Gutt bursting. Quiet gratitude. Warm family love. Doesn't it seem like Black Friday is like a bitchy ex-girlfriend showing up at your brother's wedding? I yearn for the simpler life, but don't want to pass up the opportunity to save some bucks. How come the pretty and long-lasting wood toys are never in the ads? I'm sick of stupid cartoon-licensed plastic crap.
Do I sound grateful?
I had a turkey cook-off with my mom today. My tiny girl turkey vs. mom's store-bought. Pretty oval platter split down the middle with my bird vs. Norbest. From family consensus of grandma, parents, cousins, auntie, and uncle...my turkey won. Plus it didn't live in a cage and get pumped with antibiotics. Go me.
Last year I experimented with Black Friday sales here. I am crossing my fingers that my post-script tip holds true this year as well.
As for tomorrow? I am torn and will wait to see if I can scrape my body off the sheets early enough for some deals I perused in the paper today. However, I must add that there are some deals online that I must must must share. Hot! Hot! tomorrow only. Plus no crazies.
Don't miss Deal #1
4-disc : HBO mini-series : award-winning : patriotic must-have : everyone who sees it loves it : blip and clip review here : "John Adams" on sale at Amazon for $18.99. That's over half off and well worth it. 501 minutes = over 8 hours of viewingpleasure.
If you are on my list this year, there's a good chance you're getting this just because I think it's necessary for any educated kid in the U.S. to see it. And any history buff. Or educated adult. Find the love right here.
Don't miss Deal #2
HBO does it again with hilarious duo, and real-life band, or musical two-some. Whatever you call them, they are definitely adorably nerdy and are "Flight of the Conchords". That's the band name and the name of this show. Season 1 & 2 are on sale for $9 tomorrow at Amazon online, or Target stores. In case they are news to you, feel the love below:
Stay in your seat and click here for Season One happiness. Season two is here. Don't miss Deal #3
That adorable bucket has 2 seatbelts!
First, this bike ships fully assembled and ready to ride. The shipping costs are not clear to me...but this I know, they have never offered this beauty at this low cost before. $400 off the regular price of $1,299=$899. Begin the process of using your car less, letting your kids unplug and enjoy the outdoors, and possibly getting some exercise while running errands with the Madsen Cream-Colored Bucket Seat Bike(cream color only). Link is here.
Post-Edit: When I first posted this late last night after getting 5 hours of sleep the night before, I thought the ad said the bike was $400...not $400 OFF. Lame. Still an awesome deal but not quite so screaming. Also, shipping costs are usually around $150, and ship out of Salt Lake City.
When I was 21, I left the desert west (my home) and wore a dress for 18 months straight for the Lord. I was a missionary for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints in hot, jungly, muggly Florida. When I read "Florida" was to be my intended Zion, the only image I had in my mind was Southern California (the western equivalent right?). I imagined beach bums, bleached joggers, health nuts, and short shorts. What I soon learned was that Florida, at least northern Florida, was not reminiscent of any Beach Boys tunes. It was technically "The South". As in Live Oak Trees with their own gravitational pull with their pretend branches in reality tree trunks glued sideways into its totem. Spanish Moss drips from their limbs like the syrupy southern accents oozing off the tongues of Southern Belles, Baptists, Evangelists, Racists, Pentecostals, and barbecue-ers.
Oh and I loved it.
While I wanted to go "foreign" as they say (meaning: send me to an exotic country that will force me to learn another language and build in 15 language credits when I come back to college) I soon reveled in another planet with plantation homes, invitations for fried chicken and church revivals, prayers in parking lots and speaking in tongues. And much of this revolved around porches. Rockers on porches, plants in pretty pots, sweeping views of Live Oak, and outdoor rooms screened in complete with beds for summer sleep-outs safe from biting bugs but in tune with the crickets.
Mrs. Olsen loves porches. Like this one:
My current porch is nothing like this. Darnit. But I will admit, in my own small efforts, I like to add a little piece of furniture to make my lame non-wrap-around porch feel like a room.
This little piece with wings was reclaimed by the newlywed Mrs. Olsen. Childless and optimistic, she scraped five layers of paint off of it, put on a mosaic top, and painted it the official wedding reception color of the 90's: forest green.
