She's Just At That Age

I know that it may seem that all of my posts are Lennon inspired. She is not my favorite child. I love them all the same. Crayton and Piper still say funny things. They are beginning to have opinions about being featured on this blog, and so it is, I refrain from posting them very often. For my journal recording purposes I have to document the following funnies about Lennon and Crue.

While getting ready for her Halloween party at school:

Lennon: Being a cheater-leader is really fun mama. But what I really wish that I could be for Halloween is an abomination.

Mom: Oh! What is an abomination, Bops?

Lennon: I don't know. But it sounds like it would be a really fun costume.

Mom: Maybe next year.

Last Sunday While Driving To Aunt 'Lorla's':

Lennon: Oh! I love hims so much and just want to marry him! (said with longing)

Mom: Who?

Lennon: Shadders.

Mom: Oh, maybe when you are 27.

15 minutes later :

Lennon: Oh! My heart is burning with love and passion!

Mom: (Snapping out of her zone where she hears nothing but her own thoughts while she is driving even though it sounds like there are 53 kids in the back seat.) What did you just say?

Lennon: I said that my heart is burning with love and passion.

Mom: Um...why did you say that?

Lennon: Because it is. For Shadders.

Mom: (offers up this silent prayer). Please, I beg of You, let her channel her burning love and passions in a positive and productive ways. Please bless that they are in no way, shape or form, related to boys until she is done with college. Please bless that sometime in the near future the Mormon church begins a 'nun in training' program. I know that it doesn't exactly jive with the teachings but, Father, just this once? Amen.

Now on To Crue:

Nap time has been special lately. Crue has taken to fighting his naps. Bedtime also. He has also decided that the risk of injury is not as risky as falling asleep and therefore takes flying leaps out of his bed daily. Last week he fought and fought and fought to stay out of bed. I thought he was asleep and began putting away laundry in my closet. When I looked down and saw the poutiest little face i have ever seen.

Mom: What are you doing out of your bed? It's nap time, buddy, and you should be asleep.

Crue: I am too sad to take a nap. My fadda (father) died. (Bigger pouty lip)

Mom: Your father died?

Crue: Ya... my fadda died and my tummy is hungee (hungry) for dinna (dinner) and so i need a hot gog (dog). Really bad.

Mom: Okay. That is funny enough that you can stay up from your nap. You win.

Later That Night:

Crayton was assigned the task of showering Crue before bed. (Crue could shower 15 times a day and still always look like he doesn't have a home and is forced to make his way in this life by dumpster diving. We try.)

Crue: Bubba, I can't take a show-a (shower). My fadda passed away and i'm too sad.

(Pouty lip, head hung low, which is even cuter when he is dressed up like a little cupid.)

I was a little worried when he kept on talking about his father dying. Ryan was out of town, with no cell phone service. I am happy to report that our 24 day separation from one another is over. I couldn't be happier. Once he shaved, I loved him even more. I didn't think it was possible.

Cole Boy, Coco, Buddy

Happy Birthday!!!

To the best brother i have ever had, who truly understands the unique set of challenges that triangular nostrils present.

Hope your birthday was the best. I love you buddy!

The Harwards: Part Two. (and if you'll notice my follow through)

