You know how something horrible happens and you swear you’re not going to blog about it because it’s just too ugly? See, whenever I do that it’s like the little devil writer in me says, “Oh yeah? Well fine! We’ll write a column about it then LOTS of people can read it.” I hate that writer, she’s so stupid.

So this week’s column is my new dirty little secret. It’s not going to sound that bad to you, and you might even wonder why I’m so hesitant to publish it (obviously not that hesitant), so I’ll tell you. I hate the way it sounds out loud. It sounds like possibly the ugliest thing in the world, and I really try to avoid ugly when I can. In fact, I’ve refused to let Jason even call it by name. We’re now referring to it as my “condition”.

So that’s it. Go ahead, read all about it if you must.

So I’m redoing my craft room (thanks to a little inspiration from Tanya’s post over at The Keepings and a lot of inspiration from my favorite interior design blog by this girl here). I would post pictures right now, but we’re not quite there.

Because of a stupid picture.

The thing is, Jason and I agree on just about everything as far as house and home goes. We don’t argue about color palats, furniture choices, lamps, throw pillows (with the exception of this hot pink one I love–he thinks is pukey), or bed spreads. To put it in english, he provides the cash, I do just about whatever I want to the house.

With the exception of one, stupid wall, and one stupid picture. This picture.

He loves BYU athletics. At work, he gets framed photos of LaVelle Edwards and Steve Young put up way before he even thinks about his wife and kids. I’m okay with that, it’s his hobby and out of the office passion, and I’ve come to accept that part of him.

But do I have to accept this very unattractive, expensively framed picture? Here I am, killing myself off to create a craftroom/office haven, and what is the very first thing you look at when you step into the room?

You guessed it. Steve and Company.

And the worst part? There’s no way it’s coming down. It’s THE ONLY piece of decor in the entire house that he feels passionate about, the only thing he’s ever requested, and I already let him hang it once. (That was a big mistake on my part. I thought the office would forever remain a dumping ground for the unwanted furniture in my life. How was I supposed to know I’d wake up and want to decorate it one day?)

The way I see it, I only have three options. First, do the entire room in BYU colors and paraphanalia. Unfortunately (and despite the fact that I love being BYU alum), that idea just made me throw up in my mouth.

Second, I could let him hang this photo in our bedroom (the only other not-yet-decorated room in the house). But that might inspire him to start keeping score, so it’s probably not the best place either.

It looks like I’ve only got one viable option: leave the blasted picture right where it is and pretend like I can’t see it every time I walk into the room. That’s right, BYU football wins again.

Do yourself a favor, never let your man buy wall art.

I went to the grocery store today and got two looks.

Now, normally this would be a thrilling thing. Normally, two looks would get me through until my next birthday. But unfortunately they weren’t “that” kind of look, (you know, the look you hope to get when you actually fix your hair for the first time in a month?) they were the other kind. Not really a look, more like a horrified stare. Why? Because my friends, I have a zit.

This is not one of those easy to hide little monthly bumps that periodically visits my chin, this baby is Mt. St. Helens, circa 1978. And it’s right next to my nose, the focal point of my face. It’s so big, I think it actually has five heads, and they’re all staying just below blast off range. The skin is stretched so tight I think I might actually get stretch marks.

And as for the looks, there’s a double take, then there’s a double zit take. With the double zit take, the gazer kind of squints one eye and tilts his head to get a better look at the crater in the center of your face. Then he quickly looks away and pretends like he wasn’t just staring down the view from Kilamanjaro.

It’s easy to catch them, because they’re so busy staring at your zit they don’t usually realize you’re looking at their eyes.

It almost made me wish I’d worn a padded push-up bra just to distract the greater public from my pimple. (Frankly, pimple is far too kind a word for this bad boy.)

And so, out of complete and total desperation, I decided five minutes ago to pull out the Windex. That’s right, I’m going to try a Big Fat Greek Trick and put some amonia on this baby.

I’ll keep you posted. And no, I’m not attaching a photo.

Over two hundred years ago, a group of colonists did the impardonable: they told the mother ship to take their tea and shove it.

When England slapped a tea tax on the colonists in 1773, it was the tea leaf that broke the camel’s back.  Tired of being bossed around and lorded over, the American colonists dug in their heels and refused the cheap government tea.

A group of 200 some Boston colonists, dressed in American indian costumes that were no doubt inspired by their wives (hey, you can’t tell me some woman didn’t influence them somewhere), converged on the floating tea shipment, and proceeded to dump three shiploads of tea into the harbor.

This charade was none other then the catalyst that sparked the American Revolution. And why did those early American’s make such a fuss over a bunch of otherwise affordable tea? Because they believed in a simple truth: No taxation without representation. And they were willing to die for it.

And so, on this election day, I think we owe it to those early colonists to not just raise our diet cokes or lattes or mugs of herbal tea in a salute to freedom, but we’d better high tail it to the nearest voting booth and cast a ballot.

So go vote. (They’re watching you.)

Forgive me, I don’t have any pictures on my camera from last night’s Halloween party because we forgot to take the camera. But do not fear, I’m having another go at it tonight and will be sure to make Jason snap lots of photos. Besides, I only had five minutes to throw my makeup on and it looked pretty sloppy. One thing about Kat’s makeup, it’s never sloppy. I looked a little more like Kat in Drag than anything.

But the party!! Oh, the party was a smashing success. Seriously, it went off almost without a hitch (we were a little late getting the food out, but there was so much other stuff that it didn’t matter. Besides, the fire alarm only got pulled once).