Since some of the tile is green, I could have pulled it off alright were it not for those cheesy oversized wood knobs. I didn't even have forest green at my 90's wedding, but evidently it rubbed off on me. At least I don't have forest green carpet.
As luck would have it, it matches my porch railing to my home. Coincidentally, my home was built one year before I was married. Come and sit for a spell.
Somehow a porch, even when you don't sit for a spell, makes the front door more friendly and appealing.
Here we come, straight for the door. Gotta hurry. No time for chat. Gotta get back ho...ho...hold the phone!
Yes that's a goose. And now my invitation: please love me.
I'm thirty-four people. And yes, I bought this resin goose from an old ladies catalog. I was alone late at night at a computer, and I had just had a baby. My hormones were whack, and I wanted to celebrate the holidays without having to lug around an oversized rubbermaid for every holiday.
Somehow, nothing says porch love like a goose. Above is Gwendolyn in her Halloween attire. Below is how you can behold her current glory.
This I know: resin geese with clothes are for grannies.
And yet, as a testament to my eternal love of porches, my unmet desires for slower living, lazy chatting, and outdoor living, Gwendolyn remains...despite a broken leg twice (and mended), chipped tummy, and cracking paint.
Okay ladies! One week is all we have until the big dance. You know what I'm talking about. All the moms, grannies, aunts, and the occasional occupational male chef put on a show of creativity, baked goods, harvest wares, and 12-piece place settings amidst all the important people in their life on the Annual Day of Thanks. Now if you want to actually have time to take a shower and smell nice, then you'll want to follow The Pioneer Woman's Thanksgiving Cooking Schedule that begins on Monday.
Yep. You heard me. Monday. And to add to this schedule, Mrs. Olsen has some special preparations that will help your Thanksgiving Feast be over the top! The perfect place settings that use mini-pumpkins, candy corn, and popcorn...the best silverware polish you can make from scratch!....and adorable crafts that will force your rugrats to stop and think about all the dang things you do for them all the time and that they should be grateful for...I've got it all here!
Let's start here shall we?
Wait, what is that? Let's get a better look shall we?
*cough* Where in the good heck are my candy corns? That axe is totally rusty! I have a feeling there's no such thing as a home remedy for rusting axes...uh, I mean silverware. Uh, I mean...where am I?
Okay, the gigs up people. I killed 2 turkeys yesterday and it wasn't funny at all. See now, when we moved to a little more country last year we wanted to be more self-sufficient. We wanted that connection to food that has been culturally lost, but is probably still pretty important, and very likely even vital to our existence. So I asked for it, but I swear I didn't sign up for this.
Keep reading if you dare, but consider yourself warned.
First of all, I thought it would be no big deal cause I've been dealing with a kid that freaks out whenever she has to go collect eggs. Mr. Tom can't let Miss Hen turn her head without saying Excuse me? Look at me! My feathers are ruffled up for you baby. I love you! Wanna come stay with me at Bok Bok Cottage over the weekend? So Miss Turkey Hen literally runs for her life whenever my kid shows up. She's runs at them, jumps up on them, and totally freaks them out. Hence, the big stick carried by Rainbow Girl (and tears).
When he gets all hot and bothered wantin' some feather love, he puffs up and his face turns blue. Isn't he pretty?
Oh how I desperately wanted to film The Mister of the House trying to catch this big guy, but I was disappointed when he brought out a long metal hook, caught his foot, and pulled him right into his fateful arms.
So here's this picture again. See those 2 little nails that the axe is resting in? That is where you catch the head, then pull the neck and head down over the sawhorse. Usually The Mister has some boy helpers, but he exhausted their services this spring, and so it was just me and him. I was really really nervous.
I had to hold the feet of the turkey while The Mister took the axe. I'm a tough girl okay? I'm on the lazy side but I love nature, want to live simply, and outweigh most Mormon mommies on my block. I had no notions of my toughness, or expectations of how I should act when the axe came down.
Thwump!