Then there is Kristen. Kristen has always held a very special spot in Brandi’s heart, really in everyone’s heart but I remember thinking when I was younger that I wished Brandi would be as nice to me as she was to Kristen. Kristen is the little engine that could, can, will and does. She is the baby of eight. She is a little unsteady in her speech and on her feet. Almost every time I ever saw Kristen when we were younger she had a cut or scrape or scar of some kind or another from another accident. She never stopped or slowed down though. She could hold her own in a disagreement and was fiercely protected by her siblings, when she wasn’t being fiercely teased by them. Kristen got the easy crier gene and is tender to her core. Kristen is awe inspiring in and of herself just for the way she lives her life. She has been for as long as I have known her, and I’m sure even longer. Kristen has defied odds and is making it all on her own with a hubby and two babies in tow. On my list of things that will make me happiest in the millennial world is the thought of Kristen with her body whole, unscarred, and able to effortlessly and gracefully do all that she can’t do on this earth without a great deal of effort and compromise. It will be a beautiful thing. When I think of her I see a dignified woman now, full of strength. I know now why Brandi was nicer to her than to me. She deserved it more than most. Finally on my influential sibling list (and the one I intended to tell you about) comes Amy. Amy was my sister’s age. A LOT older than me. (Not really, but it seemed that way when we were younger) Brandi was not a happy camper in Arizona. She wanted to be back in Utah. Amy was a good friend to my sister and loved her for exactly who she was. With Amy, Brandi was silly and funny. They went on cool dates with cool guys and wore cool clothes from Gap. Amy was beyond highly intelligent. She was my intellectual all-star role model. She was fiery, confident, tall, naturally beautiful, and brutally honest. All of these factors lead up to one conclusion for me: intimidating. Awe inspiringly intimidating. Amy graduated from high school and went away to school. I remember Amy’s milestones well. Her wedding invitation arrived in the mail. I was excited for her and based on what her mom said, she had herself quite a catch. I wondered if he could tame her. Not change her but soften her abrupt ways. I remember next a family Christmas letter and photo of Amy and Damon and their little baby. Amy was now a mother. I remember sitting in the family room staring at that picture and feeling really overwhelmed when I looked at her hands. I know it sounds weird, but she was changed. It was her hands. They were now a mother’s hands and it suited her beautifully. I thought a lot about why that mattered to me so much. I don’t remember up to that point caring about any one else’s hands except mine because I thought they were manly, and Christ’s, for obvious reasons. From that year on, I have looked forward to going over to my mom’s house around Christmas time and reading Amy’s clever Christmas letters archiving what they were up to that year.

Then one day when Amy left a comment on my blog. I didn’t even have to wait until Christmas to peek in and see her life. I admit I was excited. But again, intimidated because my intellectual all-star, and self proclaimed super speller, was reading my blog. The blog where I once spelled ‘bowl’ ‘bowel’. My blog, where the rules of punctuation are my own, and my grammar is subjective. Whatever that means.

Shortly after I started reading her blog I realized quickly that she had set a goal for herself to blog every single day. Every. Single. Day. No. Matter. What. She was in the hospital for surgery. Still blogging. Pregnant and very sick. Still blogging. On family vacation. Still blogging. I began then to wonder what it was about her that made it so that she had the stick-to-itiveness that I can only dream of. I began to be further inspired by her. I could tell from reading her blog that she was still Amy. Softened, yet confident. Sarcastic, yet sensitive. Bold, yet buxom. (Just kidding. I was just seeing if you were paying attention and alliteration seemed appropriate. She’s not buxom.) Amy was still Amy. Amy was still amazing. It caused me much contemplation about why I hesitate to say some of the things I really feel. Like deep down feel. On her blog she has been completely open about her longing for her family to be closer. She has been open to admit that she gets cranky because being a mother of many, herself, is hard sometimes. I have questioned my lessons I learned with Brooke all those many years ago. Where I learned I had talents. Some worth sharing. Where I admitted that fact, if only to myself. Amy can still say things exactly as she sees them and Amy still has friends. Could that happen to me? Could I start that? And if I did, could I relinquish the fear of being judged for my openness? Could I uplift? Could I inspire? I’m still wondering. I know that Amy can do it though.

A few weeks ago, Amy was happily awaiting the arrival of her baby boy to be born in December. She was gearing up for her scrap booking convention. She was wrapping up her Christmas shopping, and starting to feel the drain and excitement of the third trimester. Then Amy’s world changed. I will let her tell the rest of her story.

While Amy’s world has changed and her story has deepened, I realize that Amy hasn’t changed. The core of her is still the same. Strong. Admirable. Enduring. Happy. Honest. Real. Really, really real. I have had many days of wondering what I would do if I were in her situation. I really don’t know. What I do know is that I would like to conduct myself with such grace, honesty, dignity, and love as she has. Not just in times of crisis. I don’t think that Amy just started this habit of being amazing. She just is. She always has been. She always will be. It’s who she is. She is honoring that. I am grateful because it makes me see that I can do it too. Maybe never with her boldness. But I can be stronger. I can be better. I can be a better Blogger. I can be a better mom. I can be a more loving wife. I can be a more consistent example of truth. In even the hardest of situations.

It has been said “the loveliest women ever known had a glow of health, a warm personality, a love of learning, stability of character, and integrity. If we may add the sweet and gentle Spirit of the Lord carried by such a woman, then this describes the loveliness of women in any age or time…” That says it all. That is Amy.

I’m glad she was friends with my sister. I’m glad that she reads my blog. I am glad that I get to peek in on her daily and be strengthened by her example. I am praying for your continued peace, Amy.

