Bein a Kid

This is me when I was a kid.

Actually, it isn't. I saw this picture online, and it looks so much like me when I was young, I ACTUALLY thought someone had put a picture of little Julia Moore up. However, the only reason I know that isn't me is because I was never a girl scout (thank you mom, seriously). Sloan said this little girl is cuter than I was. And...well...I can't really argue with that. She has cute, light eyes and mine were/are dark-as-night shark eyes. Creepy, not cute.

I spent some time on passiveagressivenotes.com yesterday, and it makes me never want to have even semi-literate children because they will litter my house and my conscious with these crayoned manifestos.

This one from a girl whose father wanted to finish watching a football game before going to the beach. It took about twenty minutes.

This one from some kid who either didn't have an eraser, or has already mastered the true art of passive aggression.

No explanation needed.

Little Haylee sounds like she might have picked up a few of these phrases from her mother over the years. Yeesh.

Reading these reminded me of a memory from my childhood. I was little, like, five. My mother called me downstairs and sat me down; she was stern. This already had me tearing up because a) Susie Moore is not a stern person! And b) I was the most spineless, neurotic kid ever.
Mom pulls out a little kid's book about horses (the one that no one ever read because horses are boring) and opens the front cover. Written, painstakingly, inside are two rows of curse words. I mean, every word. It's in pencil and it is unmistakable, that handwriting isn't nice enough to be Laura's (my older sister). And as hard as the writer must have tried to print OBSCENITIES neatly, the words are still huge and crooked and misspelled.

Mom: mildly sternly Did you do this?
Julia: too freaked out to speak. shakes head.
Mom: You didn't? It sure looks like your handwriting.
Julia: collapsing into a black hole of childhood sadness and despair. shakes head again, less emphatically this time.
Mom: Baby, these are terrible, terrible words. Can you imagine how I felt when I read these?
Julia: crying so hard my glasses fall off I DID IT! I DID IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT!

My mother, the saint that she is, consoles me and helps me erase the words and take a sharpie over the whole page to cover what was left. Then we put the book away and go back upstairs (did I mention that I was bawling the whole time) and rocks me to sleep, a snotty, quivering mess. It was awful, I wanted to die. I was...self-traumatized.

The saddest part, however, was not the needless blubbering. It was the fact that I didn't actually do it. I didn't even KNOW half of those words, let alone write them. And the horse book? Please, I was too apathetic toward that book to even dignify it with the nonsensical application of curse words. But mom's logic was sound (who else could have written it?) and I was SUCH a weak-kneed little kid that I folded THE WRONG WAY after 30 seconds of conflict. Retrospectively, that whole situation still makes no sense. I was just so adverse to any unpleasantness, that I bit the bullet to get it over with. To get a resolution. It was just too painful the longer I went without one.

I didn't even tell mom that I hadn't done it until, like last year. Of course, she had no idea what I was talking about, but tried to apologize anyway. Apologize?? For what?

Am I the only one who has done something like this? Aren't kids supposed to be devious and impervious to adult scorn? GYPPED.

My Little Man

A new blog trend is for mothers of babies to post on a monthly basis the new things their babies are doing, i.e.

8 months

Little Joey is a hoot!
He is 16 lbs and 26 inches!
He can hold a spoon.
His favorite toy is his teddy.
He has figured out how a mirror works!
etc...

Welp, I don't want to miss out on this. There's just...too much comedic gold. And, honestly, this is pretty much how I format my Sloan posts anyway. So, here goes:

Sloan at 306 months

My little man has been busy these past few weeks!

He is now 6'3 and weighs in at a whopping 190 lbs!

He has a new favorite phrase to utter at appropriate and inappropriate times alike: "You want sexy? I'll give you sexy!" Actually, he says it in some sort of husky, lady latino whisper, so it sounds more like, "You want sseksee? I geeve you seksee!"

He bought a 24 pack of low-quality spicy hot dogs, which has become the main focus of his life. He eats about two a day and wanders around the house singing Lady Gaga songs about his favorite spicy dogs!

Little guy has figured out that the fastest way to ruin a wonderful memory is to sabotage any well-meaning photos being taken. He is really carving out his niche!
I love my little man. When I married him, I knew his weirdness would be the glue that would keep us together. And so far, the adhesion has worked as planned.

On a far less interesting note, Sloan has also done the following: gotten A's in all of his classes this semester (including but not limited to OChem, Physics, Microbio, New Testament), fixed our dryer and Jeep, bathed regularly, solemnly and dutifully eaten my tofu dishes, and comforted me while I cry through various television programs.

MOODY

I've been moody this past week. I know. I would say sorry about all of the cynical Facebook statuses and general gruffness, but I'm not going to do that because I'M STILL MOODY.

They're going through a cycle of layoffs at Symantec; and while the destroying angel has seemingly passed over my door for now, a lot of people I knew got the axe. Everyone I work with has much more corporate (read: layoff) experience than I do, so none of them were even angry about it. I guess it helps that 90% of my coworkers have at one time or another worked in the valley for Novell, a soul-crushing, morale-pummeling business that is second only to Power Innovations when it comes to consistently treating their employees poorly.

I like Symantec. In fact, I love Symantec. The people are fabulous, and they are all incredibly talented. And, really, I get it: layoffs are unavoidable...especially within publicly-owned companies, where shareholders are calling for blood every 90 days. But I think it's imperative that someone tell the executives that the idea of layoffs IS HURTING JULIA'S FEELINGS. And now because of this, everything is hurting my feelings.

My car seems to be getting worse gas mileage. This hurts my feelings.

People don't know their homophones. This hurts my feelings.

I was kinda too warm and kinda too cold at various times of the day. This hurt my feelings.