Half of the neck is open, and I'm holding onto a body that is flapping and flailing. I scream like I'm trying out for Return of the Rapist Swamp Thing. I screamed, inhaled, screamed, The Mister is yelling 'Let go of the feet! Let it go!' and I am frozen, holding the flailing body, and screaming and screaming. And even as I write this, I have to admit that I was truly truly traumatized, because when I finally did let go and shuffled backwards away from the scene of the crime, I started sobbing my guts out.
What the hell?
For real.
When I finally mentally checked myself Uh, Mrs. Olsen you are freaking out. You are being a dumb girl. Please stop crying. Please stop. So I stopped and looked over across the yard. All my laying hens, who had been pecking in the garden and flowerbeds just moments before, were frozen in there tracks. I then watched all of them hightail it into the safety of Bok Bok Cottage.
And guess what? I had to do it again, was still in shock, and shocked at how freaked out I was, but then got to hold the ladies feet while the axe came down. No screaming that time, but I winced and sobbed some more.
Anybody that doesn't appreciate their turkey dinner is getting it shoved down their face by yours truly.
But wait, there's more! Here's a drill bit that has rubber stoppers to help pluck the feathers. We actually didn't use it, cause our learning curve taught us that you drop the birds in hot hot water and the feathers will then pull out nice and easy.
I post these photos with an outpouring of love and respect for the life of these birds. After plucking the feathers, you lightly torch them to get the remaining hairs burned off.
Did you know you had to do that?
Signed,
Started my cycle today but don't think that had anything to do with it
p.s. my turkeys had a good life and for that I am grateful.
Post-Edit: I'm not sure I can fully describe the emotional wave that overthrew me with the post-screaming sobbing. Racked. Tears. Wrenched face. Curious husband. Mascara down past my cheekbones sobbing. I mean, my shoulders were shaking with each cry. Did anyone see/love the movie Raising Arizona? Holly Hunter is in the car after they stole their baby and she starts crying: I just love him so much (and her shoulders move up and down about 5 times in that sentence). Anyway, high school break-ups were never as emotionally draining as watching the violent release of the life of our turkeys. How do hunters do it?
As it happens, Mrs. Olsen and The Mister of the House recently spent an entire childless, work-free, vacationingweek in celebration of 10 years of marriage. We reveled in fall colors and American History on the East Coast. Our camera batteries died on day 4, but on day 2 we had a lovely Boo Radley moment. Come on in if you dare!
The Mister of the House has strong opinions about headstones. He despises the shiny, ostentatious, marble headstones of the present. He insisted that he wanted a simple thin headstone someday (to accompany his pine box) just like the ones throughout this cemetery.
Romantic huh? Here's some of the folks we paid our respects to:
Of course, we also talked about having a bench on a simple hillside to commemorate our final resting place. Benches also go well with pine boxes.
And I thought Mother Goose was just a cute little kids story. Evidently she was better than that, a doting loving mother that could entertain childlike imaginations.
Just look at that John Hancock! Nothing like some male ego to tell the King of England to back off! There's a new alpha-male on the block called democracy.
Anyone who knows The Mister of the House, knows how nearly impossible and vexing it is to get him to pose for a camera. Prepare to be amazed at this next picture for which he happily obliged and posed:
If anyone is wondering, I love this photo. I love that my man wants to be buried in a pinebox on a country hillside with a bench!
It's almost inspiring to think of an entire life, and the legacy they left behind them, burning a trail to heaven with intermittent ash falling on the present. Cemeteries are good for that. It makes you think of the legacy you might leave behind, if any at all. Paul Revere, John Hancock, fought a dear fight for our liberties, and I was quietly reminded of that at this place.
And yet, the legacy that touched me most personally, although not to diminish the great cause of our First Patriots...was this:
Josiah Franklin and Abiah his wife, lie here interred. They lived lovingly together in wedlock fifty-five years; and without an estate or any careful employment; by constant labor and honest industry, maintained a large family comfortably, and brought up thirteen children and seven grandchildren respectably. From this instance, Reader, be encouraged to diligence in thy calling, and distrust not Providence. He was a pious and prudent man; she a virtuous woman. Their youngest son, in filial regard to their memory, places this stone. J. F. Born, 1655. Died, 1744. Aet. 89. A. F. Born, 1667. Died, 1752. Aet. 85
With all the living to inspire others, the American Dream, celebrities, do-gooders, and world-changers...sometimes it's tough to live "small". At least to be content while doing it. Motherhood seems to be one of those things the world considers small. And when my kid has diarrhea and I change 13 runnies in a day, I too wonder if it is worth it.
