My friends - The Lower Lights!

If you haven't heard of The Lower Lights it's probably because that rock you've been under was far more expansive than we had all figured.

I was sold on The Lower Lights when I heard that Mindy Gledhill, Deb Fotheringham, and Scott Wiley were involved. I love American traditional music, and to hear hymns, traditional and LDS, stripped down to their purest melodies and harmonies, I was sold again. So basically, I bought The Lower Lights twice. Worth every penny. I blast the hymns full force after Sunday services while I rustle up grub for the little ones. Your individual usage may vary.

Want a peek into the making of? I found this video on the YouTubes!



And what do I have for you? A hot little copy! Happy holidays! No need to get me something in return (although I never turn down a gift.) Leave me a comment and I'll pick one of you lucky souls--and Heaven knows our souls need saving--to take your own Lower Lights home.

*****CONTEST CLOSED*********

The Hissy

Almost precisely one year ago I had a breakdown. Some might've called it a hissy fit.

I was tired of ice and snow flying up through the hole in my car and hitting me. The novelty of driving children around in something with minimal safety features had long since worn off, along with the paint. I don't know what precisely had taken me to the edge, but I came home and just threw a hissy as hard as I could.
"I refuse to drive it anymore!" I nearly screamed, "How can I drive my children around in that thing? The seals are falling out, it's 20 years old, there's no L.A.T.C.H., there aren't any airbags, it's a TUNA CAN!" We both agreed, after I I hyperventilated into a paper bag*, calmed down and saw reason, that we would wait until we had a house. Guess what? Now the car is 21 years old, and I'm still driving it, but we do have a house.

Two months ago I ran over a hunk of ice. Immediately the temperature started rising and the car nearly overheated on the 5 minute drive home. When I dropped off the family and pulled out of the driveway I noticed a large green puddle. Antifreeze. That ice hunk punctured my radiator. For some reason, I thought I could make it back to work for a 3pm meeting even with my car rapidly expelling antifreeze. (I probably thought this because all last summer my car overheated with pin-point regularity. I knew that I'd have to turn the car off at all intersections and blow the heater during all of July. There was the panicked case of me having to pull off the side of the freeway while caught in a traffic jam until the vehicles moved and my car cooled down enough to drive. Misty water-colored memories.)

I made it to the intersection of Orem Center Street and 800 West, a lovely intersection on the crest of a hill. I sat, hazards flashing, smoke/steam pouring from under the hood, through two light cycles, and revised my plans. Clearly, I would not be making the remaining commute to work in my present state. Fortuitously, my regular mechanic was at the bottom of the hill: if I could just get the car started again, and coast through two lights and under the freeway overpass, I could make it to the mechanic half a mile away. And that, with the help of divine providence, is what happened. I called Other Half from the mechanic and said in a low and rage-filled voice, "If this is over $500, I. Want. A. New. Car." I think he was too scared to disagree.

The total came to $300.

I paid it and drove off with my fancy new radiator.

The check engine light came on 400 feet from the shop. I called Jenny and cried.


I picked up my friend Noelle so we could go to IKEA to price some things out for an OrangeSoda project. I made a joke about my car, and then mentioned that I saw one of the housekeepers in my new neighborhood driving the same car. All my neighbors probably think I'm the housekeeper. Sounds about right. "Honey," giggled Noelle, "I hate to break it to you, but my maid drives a nicer car than you."
"I know," I sighed.

Other Half drove my car today. "Does it...always sound like this?"
"Yes."
"Like it's all metal, and metal is being used to stop the car?"
"Yes."
"And like a cat or a small child got stuck in the wheel well?"
"Yes."


I'm just sayin....



I've been frugal enough, right?




*Just kidding. No paper bag. I've always wanted to become that hysterical, though. Do you think corsets are required?

Merry Christmas to You

My readers are funny people. Generally, you're all an erudite and clever crowd.

Some of you just get the jump on others.

Like when Noelle drove to the Jet Set Pad this afternoon right as I pulled in from last minute errands.

