Food vs. Peeing

After reading my sister's blog it got me thinking. If I want food in heaven, does that mean I have to pee in heaven too? 'Cause I really hope there is no peeing in heaven.

I'm pregnant. Yes, I'm pregnant--19 weeks along now, And I've acquired a new aversion for the toilet (as opposed to food) in the past two months. Actually, it's more like a love/hate relationship. I love that I don't have to wear a diaper or use an outhouse, but I hate that I go to the bathroom 10-15 times a day.

One thing is for sure--I strongly urge anyone reading this to never swim in the same pool as me after I've finished swimming my laps. You might want to wait a week or so until they've re-chlorinated the water.

P.S. Cloth vs. Disposable diapers?

P.P.S. Not for me. For the baby.

I am so in love with Andy.

(Caution: This blog post has severe stereotyping weaved entirely throughout. Read at your own risk.)

If you don't recognize these two delightful women, you obviously need to get out more. Maybe you could start by attending one of the many events held during Boise's Gay Pride Week. Look for a short, heavyset woman with spikey, bleach-tipped hair who is plugged into her ipod. Tap her on the shoulder and ask her to whom she is listening. Chances are she's listening to Amy and Emily--two folky singer/songwriter lesbians more commonly referred to as the Indigo Girls.

My sister, Lyric, is a major fan of the Indigo Girls which, I believe, stems from her BYU days during the late 1900's. Anyone who ever lived in Provo at that time seems to love these guys and Erasure. Not sure what that means, but I'm kinda glad I chose the Hawaii campus. Anywayz, back to my story. Lyric called a couple months ago desperately trying to find someone to go this concert with her. I asked my hubby if it was okay. He said I could only go if I spiked my hair and wore denim shorts with a neon colored tank top. So it was on! I was going!

If you know any Smiths, you know that we (especially Lyric) are never early for anything. So in accordance with our family values, we arrived after everyone else had found their own perfect little patch of grass. We decided to chance it up front and found a lovely spot two feet from the stage--ideal spot for dancers to block our view, which never crossed our minds until all the dancers blocked our view.

If you can't beat 'em, join 'em, right? However, blog readers, you would all do well to remember: concert or no concert, when surrounded by lesbians dancing, caressing, and kissing each other never lower your guard.

The two women sitting next to us were the initiators of the dancing. If you've ever been to an outdoor concert you know the dance-initiator type--brave, unashamed, and most assuredly drunk. These switch-hitters were doing things I've never seen two women do before and which gave me nightmares for four nights. I swear these players were rounding second base and heading towards third (if ya know what I mean). Eventually more people joined in dancing, including unassuming, guard-lowered Lyric and me.

It took only a couple more beers for one of the two said women to try groping or kissing anyone within reach. Lyric was within reach. She pulled Lyric's head closer to her own in hopes of reaching first base. As frightened as she was, Lyric successfully blocked the advance (probably scarred for life) while I lunged at the boozer ready to knock her on her booty. The woman saw my defensiveness and assumed Lyric and I were "together" and looked scared for a minute. Rightfully so. I was like a mother bear protecting her older sister. Plus I was at least a foot taller and probably had 50 lbs on her.

Needless to say, the concert was a huge success impressing upon our minds fond memories and an even greater love for our husbands. Before I left for the concert Andy gave me a big, loooong kiss followed with, "This is just so you remember what it's like to love a man. Don't go changin' on me tonight."

Andy, I echo Amy's words to Emily. "I'm gonna love you good and strong while our love is good and young."

Greetings from Idaho

Since I haven't blooged for a bit,here's some pictures. If you can't see the whole picture, you should be able to click on it and it will take you to my wacky intertainin photobucket site with pictures of lilacs and Hilary in the living room saying, don't take any pointless pictures of me, and stuff.

Here's one of a korean spice bush that'll knock your socks off. it's kinda blurry, but that's to simulate the intoxicating fragrance. I'm creative with my photography like that. This is our front door in moscow, which we left in late May.



We also left the Hinchey-Wincheys. Trust me, they are as crazy as they look. Notice in the background, you can see the internet on the internet. That's what in grad school we used to call metacognitive displasia.



Then we cruised down south and Kyle took us disc golfing in Upper Ross Park, where kyle has to fight the men off when he wears them sleek jeans like that and moves so gracefully. Atta boy! Whatta stroke!



Carter got game



Hil and mom got game in the gourmet! Don't forget that extra scoop of mayo! (that's her secret ingredient in a lot of stuff. shhh don't tell.)



Then we went back West beyond the City of Idaho on the Crooked River, untouched by hydro power, resortification, or orthodontia.





Idaho City's got class. And you can tip your waitress in gold dust!



After a long day of all that, Jorgensens know how to relax. Even if he don't have the pure blue blood pumping in his arteries.Cole is good enough at sitting on a couch to be an official Jorgensen,

Notice the guy in the middle's lovely gut. Oughta start wearing vertical stripes. The Yeti boy also needs to start shaving his arms.

Hangin loose in HI.