The Harwards: Part One

When I moved to Arizona from Utah I was 11 or 12. We moved into a ward that was probably one of the most amazing forces of good that Heavenly Father had on earth in
1989. In that ward there was a family. The mom was a cookbook writer, crafter, dynamic teacher, easy crier, great conversationalist, young women’s president, wife, and mother to many. One of my favorite memories of her is a funny one. She was driving me somewhere. They had a beater of a car. The vibration in the back seat was like a pedicure chair on steroids. It turned out to be quite the massage. The volume in that little car was comparable to a jet. While driving down a busy street, the steering wheel came off in her hands. Right off. I was terrified. She wasn't even phased. She calmly put it back on as if it was no big deal. The other passengers in the car were also unaffected by the fact that we almost died. That still makes me laugh and I would love to know what ever happened to that little maroon car. My very favorite memory of her, though, was at girl’s camp. I was only 12 or 13 at the time. We had just finished testimony meeting. I saw her standing under a pine tree and longed to hug her with all of my might. And so I did. She in turn, held me with all of a mother’s love. In that moment, I loved her so much that it hurt. Probably because she served me with such selflessness. That is still one of my favorite hugs I have ever received.

This mother of many had children that have also influenced my life. I will touch on a few of them in no particular order. Matt was my Sunday school teacher. He entertained and maybe even appreciated my curiosity. With him, it felt more comfortable to ask all of the questions I have ever wanted to ask about doctrine than it has ever felt before. I looked forward all week to him teaching me. I knew that it was a privilege to have him teach me for a season and I soaked it up until he got married and moved on. Inspiring teacher.

Next came Pepper. Pepper was my friend. He was obnoxious, like most teenage boys are (but more-so). But he was my friend through thick and thin. I was shy and backward, he was not. I always wondered what kept him reaching out to me for friendship because I was slow to open up and when I did, it was fairly short lived. Silliness wasn’t my strong suit. It was his. I was much too serious for my own good. He had a hollow chest cavity and would fill it with cereal and milk. Built in bowl. He had the worst singing voice you could ever imagine, yet he belted out ANYTHING the karaoke machine threw his way, especially Garth Brooks, Callin’ Baton Rouge. He spent hours entertaining our entire family. He was a good friend. In large part, because of him always being willing to include me, I have so many great experiences and fond memories of adolescence.

Then there was Brooke. She was a little bit younger than me. She was a lot like her mom; A great conversationalist, talent oozing from her being, easy crier and devoted friend. Brooke could sing, cook, and sew. She was smart, cute and ever the little sister to her obnoxious, spot light stealing brother whom I just mentioned. One of my most stand-out memories of Brooke turned into a life lesson for me. I was in the hall in the church. It was a mutual night and we had just wrapped up an activity. Brooke was talking to Amye Godfrey. I don’t remember exactly what they were talking when I joined the conversation, but I remember that I paid Brooke a compliment. I believe it went something like this: “Brooke, you are amazing. You are so talented. I wish that I had a tiny portion of your talents.”

Brooke replied: “You are talented. You do a really good job on your make up.”

The only problem was that I didn’t wear any make up besides mascara. I wanted to cry. Not because Brooke hurt my feelings but because I wanted to be more than that. I wanted to be a girl that had real talent: The kind that could yield an outstanding vocal performance, a beautiful meal, or a work of art in any medium, on command. One that could win the game, lead the debate or play the lead. Those talents were not me. I was not those talents. Fantastic mascara application was not on my list of desired skills and abilities. After that conversation, I had an epiphany. I don’t remember how it came or where or when but I do know that I gained an acceptance that my talents are different. I am gifted with the talent of being kind. I am gifted with the ability to be peaceful. I have the talent of seeing and creating beauty where beauty was not to be seen in people and in spaces. I came to the realization after that conversation that while I would love to have obvious talent, I am not void of unique talents. They are different than most conventional talents but they are mine, and I’ll take them. It has been a continuous effort to be at ease with the talents I have and continue to develop. But I often think back to that time with Brooke when a simple conversation in the hall helped me learn to be okay with me.

P.S. I have since learned that excellent mascara application is a gift as well. Brooke was right all along.