She handed me this:

Oh yes. She is a clever, clever girl.

(And you ALL wish you'd thought of it first.)

"I can't believe it's just candy cane," she laughed as she handed it to me.

"I'll prove it, let's open it right now," I giggled. So we did and then we sampled.

Yes, it really, really is just smashed candy canes.

Behold the power of marketing.

Very funny, Noelle.

Very funny.

Thanks for reading, gang, it's a trip just sharing these silly thoughts and have anyone read them.

Merry Christmas and crushed candy canes for all!

Handle THIS

A few weeks ago my friends Allison and Marie suggested that we all go up to the book signing that Ree Drummond, the Pioneer Woman, would be having in Salt Lake. If you read Ree, you know that this was the easiest decision ever, worth the hour drive and a full-price book purchase.

We all agreed to meet at 6:30 at the King's English Bookstore in Salt Lake. I got stuck in traffic and then trying to find a place to park, so I didn't get to the shop until 6:45. Allison and Marie had gotten me a ticket, though, so I wasn't worried. I should have been worried.

When I walked the extra distance to the gallery where Ree would be speaking, the line was out the door, 4 people wide, and around the corner. Whoa. I asked the handler if we should get our books before getting into the gallery. Affirmative. I ran into the bookshop where I picked up the copy I'd bought over the phone. I walked back to the gallery and I brought my ticket to the front, were I was told that they weren't letting people in. I was confused. "But I have a ticket," I said, clutching the copy of the Pioneer Woman's book.
"WE ARE AT CAPACITY," the handler told us.
"But if I have a ticket..."
"NO MORE. CAPACITY."
"I'm confused, if we have a ticket then why..."
"CAPACITY. I will NOT be letting ANY ONE ELSE in."

It was fun being outside the gallery while my friends were inside. In the mean time, Janet and a few of my other friends showed up. We were all outside, staring at our friends who were inside the shimmering gallery windows, listening to Ree do a reading, and probably dining on ambrosia, baby lamb, and liquid gold chasers. The laughs coming from inside sounded impossibly happy, like Ree had invited them all to spend a holiday at the lodge surrounded by sets of perfect Le Creuset, vintage-colored Kitchen-Aids, and her famous southern hospitality. I clutched my ticket in goldenrod yellow with my rapidly freezing fingers. Thank goodness I can read lips so I could see what Allison and Marie were saying to us through the glass (which I will not repeat here, because GROSS.)

One rep from the bookstore told the handler that there was plenty more room for people in the back, and she could let about 20 people inside the sparkly glass windowed paradise. The handler counted 21 people in, turned to our group and said, "None of you are getting in. I saw how late you came." The handler would let one person in per person that left, however, definitely none of us.

Janet was fuming. Turns out that she had called the bookshop earlier and asked about their preparations. The person she spoke with admitted that they didn't know who Ree Drummond was and that they didn't anticipate a large crowd. I'm sorry, what? Now, if you're reading this blog and you don't know who Ree Drummond is, that's fine (inexplicable, but fine) because it's not your job to know. It's a bookstore's JOB to know who they are hosting and how to accommodate a crowd (because when a blogger like Pioneer Woman, who has literally millions of readers, comes to town, you OUGHT TO KNOW, so sayeth a former bookseller.) Janet told King's that they needed more space than they would be providing and they basically shut her down. Honestly, if Janet is offering you advice, you might want to take it, she's kind of savvy.

The reading ended and Ree walked from the gallery to the bookshop, stopping for a second to say "Hi!" to Allison (they've met. See here.) (Also, Ree is thin, tall, lovely, and may have left a trail of soft, perfumed, imaginary ruffles in her wake.) The crowd followed her over. It was announced that the tickets we were holding had a letter from A-Z on them that determined in which group we were included. Marie, Allison, and I were letter O. As in O GRAVY that's a long time to wait in line. So we sat outside the empty gallery, wondering if the scary handler lady would be back to eat our babies.