The pear I brought to work today was mushy. Hurt. Feelings.

I just heard Sloan utter What the helll? under his breath while studying for his organic chemistry final. This actually lifted my spirits a bit (because tee hee! bad word!).

Anyway.

If there is one thing I will not complain about, it is the concept of outsourcing. I'm down with outsourcing, because ya know what? If someone (foreign or not) is willing to do the same job for significantly less than me, it's because THEY NEED THE MOOLAH. Odds are these jobs are going to people who don't have the disposable income to spend on idiotic modern Americana like Bumpits or iPhones. I only wish that the countries in which these people lived didn't have perilously low wages.

I'm not gonna pull a redneck and gluttonously demand to get as much money as I can when someone across the world with five kids who works 12 hours a day can live off a quarter of what I make...and be grateful for it. Because, folks, if I were to huff and puff about letting underprivileged people work closer to a better life because it meant that I couldn't buy a jet ski, that would make me a jerk/fiscal conservative/Jenna Mount.

If we were sitting outside today

...we would squint at the sun. I would ask, why don't you read Billy Collins? You would have no excuse.

And really, I could read him more. I have no excuse.

Every time I read something lovely, it makes me feel more comfortable to go somewhere and sit by myself. I care less if I am alone in the store or if I have nothing to contribute to friends' conversations. I think that hints at contentedness.

Don't give up on this one at least until you hit the second stanza. And, after you get through the whole thing, revisit each image. Because even through flippancy, my pal Billy has respect for image.

Litany

You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine...
-Jacques Crickillon

You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine.

Madam President

So, the bishop leveraged my love of babies and made me an offer I couldn't refuse: Primary President. Because we're in a young married ward, Primary actually equals Nursery. So, I get the sweet (and respect-commanding) title without really doing more than a nursery leader. And we all know nursery time is filled to the brim with adorableness because these babies really are still babies. AND THEM BABIEZ ARE THE BEST. Bam.

Some things I have learned from my first Sunday in nursery.

1. Don't drop the baby dolls. Things get traumatic, fast.
Shaylee: Will you put this dress on the baby?
Me: Of course. *Fiddles with the dress. Drops the baby.* Oopsie!
Shaylee: *Jaw dropped* You...dropped...THE BABAAAAAAAAY!!!
Me: Oh dear...

2. There will be moments during singing time when the prospect of shaking a maraca will be so exciting that a child will seize up with excitement (something like an excitement-seizure) holding their maraca with perfect stillness...and miss the entire song because they are too happy to actually participate.

3. Don't assume 2 year old boys don't have a good arm.
Me: *From three feet away...* Alright, Connor! Throw the ball to me!
Connor: *Rears back and hucks it right into my face.* Uh oh! You didn't catch!

4. ALWAYS HAVE FRUIT SNACKS OR THERE WILL BE A BABY REVOLT. I don't think I need an anecdote to explain this one. I have tried to push that memory out of my mind.

5. If there is something climable, it will be climbed (especially by the girls..?) because babies in nice Sunday clothes are nigh unto chimpanzees. Do not underestimate their speed and agility, my friends. Do not.

Oh man, I love those little guys. I suppose it has something to do with being on their level in more ways than one...height, attention span, and general intellect. But, alas, they are far beyond me when it comes to cuteness.

Punishment

Disclaimer: This is a Facebook repeat.
My man won't pose for pictures. He won't smile. He won't LET ME CAPTURE THE MEMORIES OF OUR MARRIAGE. So, this is what I have of him...photographically.

*Ahem* The Multi-Talented and Multi-Faceted Sloan Landon Rehder

Sloan the missionary

Sloan the slaughterer

Sloan the dapper

Sloan the hand-crusher

Sloan the oversmiler

Sloan the UNDERSMILER

Sloan the seeker of digital information

Sloan the abuser of image enhancers

Sloan the annoyed

Sloan the ultra annoyed (note the clenched fist)

Sloan the quenched

Sloan the descender

Sloan the bathroom explorer

Sloan. The end.

Budget...?

I have been carefully scrutinizing my finances and have discovered a trend. I spend the majority of my money on the following:

Local handmade soaps which probably take 9 cents to make, but cost $18. GOTTA KEEP UP WITH THE JONSES AND THEIR FANCY SOAPS!

Indian food. Since I haven't successfully been able to make it myself (no surprise).

Owning and maintaining my very own Sloan Rehder can get pricey.

Plaaaaaates! Every time I see them at the thrift store for $1, I black out. When I wake up again, I'm at home sitting on the kitchen floor, caressing any one of my 3.5 dozen plates (yep that's forty [nope, that's not]).

Any Given Evening

Sloan: What are you doing?
Julia: Watching Youtube videos of baby otters.
ten minutes later
Sloan: What are you doing now?
Julia: Googling pictures of adorable babies.
fifteen minutes later
Sloan: What--
Julia: Reading Wikipedia articles about puppies.
Sloan: This is...out of hand.

A frightened and cripplingly fluffy bunnykin (with a banana?)


That famously fat babeh.

A cuddly and semi-smiling muskox??? Yes!
Keep on keepin on, little wobble-legged friend.

A decidedly unenthusiastic Easter bunnay.
Look. At. Those. EARS.

Mrs. Deeds

I toyed with the idea of writing a blog entry every day about doing a good deed. Some sort of JULIA DOES A DEED A DAY thing. But then I realized, I'm too shy to even speak to strangers, and I'm not ambitious enough to actually do ANYTHING and record it in a daily record. So I'm starting out small...Today, my deed was that I told the teenaged cashier at the grocery store that he was tall!! He said "yep" and kinda smiled! Made his day.

Sigh. It feels good to give back.