*My brain has shut down from exhaustion, so this post is going to be two parts. come back tomorrow to meet the final two inspiring siblings (including the only one i originally sat down to write about) (i have a problem staying on task) (and also finishing what i start) (i think i am on the brink of a break through and that could all change tomorrow). The lessons that i have learned from her this year are life changing.

This post is so lame i am embarrassed to push publish post...

***photo taken from fox.com***
I have some profound things rolling around in this mind of mine. Unfortunately they leave me feeling a little too wide open to share. And maybe use of the word ‘profound’ should be reserved for the great thinkers of our time like ‘Lil C and Mia Michaels. So instead I will share with you some of the Halloween 2009 joys thus far.

Last weekend was our trunk or treat. I have been apart from my husband for quite some time now and he was home for this blessed event. Before he came home I expressed to him my loathing for Halloween and he called me a Grinch, a Halloween Grinch. After getting home and having been away from our many (many, many) children his senses were a little edgy. His children’s normal ways seemed a little intensified to him. Due to my ample time with them, their ways seemed intensified to me as well. That evening, he ‘helped’ get them ready (he told them to get their shoes on, to get in the car, and he lovingly placed the crock pot full of the chili that I had made in the car). On the way there he said “wow, I get it now. I hate Halloween too.” We bonded in that moment. Halloween joy #1. He gets it. Halloween is a lot of work. So much work that Lennon didn’t even have shoes at the trunk or treat.

Rewind to earlier that day…I was shopping at Wal-Mart with Lennon and Crue. I was gathering last minute costumes and supplies. They were both seated in the big part of the cart. They were laughing and playing together. Crue decided that he wanted to be funny and lick Lennon on the arm. She freaked out. “Mom! He’s licking me. It’s ‘scusting!” I replied “Lennon, where do you think that Crue learned that licking people is funny?” Then she said “Oh, me. Okay Crue, you can lick me. That’s funny.” And so he did. And so they continued to laugh and laugh and laugh. Then because they were laughing so hard, Crue needed to use the facilities. Wal-Mart facilities. Halloween Joy #2.

Speaking of #2…That brings me to Halloween joy #3. That evening at the trunk or treat, Crue told me that he needed to go potty. It was said with urgency so I heeded and we headed through the parking lot into the restroom. He sat down and did his business. Immediately after he goes these days he freaks out and screams “I’m done! I’m done! I’m done!” and then he bends and grabs my legs to assume the ‘I’m done position.’ I know my role [roll]. That evening was no exception. He insisted that he was done and bent over. I thought that he might not have been quite done but he was so insistent and loud that I figured that he knew what he was talking about. At the exact moment my hand reached in to wipe him, he exploded like a cannon. All over my hand. Then he said “Okay mommy, now I’m done.” Well thank you, son. Happy Halloween. Halloween joy #3, diarrhea on my hand.

Because it doesn’t get any more joyful than that I will spare you the other joys of Halloween. You already know them; hunting for costumes, class parties, dressing up 79 times in one week, baking goodies and/or shopping for baked goods for afore mentioned class parties. And on and on and on. Tomorrow is Friday. Hallelujah!

Before I part, there have been some cute moments today that I want to have down for the record: ***this isn't lennon. it is representation of Lennon in her costume. Lennon's mother is too tired to upload an actual picture of her own child.***

I was getting Lennon ready for her class party this morning. She told me that she was hungry. Specifically, hungry for pizza. Then she was playing with the white triangle on the skirt of her “cheater leader” costume. It was a triangle. Triangle, pizza. Pizza, hungry. She is her mother’s daughter. Every time she looks at the triangle, she gets hungry for pizza.

Today in the store, I was bent down looking on a bottom shelf for something. She came up behind me and hugged me/tried to knock me off balance. I said “Lennon, you can’t do that. Mommy almost fell. Get off of me, please.” Lennon replied “Mom, I am nurturing you. Don’t you love me to nurture you?”

In the next store we were checking out when a very elderly lady stopped to say hello to Crue. She said “Well, hello there.” He smiled the biggest smile and said back “he-yo, pincess” (hello princess). She melted right there in Target. She blushed and everything. He beamed. It was the cutest little thing. One of my favorite Crue moments. My very favorite Crue moment thus far though was on conference Sunday when we were watching conference. He and I were snuggled up in a blanket and he turned to me and put his little hand on my face and said “I yub you mama. So, so much.” Talk about melted. I did. It’s moments like that that sustain me through his pooping on my hand and his doing nothing but crying and throwing fits for about a month now.

