The Way to His Heart

I love frozen pizza. I haven't tried many gourmet pizzas, but I can honestly say that I have yet to find a pizza anywhere (I even had it in Finland once--it was okay, except the ones with shrimp or tuna on top were just weird) that I like better than a frozen Totinos. For me, their flavor and flaky crust are worth the thousand-calorie intake.

After our wedding reception, my husband (let's call him Frank) and I stopped by a grocery store to buy frozen pizza (sadly, we didn't get Totinos) to eat together the next day after church. We were driving Frank's old 1989 Ford pick-up truck with my belongings from my twenty years of life loaded into the back. We had a three-hour drive ahead of us.

On my first day to Sunday school in my new town, I was introduced as [Franks]'s friend. The bishop spoke up from the back and said, "I think that's his wife." Because Frank is NOT the chatty type, his best friend (a coworker) and the bishop were the only people in his town he had told about the wedding (and the only reason he told the bishop was so he could get his temple marriage pass). I blushed and tried my best not to look like I had not had enough sleep.

(You may be wondering what happened to the honeymoon. We went to Disneyland a couple of weeks later. It wasn't crowded, so we went on a bunch of rides and had a great time.)

After church as we were eating our pizza, we noticed it had a strange taste. We had already consumed almost half of the first one when I looked at the bottom side and saw that it was very MOLDY.

~Shudder~

We threw the pizza away and I went to the fridge and cupboard to see what else there was to eat. I may need to point out that Frank was a bachelor just two days before. The fridge had a few condiments and ONE hot dog. The cupboard had ONE can of corn. That was it. I also should include that as Mormons, we don't shop on Sunday. Even if we did, the two grocery stores within forty miles were closed on Sundays.

In good wifely manner, I asked Frank how he would like his hot dog cooked. He said he always heats them in the microwave. I asked, "How long?" and he said, "I don't know. I've never eaten just one before." Then he guessed about two minutes, so I put it in while I found a pan to heat up the corn. In my mind, I thanked my mother-in-law for the bag of homemade jam cookies she had sent with us.

The microwave beeped its conclusion. I opened the microwave (oven*) door to see smoke and one very petrified hot dog. Even as hungry as we were, it was not edible and so joined the mossy pizza in the garbage can.

As we sat down to our meal of corn and cookies, we couldn't help but giggle. The next day we went to the store together after Frank got home from work. I piled staples into the cart (flour, sugar, honey, rice, fruits and vegetables, pasta, eggs, and laundry supplies), and some olives, cheese, pickles, chocolate chips, sausage, and (of course) hot dogs. Frank had been away from his mother's home cooking for ten long months.

I'll never forget the look of bliss on his face.

*The other night, Frank was commenting
on how everyone calls this a microwave, when it is
really a microwave oven that uses microwaves to
cook food. While I already knew this, I like the
idea of calling it the microwave oven
instead of the microwave.

I think I'll call it Mo for short.

A New Love Story

In the beginning I was so lovesick over you.
The first time I felt the flutter
(Like butterflies in my stomach)
I smiled, feeling closer to you:
Some one who had fast become
Part of me.
It wasn't long before my heart burned with love,
I swelled with admiration,
And my muscles were stretched to their limit
In anticipation.

Some mothers reach out their arms
And say, "I love you this much."
I could turn to show my profile
And it would reach just as far.
On your birth day I loved you so much
That it hurt
More than anything had ever hurt.
And I cried, knowing your arrival
Was the beginning of something holy.

After our first separation,
I held you close and told you
We would always be connected.
Loving you has increased my love
And my joy.
Someday you will start a family of your own,
And our story will go on...
I know there will be sad chapters,
But try not to worry:
Mommy believes in "happily ever after."

Written by me: July 2009, for each of my children

The Blow-up Brush

I grew up in a house with a mom, a dad, three sisters, one bathroom, and one brush (actually, my dad had a brush also, but he [wisely] didn't share it with the girls. And I have a brother too, but he wasn't born until after I grew up).

To say it was a little nuts in the mornings before school would be an understatement. It seemed that whenever it was time to go somewhere, the brush was MIA.

One morning I went into my parents' dim bedroom to ask my mom if she knew where the brush was.

"It's right here," she mumbled groggily. I could barely see her hand reaching out to me in the dark.

Relieved, I made my way to her bedside to get it from her, but was startled when I touched her empty hand. "Mom," I said, "Where is it?"

"It's right here."

"No it isn't!"

"Yes it is. It's a blow-up brush." She had never talked to me in her sleep before. I began to laugh uncontrollably as I left her room to continue looking for the brush.

She called after me, annoyance in her voice, "Stop laughing at me! You don't understand. It IS a blow-up brush."

I laughed even harder. I couldn't help it.

I don't remember what happened after that because it was such a long time ago. I don't even know how old I was, but it is one moment from my childhood that still makes me smile.

I read a blog post by a lovely writer who said that "hearing someone [talk in his/her sleep] is so funny it's like a little treat for being human."

I agree completely.