And let me tell you, from now on, I will rent a Bounce Slide for every single ward function we have, sacrament included (if the Bishop will let me), because the four and under crowd played on that thing for hours. My two youngest were so exhausted that they fell into bed without a peep and didn’t move a muscle until morning.

And the spook ally’s! The youth had spook ally’s all over the church, and after we’d carnivaled in the gym for a good hour + , eaten and announced the costume contest results, we dismissed all the kids to the spook ally’s. It was so good my six year old was actually in tears.

And what do you think I did last night after finally collapsing in bed? I laid awake for an hour ruminating about the ward Christmas party. (It’s going to be a dinner theater production and I’m going to arrange babysitting for the little kids and a movie for the slightly older little kids, and we’re going to have…)

Some people might call this behavior excessive or just plain crazy, but in our church we prefer the word magnify. Like magnifiscent. Which is what the Christmas party will be. I think He deserves it.

I got a new calling two months ago. Let me tell you, if I could apply for any calling in the Church, this would be it. In fact, I doubt my bishop has ever seen anyone so excited at the prospect of serving. I am the new ward Activities Chairperson! This is perfect because I LOVE TO PLAN PARTIES. As long as they’re not at my house, and I don’t have to scrub toilets ahead of time, I’m all over the event planning business.

So we’re having a spooktacular ward Halloween carnival bash on Friday at the church, complete with a bounce castle and slide, games, face paint, photo booth, food, and four different Spook alleys. We’ve even got human Whack a Mole (in this case, Smash a Pumpkin).

But I’ve been so busy working out the kinks that I haven’t given much thought to what I’m going to wear (this is shocking, since my outfit is usually paramount in my mind). But yesterday I was at Walmart stocking up on candy when I saw it: the perfect black wig.

And so, with no further adeau, I am please to announce that I am going to be none other than the one, the only, Tattoo Queen of the Universe, Kat Von D.

Okay, so even with the best push up bra on the planet, my boobs have never looked even remotely like that, and let’s face it, the only way anyone can wear a white swimsuit is with some serious editing. (I’m convinced she doesn’t actually look like this in unairbrushed life, but I think this is a really cool picture.)

Now all I have to do is pencil in a few fake tattoo dots and some eyebrows (mine are transparent), strap myself into a girdle and some tight pants, throw on those $2 tattoo arms from Walmart, and I’m a very cheap, watered down version of Kat Von D.

And the best part? Jason has agreed to be her Motley Crew boyfriend, Nikki Sixx.

I wonder how long the Bishopric will keep me around…

Vacations are not healthy. You get this nice, relaxing dose of life without responsibility, then you’re slammed back into reality, high heels first.

It hasn’t been the best week. I seem to have lost my sense of humor for motherhood, and my patience tank (which was already running low) was lost in baggage claim.

So today we went to Ikea. I love Ikea. Why? Because not only is stuff cheap, but they have a delightful fee-free daycare for the toilet trained toddler in your life. In my mind, this trip was going to be a breeze. How hard can one kid at Ikea be?

Unfortunately, I forgot one little Sweedish detail: the kids have to remove their shoes. That’s right, they wanted Rex to take off his sneakers. Let me tell you, the first thing out of that boy’s mouth every morning is, “where are my clothes and shoes? I need my shoes!”

Trying to get him to part with his tennies was like asking one of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles to give up his shell. He freaked out, and the only option I had was to keep him with me.

Five minutes into our field trip June was screaming (which she’d been doing since 6 am), and Rex was having fits because he couldn’t play in the play center, and all I wanted to do was look at shelving. That’s all. Nothing more. Shelving.

When I finally found what I was looking for and stopped the cart, Rex started yanking on my coattails. Seriously, he was pulling me as hard as he could by the back of the shirt, trying to get me moving toward the play area. I tried to gently dissuade him from pushing the volcanic eruption button, but he wouldn’t give it up.

So I snapped.

It was like all my pent up frustration with my whiney babies and my very sore foot (and no, I don’t want to talk about the foot) seemed to gel at just the wrong moment. Before I had time to censor myself, I reached back and whacked him.

And two old ladies saw me.

To make it worse, he started to cry and told me I hurt his feelings.

In that moment of behavioral clarity, I felt like a fool. The fog cleared and things were suddenly obvious: here I am, a grown adult with my own agenda, dragging to very grumpy children around by their shirt collars to goodness knows where while I try to run errands that they despise, and I get mad at them for not puppeting along behind me like shiny, happy people.

I appologized to Rex, and once again reviewed my goals for the day: Do not spank or yell.

That is the toughest list I’ve ever had.

I hate flu season. I especially hate it when I’ve put off vaccinations only to find out that we missed the first batch and have to wait until Thanksgiving for the second round.

But my main reason for hating flu season? I can’t take the June Bug to nursery on Sunday if her nose has even the teensiest drip.

This is a good rule, I totally support this rule, but I could curse her dratted drippy nose right about now. See, I get a break from the other two with school and preschool, but nursery on Sunday is the only time during the week where I get to shove her off on some other unsuspecting adult without feeling guilty. That equals two restful hours where I don’t have to constantly pay attention to her.

Like right now. She’s supposed to be in bed, napping. But I can hear her, about five feet behind me, being unsuccessfully sneaky and totally naughty. Maybe if I don’t turn around, I won’t have to deal with her. Maybe if I close my eyes and try really hard to ignore her, she’ll decide she really is sleepy after all, sneak back to her bed, and GO TO SLEEP.

I love her, but I really hate flu season.

Let’s face it, I can make excuses about how the kids need to eat early for the next 18 years, but if I don’t buckle down and bite the broccoli here soon, they’ll be grown and gone and will think China is just a country in Asia. It’s time for dinner.

Check out this week’s column for my take on family dining.