And that's when Dooce showed up: all long legs, rockin' hair, and flanked by glam assistant Katey. Dooce walked into the gallery, which gave we castoffs all the incentive we needed to finally crash the now empty shop. We cornered her. I apologized for cornering her, although it wasn't really a corner, we'd just backed her into a window and she couldn't move. Heather was kind, self-effacing, awesome, and trying to keep a low profile, even though she was conversing with us. Someone brought up boobs. It was probably me.

Katey said that she had tried to convince Heather that having boobs is rough, and Dooce, like many a svelte-chested woman, did not believe her. "It's true," I said, letting the levity of the situation completely run away with my tongue, "All kinds of things get stuck in cleavage. At night you take off your bra and shake it out and say, 'Huh, I don't remember eating sesame seeds.'" WHICH IS TRUE, and made Dooce laugh. Did I just make all of you male readers uncomfortable? SORRY, but it's STILL TRUE. Dooce just makes those kinds of inappropriate things come out of your mouth, like when I asked when the cocaine would be arriving a mere ten minutes later. (Help me.)

Dooce led us around to the back of the shop where we waited to see if they'd let us in. Short answer: No. Scary handler lady was inside the bookshop and was not about to let any of us interloping upstarts inside. They eventually let in Dooce, which, believe me, is always the right decision.

I was a little drunk on the crazy we'd been experiencing during the whole event. I may have also demonstrated to the cool and stylishly dressed Moosh in Indy, along with her friend Barbara, that I am not to be trusted in social situations, or in fact trusted in public, period.

Allison was chatting at the back door with Ree's sister-in-law, Missy, who is quite pretty and very gracious. When Missy asked handler lady if Allison and her children could come inside and get her book signed, handler lady looked at straight at Allison and said, "That woman will NOT be getting her book signed tonight." Yes. Refused, even though Allison paid full price for her book at King's English (which sold out of their 300 copies--not enough for the 500-600 people who showed up.) Janet and a few other friends got in with a gift basket they'd put together for Ree, but eventually we all left. I met everyone at The Pie Pizzeria where I happily ate half a Combo Pie, watched the last two innings of the World Series, and witnessed the noble Phillies lose to the evil Yankees.

Moral of the story?

Careful when you go to meet The Pioneer Woman because you'll end up talking with Dooce about boobs.

THE END.








p.s. If you want to read about a successful PW encounter, go read my friend Fig. Love her.



p.p.s. Hi, fellow Pioneer Woman readers! Have you made her brie-stuffed mushrooms yet? You should. Unless you are like my husband and don't like brie, or mushrooms, or anything good or delicious on earth including sour cream (if we ever get divorced, his dislike of sour cream will be the first thing listed under "Irreconcilable Differences.")

Before you start reading the comments on this post, just be warned that some of them are a little...strident. I'm not usually that controversial (unless I'm talking about how I don't like Gerber, or how house stars are confusing, or that time I brought up breastfeeding and formula--who knew that was controversial?)

So thanks for stopping by. Want to come over for the mushrooms? We can play Rock Band and gossip about the Gosselins. Or not. We can discuss Darfur or the delay in the Radovan Karadizic trial, if you'd rather. Drinks on me?

This Week is Madness...

And not the good kind, with the ska.

I have every minute of this week scheduled--something which usually irritates me to the point of fury. I am a delicate swan who comes up with creative ideas! I do not execute! All this executing is going to strike me down in the prime of life!

Wednesday night I sewed much of two costumes, including this little sneak peek.

Much like any well-oiled machine, every part in my life must work properly. I stopped for a lunch on my way to work. I wanted a reuben sandwich. Sadly, the reuben on the menu came with 1,000 Island dressing. What a terrible abuse of a sandwich and a dressing. MUSTARD, mustard belongs on a reuben (and mustard belongs on a hot dog; ketchup is for children.) The sandwich place explained that they make their reubens in advance (what?) and couldn't substitute dressings. I considered a small lecture on the evils of 1,000 Island on a reuben and the transcendence of mustard, but thought better of it. The lady taking my order suggested a custom sandwich instead. So I ordered pastrami and swiss on rye with sauerkraut (spelled as sourkraut on the menu*,) and grilled.