I think that about wraps it up for tonight. I have dishes to finish up and an episode of The Office to watch while I fold clothes. And cookies to eat and baked and/or store bought goods to arrange on trays for tomorrows Halloween feasts. Also, I need to find something to serve as a foundation for the cream cheese frosting I made last night. Crackers? A spoon? Cupcakes? So much to do before bed time. A woman's work is never done. I’d better get on it.

Before we part, a quote: It's a quote from Lil C that basically sums me up (except that I am not a young black kid. I am however, a young-ish white Kidd. And also, I am from American Fork, Utah which has been compared historically with South Central L.A.. Christy, pay attention. This one's for you): Anyway, his words really hit home.

"A lot of times people don't understand my words, my lingo, my vernacular, because they think that it's a front. Anybody will tell you around here that's just how I talk. Of course, I'm from the hood, South Central L.A., young black kid. I do know the slang. When it comes to commenting and trying to get people to understand the message, that's the only way I know. I just have a pool of words I just dig in and throw 'em out.
"This is the year of the intelligent black man, of course, you know, with Obama being in office. And what separates him from everybody else is the way in which he speaks. He's so eloquent and the man articulates himself and he's still humble because he still fumbles over his words. He still stutters over his words sometimes, so you know it's not a routine. It's genuine. It's organic. And that's me, I think it's good because I represent that same thing."

Deep.

p.s. i beg of you to leave a comment. this post has me humbled. just tell me it'll be okay. try harder next time. And that you still want to be friends/family. I really need to go to bed.

Handwritten Sentiments

Yesterday I was a grump. Today I was a grump. Tomorrow? We'll see. I've found myself frustrated with certain disciplinary problems with one of my offspring. The one who sprung mostly from Ryan's spring. My spring wouldn't yield such results (i keep telling myself...). Anyways, in the grumpy, gloomy, majority of the day there were some sunny spots. They came in the form of handwritten sentiments. They made me smile and love my kids. They are fun. They are fun. They are fun. They are fun. (She told herself over and over and over again until she actually believed it.) I love to find things around the house that my kids have written about. Little reminders or stories, the first scratches of learning how to write their names, or just drawings that I want to save because they make me smile. It's such a lovely little snapshot of where they are right now in this very stage of their lives. I know that someday I'm going to miss this and so the sentiments get saved more often than is probably healthy (according to professional purgers and organizers). Here are a couple of today's sentiments. (I can't get my computer to save my scanned files. I'm too tired to figure it out.)

Sentiment #1

Piper has been fasting for the past couple of months. She takes it seriously. I am so impressed with her innate desire to take her testimony and spirituality into her own hands. She isn't flying on any one's coat tails. She wants to feel it all first hand and is doing the work necessary to do so. The rest of us on the other hand...slackers. Her sentiment proves it.

"10-11-09

Today I was the only one who fasted in my family! Crazy, right! So I sat there watching everyone eat there breakfast. At lunch the same thing happened, I sat there watching my family eat lunch. I will not quit because I know that this is the right thing to do." (followed by a smiley face with long eyelashes.)

Sentiment #2

It's fall break. The kids have been telling me for the last few days that they are craving Utah. That they miss their baby Kyan. He isn't even going to know them. That they miss Daysen and wish that they could play with him. That they can barely even remember what aunt Brandi looks like ("I'm serious mom!"). That uncle Jahde may or may not have facial hair. They can't remember. It's getting increasingly dramatic. This morning after I got out of the shower I found this awesome sentiment:

"Dear mom/dad,

We would very much like to go to Utah. If you take us your wildest dreams will come true. What do you want from us? We'll give you anything!

Love,

Crayton Kidd and Piper Kidd

(an active member of the church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints)

Please respond in 10 minutes. Thanks."

Those kids...I love them so much. (She tells herself once. And believes it because they are sleeping over at grandma's tonight.)