My Brother Dane was in Hawaii, and so I was looking at our pictures. I love this one so I had to put it up, even though it's a year old.

This is Hilary Jorgensen reporting live. Moscow, Idaho.

I was walking down the street one evening in downtown Moscow when I passed this homely looking man sitting outside a coffee shop. I smiled, said hi and kept walking when a second later I hear, "Ya wanna hear a compliment?" I'm always up for ego-boosts so I turned around and said, "Um . . . sure."

"You should be on CNN," he said, and I was like, "Uh, thanks?" "Yeah. There's this girl on there right now," he says. "Her name's . . . uh . . . uh . . . well, I can't remember her name. Anyway, it's just not working out."

I tried, just now, to find a picture of an ugly CNN news anchor to post, but it appears they're all pretty, so I guess it really WAS a compliment.

I thought the convo was over (I try to use that word as much as possible cuz I totally know Andy thinks using that word makes one sound like they're totally like, in high school) but he asked what I did for a living. I said dental hygiene and he said he didn't have any teeth and I said, "I know."

"Wanna know how I lost 'em?" So I said, "Drugs?" and he said, "Yep. And now I'm trying to get people not to do them." He then pulled out this picture that he had taken with his camera of this blue piece of paper with his own rotten, extracted teeth glued on to the paper spelling the word METH. Some of those teeth were 20 years old. Who keeps extracted teeth for 20 years? I gotta say, it was quite disturbing, yet very persuasive. He tried to sell it to me thinking he could make some money off it but then Andy called and I told him I had to go meet my husband so I left.

Moral of the story: Don't do drugs because if you do drugs, then maybe someday, somewhere, someone will post about you on their blog making you sound ridiculous (except for the CNN news anchor part--that was totally not ridiculous).

And I'm posting this picture not because it has anything to do with the story, but because a blog post isn't a blog post unless it has a picture. This is Andy and me at a Mariner's game shortly after a 20-ish year-old kid successfully dashed across the entire field, outrunning all the security guys (one totally wiping out at 2nd base) and would have gotten away had a spectator not clotheslined him as he was running up the stairs about 20 feet from where we're standing in this photo. That was by far the most exciting part of the game (in fact, it was the only time we stood up to cheer) since the score was 1-0 and the Mariner's scored that one run in the first inning.

Move over, Barefoot Contessa!

I have a sophisticated palate. Sure, I'll eat an occasional Subway sandwich or store bought piece of cake, but my taste buds know what they like, and let me tell you, they are not easily impressed. In fact, I think unimpressability is body-wide for me, not just restricted to my taste buds. I once confessed my feelings for Andy by admitting that I was not easily impressed, but that he constantly surpassed my expectations. He ain't no average Joe, ya know; and neither is the food that goes in my mouth (if you know what I mean).


Andy, too, knows I love to critique which is why he got me a subscription to bon appetit magazine for my birthday. I wonder if he regrets buying this for me, because due to its pretentious nature, it's been some added fuel (calories, if you will) to my attempts at being a food snob.

Whenever I talk about restaurants or food to my co-workers here in Moscow (the town with 4.7 restaurants) I gracefully climb upon my high horse and talk down to them
as if they should wish to be me. However, a few days ago while in my own kitchen I found myself falling fast from that same horse as I charred nearly everything I touched--bacon, kaiser rolls, an artichoke, and a large pot and lid. Literally, the base of the pot warped from melting on the stove. Who does that? And tell me, how does the side of a Bosch mixer 4 inches away from said pot also melt?

What you may not understand, is that not every great chef is born with wearing an apron. Take Julia Child for example. I'm sure she melted a little metal in her early day, yet she could definitely hold her own in the kitchen. So I could have molten some arrow tips from a Costco pot. Big deal--it doesn't mean I don't have potential. All I'm saying is don't be surprised if you someday see me on Food Network bumping out Emeril for the primetime spot.


As for now, bring it, Julia.

Stevie Weavie

I have a brother-in-law named Steve Payne. He's a dentist. He's chill. He swivels his hips like Elvis while singing Johnny Cash's Walk the Line. And he wears whatever Lyric buys for him. From the day they got married, Steve has never bought one item of clothing for himself. If you ever meet him and think, "Oh, Steve looks really cute in that outfit" you can be guaranteed that Lyric purchased it for him. He probably didn't even know he needed a new shirt until he saw it hanging in his closet with the tags still on. That's how their relationship is. And it works. Yeah, he's cool. And everybody knows it--including Andy.

The other day I wanted to pick out Andy's outfit for church, which we often do for each other. Without much consideration I carelessly tossed each tie out of the way as if to say, "This needs to go. This one needs to go. This one's U-G-L-Y" and so on until there were only a couple options left on the hanger. In fact, now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure I actually said those words out loud. Anyways. Poor Andy started getting a little defensive about his cherished ties, and with a little resentment and slightly more hostility he blurted out, "You just want me to be like Steve." (I would put an exclamation mark there, but it wasn't quite that dramatic; however, the period doesn't do it justice) It took a second for his statement to register in my brain, but less than a second for me to start busting up.