When I got to work and opened my sandwich I found this:

Roast beef and swiss on rye, with SPROUTS.

But by the beard of Golda Meir, it had mustard on it!

*Probably the best sign in the world that you have no business ordering a reuben from the establishment in which this egregious spelling error appears. 

When my new coffee table arrived I was so excited. I don't get new furniture, except, I got new furniture! I couldn't wait to assemble the table, so while Morgan chatted with me, and the children ran around hitting eat other with the styrofoam packing, I grabbed an allen wrench and got to work. Each stretcher screwed in and foot tightened until the table rose and gleamed.

I lifted the heavy marble top with Morgan's help--not even being pregnant gets you out of heavy lifting around these parts**--and all was in place.

We smiled at each other, and that's when Proximo took the allen wrench next to me and drew it across the top of the table marring the finish.

I gasped and looked at Morgan, "Thirty seconds! I had a new, beautiful table for thirty whole seconds before it was ruined."

How did you vote? +



+When this post was published there was an accompanying poll to vote on how long it took Proximo to scratch my table. 37% of you said 3 minutes. 28% of you said less than 30 seconds, 19% thought 27 minutes, and the rest several hours.

**NO I AM NOT PREGNANT. Morgan is the preggo.
So in case you're keeping score, not only did I make the guest in my house do heavy lifting, but she was also with child. I am awesome.

The Play Set Problem

We bought a play set for the new backyard. Well, my mother-in-law bought it for us (there might be a competition between my mom and his mom on who can buy us more things, this can only end well.)

The play set is the fully assembled display model at our neighborhood Lowe's. We had to call the manufacturer to actually purchase the set and on the receipt they pdf'd us (yes, a verb) it clearly stated "delivery is not included."

OK, no big deal.

I called Lowe's and explained that we'd purchased the set and could they arrange delivery. No problem, I was assured. I clarified that it was the display model. Again, no problem, just come into the store and pay the delivery fee.

I went to Lowe's to arrange for delivery a couple days later. At the store the manager informed me that they couldn't actually deliver the set since it was already fully assembled. And since the manufacturer had assembled the set, the manager didn't want his associates to disassemble the play set.

"But we aren't handy people," I explained.
"When people purchase fully assembled sheds it's the same thing," the manager explained, "One guy hired a crane and truck to lift the shed and transport it."

Uh, what? Even if that was in the realm of the every day possible, I'm not exactly sure how a crane could lift the play set over our narrow side yard and back fence and into place. The manager had no more answers for me. I couldn't spend any more time at the store, so I left in an extremely flummoxed state.

I'm not sure what to do.

We have a play set, it's just in the parking lot at Lowe's instead of at our house.

What would you do?






p.s. I'm too nervous to tell Other Half this story because he's had THREE run-ins with Lowe's this month over crappy service/product issues and this might send him over the edge.

I Lose it and Then I REALLY Lose it

source

At the house closing last week our real estate agent made a crack about the president. I laughed and told him to watch it. That, apparently, cued our loan guy to also make cracks about the president. Then I forced a laugh and asked him if he wanted to lose a deal.
Normally I’m not really defensive, but living where I do, you get to hear a lot of knocks on our new president, and I can only take about ten a day before I start getting annoyed. Plus, my emotions were running high last week, like jilted Southern belle high. I’ve been uncharacteristically calm on the whole. I’ve been so calm that I didn’t sleep for most of the week. Selling and buying never go smoothly, and there was a roller coaster at the end that rode over our exposed synapses (see here.) Additionally, there are about 4,000 people who stick their hand into the transaction for their piece. I had a great agent and would recommend him to anyone, but almost everyone involved in the transaction seems to be superfluous; it all seems like such a racket.

Just to be clear:
Presidential cracks
High, yet repressed emotions
Lots of people with hands in the cookie jar

So by the time the title guy jumped in and made his oblique Obama crack, I just about lost it.

“Listen, if it weren’t for YOU PEOPLE we wouldn’t be in this economic mess in the first place and Obama wouldn’t be spending his first term cleaning up after your industry.”