So thank you Josiah and Abiah, for living quietly without acquiring much worldly goods, for being content without a big estate, and for encouraging diligence in the great calling of family life. There is something so inspiring and beautiful about their lives. Eulogy penned by none other than their youngest son, Benjamin.
This month the Department of Energy has seen the fruits of enviro-minded Universities from around the globe. Each given a $100K grant, they designed solar homes with new technologies and just last week set them up and had them all displayed at the National Mall in D.C.
Check out Penn State's house below, which included a Mrs. Olsen delight...living wall with herbs in the kitchen. For more solar homes, check out http://www.solardecathlon.org/
I'm not sure what's going on at Mrs. Olsen's house. I mean, I feel like I have a lot to say, but have proceeded on a mystic impetus to shut up. Or maybe turn off. Since I'm averaging one post a month right now (does anybody miss me?) my mystic impetus has temporarily aligned with the mass reminiscing, crossroads of life, wetting-your-pants impossibility of that fateful day: September 11, 2001. Those double elevens hit me today (the 22nd) and said: tick-tock, almost out of time, don't forget. Never forget.
So I figured I would remember. Mostly for the sake of my kids I think. Because first of all, 2001 was a big deal to me. I gave birth to my very first child, and my only daughter, in my home state of Idaho, on the bathroom floor. On purpose. It was a year of drought, thirsty crops, and one of those freak Idaho storms that dumped snow on the ground on June 13th. The next day the snow was gone, and I learned for the last time (because before then I had forgotten, as I'm sure you have and still are) that Flag Day is a real holiday on June 14th and I'll be darned if that holiday isn't overshadowed by that big, badass 4th of July. And I'll be darned if those bouquets congratulating Mr. and Mrs. Olsen on a healthy daughter didn't have little flags in them because Rainbow Girl was born on that day. Flag day.
And then, because newborn babies sleep soooo much and leave plenty of free time for reading textbooks, analyzing essay themes, and writing 20 page papers (new motherhood myth #1) I figured I had one last chance to finish that bachelors degree that got sidetracked with The Mister's employment. So for one crazy semester, The Mister lived in Idaho with her folks while he worked. Mrs. Olsen lived in Utah with his folks (and a brand spankin' new grandkid) and went to school. Plus she was fat. And really really tired.
So enough already. A visiting professor from Germany taught me all things Saul Bellow on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I had a beautiful newborn who I was determined would know the scriptures, love the outdoors, and be funny. He had world perspective and a twinkle in his eye.
So maybe that's the reason I was one of only 2 students that showed up on campus to attend class that crazy morning of September 11th. The first guy was likely nursing a hangover and didn't have a clue that his and my world was changing. But me? I was almost ashamed to get on my bike, leave home, and head for class considering I had already heard that the first tower was hit (emergency? accident? hostile act?) and had been glued to the TV watching and wondering when the second tower was hit(check. check. check. All of the above.). I mean why would I try to go to class? National Emergency! Get a freaking clue! Heck, family emergency! My sister-in-law lived in New York and the family was frantically trying to get through to her on the phone. Okay, see ya. I'm gonna see if they're holding class.
I cringe.
But 8 years later I understand.
I needed world perspective. I did not understand what the hell was going on! What in the crap world did I just bring my kid into?! So I left home and shamefully clung to the edge of the campus building, not even daring to go inside. I nursed an innermost desire that my German Professor, a guy who started innocent and beautiful (as all children start their mortal journey) and grew up in a post-Holocaust world skipping around war-torn rubble in the country despised by the rest of the planet, that this teacher would maybe arrange our desks in a circle? Then maybe he would humbly, and with an outpouring of love born of experience and age, would dissect this horrific, mysterious story unraveling before my eyes? Please?
