It was a book.  A homemade book.  And he asked me to read it aloud.

I started reading this stick figure story about two people (yeah, us, we're the people!) that cross paths (true) and meet up (also true) and start dating (see the pattern?  TRUE) and fall in love until one day. . . and this is where I let the pictures take over.

This is the part where I start saying "oh my gosh" repeatedly. . . hence the title.

This last picture makes me laugh because I stopped reading at the proposal.  Who can keep reading at a time like this?  Nobody, right?  Trev had to finish the part about living together forever and this being our beginning.

By the way, here is what I was shocked at:

Today we are married for four months and Trev was right, that was only our beginning.  It's been the craziest and best time of my life since that day in Moab, since we met really.  I couldn't have asked for more.  Trev's so smart. . . I'll never fight him on going to Moab for the rest of our lives.  After all, this is where our story begins. . . and who knows, I might get another ring!