And Andy says I'm competitive.

Do me a favor. Next time you see Andy, tell him he looks cute in his outfit.

Sorry there's not more pictures of Hilary she wouldn't let me photograph her. I wanted big HTML pics but they got cut off. Slick to see the whole pic.

Love Andy

Lessons from Costa Rica

The scarlet macaw mates for life. They stick together, even through their differences. What the scarlet macaw is to the rain forest (the most beautiful birds ever) Hilary and I are to the glamorous town we live in. And just like me and hil, we ain't afraid to climb up in a tree and wrestle and squawk at each other.

Bloggy-Woggy

I

I have a weak linguistic immune system. For example, on my mission there was this cool elder who stuttered a little bit. The cadence of his speech fascinated me and struck me as oddly beautiful. Then a few weeks later a shy woman told me, “Oh, you stutter like me too?” I had always been an awkward kid, but was never told that I had a stuttering problem.

II

Do you recognize any of these as actual words?

Nap-a-rewski

Oh-Boo-yah

Then there’s the Rhymey-wymey agglutination:

Lunchy-wunchy

Cutesy-wutesy

Money-woney

Guacky-Wocky-Mole (our favorite food)

Hungy-gunk, Snack-a-roni, delish!, t-die-4! freakincute,warmsies, din-din, etc.


I don’t either, but still I say them almost every day. These all come from the American English dialect of Hilarese, what linguistic pathologists might call a “contagious language.” Is what the funny thing is, is that Hilary seems to have some control of her language, only talky-walking to me on that silly willy way, but once I pick it up I can’t put it down. And it’s a tar baby—the more I analyze and criticize this methoderewski of talking, the more it sticks.

III

One of these days I’m gonna go to a pizza place and say, “What do you recommend? Is it t-die-4? Okie-dokie. Can I get a large with pepperonicitos and some delish cheesy wheezy?” Or, if I ever pass law school, I’ll be in open court against Perry Mason on a capital case and say, “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury-rino, is what you must know is that the defendant must be found guilty of the crimey-poo beyond a reasonable doubtsy-woutsy.” That’s a malpractice suitsy-wuitsy waiting to happen.

I've always said I wanna be just like Hilary. If talkin like a weirdo is the price I have to pay to pick up on her other qualities, I'm willing to pay that pricerino.

Leg Wrestling

There's no good pictures on google images of leg wrestling, but this^ is pretty awesome.

Ok, Before Hilary gets on here and starts boasting her brains out, I wanted to get the story straight on the leg wrestling match.

If you don't know Hilary, you don't truly understand the meaning of the word competitive.

- Last night she yelled at sweet Emily Hinchey for having a poinsetta pot that was "way cuter" than our poinsetta's pot. (Hot Shopping Tips on our blog: Cute pots at CRoss Dress For Less). Don't worry, Hilary, our nativity set is like 8 times larger, and our little snow man creatures DOMINATE their minnie and mickey mouse wedding Christmas ornaments.
- "Is there anything you can do better than me?"
- "I bet you I can chug this water faster than you" I admit she is a champion water chugger--in fact that was one of the things that sealed the deal. LDS pun intended.

So, after ensuring safe landing areas, 8 minutes of trash talking, and one unsportsmanlike fart in the face (Hilary's fart, my face) just before we began--which totally threw me off my game and probably gave me an asthma attack and should have been a 15-yard penalty, aside from the fact that ham hock and beans is probably an ILWF (International Leg Wrestling Federation) DOPING VIOLATION, then a ten-minute odor abatement period--we started the wrassle.

So she won Round 1 out of three by not flipping me over but by twisting me to the side.
Round 2: my legasaurus totally flipped her over her head. I'm surprised she isn't wearing a neck brace today. I'll admit, she's a tough girl. But I won't admit that her legs are stronger than mine.
Round 3: she won in the same inconclusive way as in the first--in a manner suggestive that she was manually supporting herself on the side against the wall or the counter.

She won't rematch, not for eternity. I say I'm entitled.

I want Holyfield! You seen what these guns can do in Desert Storm, I'll show you what they can do in the ring! Caesar's Palace, Atlantic City!

Please blog your support for the rematch.

P.S. Do not point out the irony that I allege she is the competitive one. I am not doing this so I can win. I am merely a humble seeker of keeping leg wrestling pure in justice and fair play.

Da Bears.

I coach the Moscow High School JV basketball team. We got beat tonight by 65 points by a team with only seven players. I thought teams only lost by that much in heartwarming Disney inspirational movies. The difference between my team and the Disney team, however, is that my team most assuredly will not win the championship at the end of the season like they do in the movies.

Thankfully there's a new rule in Idaho basketball this year--the Mercy Rule. If a team is down by 30-points in the fourth quarter, the game is played with a running clock. That rule has taken effect twice in two games now. And considering we were down by 30 points in the second quarter, I begged the ref to start the running clock right after halftime tonight but he didn't oblige.

The Varsity played after us and got beat by 30, which, by the way, by Moscow Girls' Basketball standards, is not a blowout.

Go Bears!