Potluck Post

Who doesn’t love a good potluck luncheon? Okay, I don’t either. I am always brought back to my childhood when I was playing with all of the neighborhood kids and we ran into Schmarla Schmistiansen’s house (name altered so as not to offend because I am sure that the neighbor from my childhood who is probably now like 80 is reading this post. I doubt that she would ever be able to figure out that I put a ‘Schm’ in place of the real letters of her name.) We all had been playing outside and doing kid things [sweaty, stinky, mud pie making, booger smearing things, I’m sure] when we decided to run through the Schmistiansen’s house. I knew that there were always the Schmistiansen’s 30 cats wandering and destroying the neighborhood. My parents resorted to the trick of sprinkling our trash in the cans with Tobassco sauce. Word of its’ efficacy spread through the neighborhood like wildfire. It was the hot topic amongst my mom and her friends. They had to ban together. Who has time to clean up the contents of entire trash cans every morning? Now, as a mom, I can see how annoying that must have been. The Tobassco saucing technique, however, was much more humane than what the Schmorgenson kids did (with permission from their parents) to the cats. It shall remain unmentioned on this blog, because there have been enough psychological studies done in the last 20 years to know that children who did that to animals have most certainly grown up to be mass murdering cannibals. And heaven forbid they are reading my blog right now. Not that they could possibly de-code the “Schm”. It’s way too complex a system, for even the most cryptic minds.

Anyways, back to the running of the kids through the house. We entered. It was my first time in the house. I had been around the house and knew that it was unkempt. But in the house was a whole different story. The cats. For every one of the 30 cats I had seen outside there were four inside holding down the fort. They were EVERYWHERE. I distinctly remember Schmarla making dinner for her brood of many children. Instant potatoes. I had never seen potatoes in a box before. It was so intriguing. One of her daughters suggested I try some, and then a cat jumped off the counter into her waiting arms. Then three other cats stood around the bowl waiting to see if I loved the potatoes as much as they did. I hesitated because it was against the rules to eat at the neighbor’s houses. It was rude. I also hesitated because I was in shock at the number of cats walking on, lying on, purring on and probably somewhere in the house, birthing on every flat surface in the Schmistiansen home. There was cat hair everywhere and I was feeling really funny inside. But the potatoes beckoned and at the lead of two of her children (one of whom had a huge cold sore or Impetigo) and two other neighbor friends, I did it. I did what they did and scooped out a handful of potatoes and partook. And I knew that if that was wrong, I didn’t want to be right. In that moment, I thought that the 12 Schmistiansen children were the luckiest kids on the block. Maybe in all of Utah County. Instant potatoes were my new dream, now come true. We all must have felt that way because before we knew it the giant bowl was empty. The five of us and the three cats all sat there wanting,no,needing more.

And here begins the Schmistiansen correlation with potluck luncheons. Every time I am at a potluck, I can’t help but think of the cats on the counter and wonder if there is a Schmarla hiding among us, serving up her best grub. When, in reality, if I had any idea what was really going on in that kitchen, I’d throw up in my mouth. I can’t help it though, I always fill my plate. And I almost always find a hidden treasure in the spread of colorful food. Like Schmelly Schmoddard’s creamed corn. Heaven. On. Earth.

At the beginning of this post I intended to make a quick reference to potluck luncheons because I was going to present my week to you and I was certain that it would feel like a potluck luncheon. Mostly boring blandness possibly sprinkled with a gem or two. And then I got carried away and told you way more than I intended. It's stories like this one that make me realize why my parents always gave eachother "the look" when I began telling them a wonderful rendition of a simple event. I have tendency to complicate. Anyways, last night I attended a rocking 80’s themed party. I stayed up until 1:00 a.m. and now I feel hung over. As I type, my head is throbbing and my pictures of the week to upload are in Ryan’s car which he has taken to play a quick game of football before General Conference starts. I’m going to skip the recap of my week. Maybe I’ll finish tomorrow. I’ll give you some appe-teasers though (in keeping with the food theme).

Monday, positive affirmations and the affirmations vs. the truth. Tuesday, a text to melt my heart and annoy my husband. Wednesday, urgent care and some stitches. Thursday, a field trip and realization that dads work through pain, just like moms and don’t get enough credit. Friday, the party. Saturday, well I won’t make you wait for today. I’ll leave you with a picture of me in my current state. I don’t know if you’ll be able to tell, but I washed my hair last night after the party and there is still a streak of pink and remnants of too much teasing, in spite of the oil treatment I applied at 12:30 a.m. I washed my face and there is still a trace of hot pink lip liner, and teal eye shadow. It was that good. But now I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. I’m too old for late nighters. Happy Saturday. I’m off to watch conference. And if we’re still on the subject of food, conference is no potluck luncheon. It is a schmorgesborg (no spell check for that one), chuck full of amazing recipes that were made in the cleanest kitchens around! I can’t wait!!!