And then there were some cleared throats.

And then the loan guy started in on me again.

And then I brought up that maybe the government should take over the entire real estate industry.

And there were shocked looks from the rest of the table.

And I had to take a bite of cookie to stop myself from talking.

And then the loan guy apologized.

Because really, you need to know your audience, and dude, I am not your audience.

So with my emotions on strong undertow bordering on riptide, I went back to work. A couple of friends asked me about Steve and Catheryn, who died on Strawberry Reservoir a few years ago. As soon as I finished telling them the story I started crying, and kids, I couldn’t stop. It all felt so raw and I missed them so badly. I sat at my desk trying to finish my work for the day and the tears just wouldn’t stop. I kept thinking of walking the shoreline trying to find them. I developed the awesome I’ve Been Crying puffy face with the sniffle sound effect to match. I could no longer concentrate on my pressing work with those stupid tears flowing and had to leave--because nothing says ‘I am fantastic and together’ like crying at work!

KABLAM! Wasn’t that an upper of a blog? Veiled threats, dueling political philosophies, and uncharacteristic emotional displays—the only thing this blog needs is some sort of Whedon/Twilight reference.

No, but seriously folks, you know what I need? You. You have great moving ideas, hints, and pitfalls. We’ve lived in this place for 10 years. We threw out 7 bags of garbage just from the kitchen yesterday. What do we need to know for our big move this week? If you had your last move to do over again, would you change anything?

But no crying on this blog, no one wants to see your puffy face.

I WON

The results of the Great Donut Debate Actual Blind Taste Test were:

1. My spudnuts
2. Provo Bakery
3. Lehi Bakery
4. Krispy Kreme
5. Banbury Cross 5. Daylight Donuts (tie)

The test was conducted on plain glazed yeast donuts (so no Dunford, even though they are pretty good.)

Are my spudnuts that good? Yes. That one in the picture is actually one of the ugly ones. What's in the recipe? Well, let's just say it starts with 1 quart of milk and about 12 cups of flour. It is the awesome.

Second on the docket, I keep feeling like Cat Deeley could be my best friend ever. Like we could go hang out at some chic restaurant and even though all the men would be crashing their mercedes into telephone polls just driving in her near vicinity, she'd be totally engrossed in your conversation. Anyone else?

Third on the docket, I think I may have accidentally gone to Spark yesterday and forgotten to pay for my drink. Should I:
1. Laugh that I got away with it
2. Mail them a fiver
3. Go into the restaurant and explain how I may need to pay for a Pomegron without them making one and then leave before they do the math (which wasn't done the first time.)

Anybody Have a Truck?

All signs point to us moving within the next oh, say, six weeks. And by signs I mean that we put a house under contract and that our condo, too, is under contract. If you’re thinking, wow, that seems kind of fast, it is: we offered on a house a week and a half ago and within that time we also got an offer on our condo. 

The truth is that we’ve been threatening to move for years. We put the condo up for sale three years ago and didn’t end up selling it. We pulled it off the market when we found out that I was pregnant with Proximo. A few months after that we found out that my job would be moving to Seattle with or without me, leading to a wonderful period of being in my third trimester and looking for work. I highly recommend that last part, everyone wants to hire a preggo. So while the action part of this movie has really sped up, the planning part has been a long time coming.
I can’t believe we’re actually moving to a house, a real house, with a yard and everything.

Holy mackerel.

What have we done?

We went with the old adage of ‘buy the worst house in the best neighborhood.’  And by We, I mean I, since I was fairly sure we could handle all of the necessary cosmetic updates on nights and weekends with our copious money, free time, and abundant patience.  The other part of We is not as sure, but yet extremely excited to finally have a house where we can play the piano at 1:00am for all we care and vacuum whenever the frak we feel like it. Could there be a lot of piano playing at 1:00am? Possibly, we might have to open an afterhour’s club in our upstairs family room to afford the mortgage.  Will there be vacuuming? With all the carpet in our master bathroom there had better be!