Uuumm, teacher? I just saw a burning building on TV, and people so freaked out above the burn line they were jumping to the ground, and even with all my years of training watching All-American action movies that was different. It was real. And it took my breath away. Hollywood should not be so light-hearted, ya know? And why were little kids in Pakistan on the news cheering when they heard about the attacks?
At that time, I had expected one day to go to Paris, mis-pronounce fancy cheeses and be cursed by the arrogant French for not knowing their language and signed off as being a st[ewe]pid Ame*guttural choke*can! I had not expected to travel the planet and be cursed as an infidel, my blood spilled because of my heritage.
September 11th, 2001 was my first real dose of foreign policy and a shrinking planet. It was like drinking a tall 16 ounce glass of vinegar. And it was more than just remorse over pretended travels. There was so much pain. So much fear. So much hate born of suffering.
I still don't understand.
Neither did my teacher, I guess. Cause he didn't sit me in a circle and talk about being a German kid after the Holocaust and how ugly things happen while beauty (and babies) still exist and flower. He shuffled to campus, saw there were only 2 idiots from his class calloused enough to leave the absolute terror unfolding on the news, and with a furrowed brow waved his hand back and forth and mumbled 'No Class Today'.
Of course. Of course.
I hurried back home with just enough time to witness, to my horror, the collapsing of the towers, the Pentagon crash, and Flight 93 spiraling headlong into a Pennsylvania field. I held my baby girl, called my husband, worried for my new sister through marriage, and waited and wondered. As for my sister-in-law, Mandy? She had a long walk home that day (no subway, no cabs, total craziness), and thankfully, was unharmed. Tasted a little dust, saw her city become a war zone, worried about friends, and like me, was changed forever that day.
For me? I retreated alone downstairs, picked up a spare guitar, and started strumming and praying. This song is not amazing, but it is a true reaction born of September 11th, or "Nine-Eleven". I was certain of a melodic line in the second verse with the words big jet plane...but it never found a place in this song. It is a record for my family. It is unfinished.
Sometimes I intentionally put myself in situations so I can arise from the ashes and get productive, foster creativity, or save money. Exhibit 1: have people over for dinner so I have a legitimate reason to really really get my house sparkling. This past month we had cousin birthdays, my outside reasoning stated I would save some money...but my insides really just wanted to color. Like that things kids do. And moms never do cause everybody eats 3 times a day and leaves trails of dishes and crumbs.
So in the name of happy birthday to cousin Olivia, here's some more of my exceptional art....if I was a 5th grader.
If you want to see some wacky, fun, and professional art then click here.
Since my sister moved to Boston, I keep hearing about these birthday parties with 3 course meals, a hired clown, a rented bouncy mansion, and the like. Outside the upper-crust coastline, and back into Zion, mommies get over the top with hand-made 3-D birthday invites and gift bags for the party-goers that cost more (and look cuter) than the one sent with my kid.
So when Vanilla Wafer turned 4recently, I wanted to lower the birthday party standards for all those moms wondering if they really need to build a water-misting outdoor obstacle course for that overheated summer birthday. Now don't get me wrong, big birthday bashes have their place, but just don't get in the trap that each year needs to be a little bit bigger or a lot bit better than the year before. Here's how we celebrated the life of our little guy this month...
since Vanilla Wafer has been wearing his Spiderman costume the entire month of August, I decided to go with that theme. Every good party must have a THEME mind you!
Rainbow Girl: "Mom, aren't there any balloons? I want to decorate!" Mrs. Olsen: "...uuhhhhh....I made a cake!" Rainbow Girl: "Never mind, I found some string. I'm going to make spider webs!"
For easily distracted youngsters, I like to follow this simple rule: Invite the same number of guests as the age of your kid. For us, we had 3 little cousins and the best buddy that lives next door. Sister was a bonus (and my helper!). Sorry if you wanted to come.
Of course, mutual cooperation helps. We insisted that birthday gifts be simple and happy, just like four year olds seem to be naturally. In this case, Vanilla Wafer got bubble bath, a sword, a kite, and total utter happiness. Anything bigger or better than that, and Mrs. Olsen can't sleep cause she just got burdened with birthday guilt.