After a walk through this morning with a few friends, I figured out that this house project might be bigger than we expected which, HAHAHAHA YOU KNEW IT WOULD HAPPEN THAT WAY.

Yet, I think we’re ready to take the jump.

House warming party? You bet.

You all need to see my Pepto pink bedroom.

And I Don't Mean Chaplin

If we really are on the brink of another great depression I figure we have to be prepared for the inevitable: Hobos.

Oh sure, you think it's all romantic open rails and harmonicas by the campfire, but let me assure you from absolutely no personal experience, that we're in for it.

source

I don't know about you, but I am simply unwilling to learn hobo signs. I have enough going on in my world. If I'm about to cancel my New Yorker subscription because I don't have the time to read it, I certainly don't have the time to devote to those crazy pictograms that describe a generous home or a dishonest man.

Point of order, can we go back to calling them hobos?

Further investigation of my life reveals that I have no wood piles that need replenishing, no horses that need shoeing, and certainly no barns that need painting. I do have a very sad oven vent that is hanging by one side only since the screw fell out last week. I hardly think that I need a hobo to do that odd job. I may just leave the vent alone; it gives the kitchen a jaunty edge.

Frankly, I'm not even sure if there are romantic open rails anymore. The state of rail transport in this country is downright deplorable: if I wanted to take the train to Florida I'd need to change trains in Chicago. That makes me even more distrustful of hobos and their ability to travel on a whim--playing fast and loose with destinations like they have all the time in the world. Know what I'd like? A trip to Costco via Acapulco.

This whole thing has me more than a little upset.

Please, help me out, what are you doing to prepare for the return of the hobo?

Boogie Wipes Winners!

Thanks to random.org who picked our winners:

Sara who said...
I have 2 kids with snotty noses right now! I would love these wipes!

And Emilysomething who tweeted...
Go enter Azucar's snot nose wipes giveaway. Wait, don't. I wanna win.


Winners, please email me at jetset dot azucar at gmail dot com with your name and address.

Will I have more giveaways? As awesome as Boogie Wipes? I have no idea. Maybe. I think I need something befitting my status. Do you think the fancy European chocolate houses would sponsor a giveaway on some random person's blog in the Western U.S.? No?

How about Bentley? Do you think I could give away a Bentley?

Got a Snot-Nose Kid?

About a year ago I was watching CNBC (must have lost the remote) and I happened to catch the interview of a couple of moms who had created their own product and were trying to market it. The product? Boogie Wipes.

Yes, actual wipes that are meant to etch the snot off of your snot-nosed kids.

I had to find out for myself so I ordered a couple packages. When they came, in these little resealable packages, I opened one up, pulled out a wipe, and found nirvana.

They work.

They're amazing.

Any little crusty, any big crusty, the white snot lines, the dried ones on their eyebrows, and any of the topographical maps that form across your toddler's cheeks, Boogie Wipes handles it. They melt the gunk off their faces in a gentle way (not like in a Raiders of the Lost Ark way.) The solution is saline and aloe, so it doesn't chap and burn like regular wipes, and they smell divine.

I loved them so much that I started buying them and giving them out to my friends. I love them so much that I contacted Boogie Wipes and said please let me sponsor a giveaway because people need to know about these thingsI explained that I had to order them online before they were carried in stores and that I was giving them away anyway. Then they said 'Yes.'

Now that cold and flu season is here, I notice even more runny, crusty, bubbly kids running around: you all need Boogie Wipes.

I've never actually done a giveaway on my blog, but I think we all know the rules. Leave me a comment about the snot-nosed kid you know and how they need the magic snot-melting wipes. Take this as a chance to offend your neighbor by procuring a pack and saying in a fake whisper, "These really help some people," as you shove them into their hands.

Two of you will win one green Fresh scent and one purple Great Grape scent.*

If you tweet with a link about this giveaway let me know (@jet_set) and I'll give you an extra entry.

Entries accepted until 10am MST Monday 2/9/09 (or until I remember to login*)




*change from first post

//Entries CLOSED