We really pulled out the stops for this activity. Each kid got an old paper grocery sack to cut out eyes. If they had any sort of attention span, we were going to color them and grab each other and moan like a monster, then try to guess who they were. But alas, on to the next activity....
In this case, it was Monsters vs. Aliens playing as the last of summer matinee specials. $1 admission means I threw a party for under ten bucks! Yeah baby!
And lastly, reminisce all your kids personality styles and quirks. Like sticking out the tongue while he concentrates, obsessive love of younger brothers, and the fact that he wants to marry his mom and asks her twice a day in his crappy late-developing English: "Mwooom, will you mawr-rwee meeee?". Yes son, I will marry you! Here's some cake!
By some summer miracle, this blog is getting updated. There is so much going on, I'm not quite sure where to begin, how to end, or what to expound. So now that I have a second at this way-past-bedtime shush, I thought I'd throw out a taste of Mrs. Olsen's Summer of Oh-Nine so far.... and reverence. Also curiosity, dry heaving & new theories about millenial life. Hmmmm..?
wish these were my toes darnit. Purple! My mommy moved home from Hawaii, and my sissy got in a big jet airplane all the way across the U.S. so we could digest an Idaho sunset together. Aaaaahh.... p.s. over a foot cut off my locks and the olfactory cells reminiscing Apache Avenue when I got a perm the first time in over 15 years! Looksie! A Circus! Right in our neighborhood! I haven't looked this good in a suit since Ricks College! If anyone is reading these blurbs: Please take a guess at how much older cousin on the left is than Rainbow Girl? Round 2 of the neighborhood circus. Notice the cat-like poise of Rainbow Girl via Tiger! Yeow!
Aaahh. For reals my only daughter got baptized and received The Gift of the Holy Ghost, and my heart nearly exploded with JOY!
Last week was a full party blast when all my Apache Avenue blood descended upon Bear Lake for a 3 day reunion in the woods, at the lake, with the sun and each other. Each couple had a bedroom, and cousins were tucked in throughout floors and couches. That meant that Buddha Baby, my adorable 20 month old "baby" had to sleep in my room. So the 2 a.m. sleepy-time stir turned into a groggy, frothing-at-the-mouth, can't-believe-my-mealticket-is-in-my-room screamfest.
The outcome was this: Mrs. Olsen felt like she had a newborn again with her kid at the teet all night so as to not wake up all the cousins.
Also: Mrs. Olsen needs sleep or she gets ornery.
Lastly: Mrs. Olsen cast the last and final vote over whether Buddha Baby is a little boy or a baby. Because breasts are for lovers and babies, but not little boys.
Something extra: a picture taken by Heathernan Photography at the cabin. Consider this a memorial to the last remaining hours of babyhood (i.e. getting momma's milk) for The Buddha Baby.
Is it just a mother talkin' or is this kid gorgeous?
p.s. my chest is killing me.
So in honor of our new freedom, our cutting of the cord, and our need to still be together (but not attached):
Please vision Mrs. Olsen on this bike with a Buddha Baby in the back. Click on it with all the love for mothers, milk, babies, and families you have in your soul....because they're giving one away July 15th, and I wanna be a contender!
I became Mrs. Olsen nearly ten years ago, and now get to steal kisses from three seriously adorable kids. I hate to be barefoot but am a wannabe hippy, only in the sense of living more naturally and layin' off the ice cream already. The free-sex and drugs part are dumb. Oh, and the never showering thing until you stink. That's dumb too. But having a solar car? A wind turbine? Living off the grid? Eating fresh produce from the garden? Aaah, these are my hippy dreams, mostly unfulfilled.
I love people. Old friends are dear to me, but will be avoided if I knew you in my younger (skinnier) days. Sometimes I feel wise beyond my years, but most of the time I feel like I'm walking in someone else's shoes. I'll be darned if those shoes aren't starting to fit.
The Mister and I come from amazing families full of funny, kind, aware, faithful, hard-working and unselfish people. We are blessed. With God's ever-loving help, we hope to have kids full of the same qualities.
