Missing a Limb

Last day in California is hoy. With the addition of Hazel, we took some family pics on Sunday. I felt like I was missing a limb without Danny! Bless his little heart.

Matt Won't Care

Scenes from our Saturday morning breakfast at a diner in downtown Willoughby.

This is Matt. We walked in and saw that the place was pretty packed but before we could grab a seat the waitress hollered, "Matt 'll share the end of the counter with ya! He won't bite! Will ya Matt?!" Matt's response? Shoveling more omelette in his mouth. 

Danny's throwback breakfast: steak. Or more accurately ground beef patty.

My sweet and salty pancakes and sausage. I love sausage. Gross.

Baby juke box. Danny wouldn't let me play a song. Kill joy.

Danny leaves tomorrow for Boston. For a MONTH. A month. That is a long time. So I will be spending Valentine's Day traveling to California to hang with the fam. All I asked for for V-Day was a cactus, and I know for a fact Danny didn't get me one. Oh well, now I can pick out my own.

El Casamiento de la Betsy

Betsy married Jackson in Manti, Utah. Besty is my supercool friend, and mission companion. 

She made her hairpiece and helped her mom make her dress. I know! So awesome!

Freshly sealed love.

 

Betsy is an art major, and her mom found this creative guestbook. Each half page was reserved for a sketch of whatever the book prompted, plus room to sign your name, obvio. For example, since I couldn't sketch the whole periodic table, I chose to sign on a page that said "secret door" and drew an ugly door covered with vines and rocks. 

Aside from the other delicious food (pulled pork, cornbread, mountains of fruit...) and desserts, this was their charming Tres Leches Cake covered in strawberries and cacti that Betsy made herself.

There we are, standing at the reception, minding our own business when all of a sudden my mission president and his wife breeze through the door! Whoa. Not expecting that. I was shocked to find my eyes filling with tears at the sight of them because I never felt like I deeply bonded with them (unlike most missionaries). I think it was the rush of all those memories and emotions coming back all at once.

Yes, we three (me, Abi, Betsy) were in a trio for three days. It was chaos. 

Cutie Jackson!

Two and a half of Betsy's three sisters. Poor Elise got hacked. Isn't it funny how different the sisters complexions are? Margaret looks like Rapunzel. Oh and their brother Preston is a dead ringer for Prince Harry. I wish I would have gotten a picture of the fab Jini, Betsy's if-you-were-a-boy-I'd-marry-you BFF and bridesmaid. Jini was in the MTC with us, she went to Germany.

Dancing in the backyard. Betsy holding Elise's baby. Lots of crazy dance moves. The reception was at This Is The Place Park in SLC, in the Kimball house. It was cool and old. The whole reception had a rustic, slightly latin-slash-victorian feel. Does that make sense?

 My cutie husband bustin' a move.

It was entertaining to watch Clarissa dance. Here it appears she has broken her wrist.

Amiguitas. Yay Betsy Brown!

Coke Army

Today the Coke Army took over the bottom shelf, engulfing the juice.

Don't you think Danny's orange juice is the icky kind? I don't like the false tangy orange flavor that sticks to the back of your tongue. You know the kind, the one that you got at birthday parties as a kid. Whoever thought cake and orange juice went together is sick. Just sick.

Friends, Flowers, and a Graduation

What's going on in Rexburg?

Well, there are still packs of unnecessary six-tire diesel trucks roaring around, regularly breaking the sound ordinance. And I say unnecessary because these aren't the farmers hauling potatoes, these are the pretty boys. Our neighbors are pretty boys. We've got 'Lexus boy' on the right and 'I'm-too-cool-to-drive-a-car-with-only-four-tires' on the left.

What else, what else? Oh, yes. Z.Bob's wedding. And Danny's graduation. We'll do graduation first because he's my spouse. But let's face it, while graduations are exciting, nothing really compares to a fun wedding.

Yay! Three schools in 10 years and now graduation!

What-what.

And now for the big guns. 

Bob and Dave!

Disclaimer: I'm not very good at taking pictures. Any good pictures you see below (that are arranged in no order whatsoever) were taken by the lovely Kristin. Thanks Kristin, for letting me rip you off. 

Look at that dress! Gorgeous! And it was so her. She was perfection!

Bob's bouquet...sorry I had to chop Lisa off.

The Stauffer family.

Amigos. This is my public apology for messing up the picture by looking at the wrong photographer. Whoops. L to R: Siera, Me, Bob, Alex, Lauren, Kristen.

The bride looked so fine.

Enough said.

Guest table. Their theme was lovebirds, so instead of a guest book, you put your thumb print on a tree.

Delicious cake.

Tables.

After fireworks about to make the sparkler tunnel.

Carrie primping Bob. Carrie is does amazing hair and makeup.

Another shot of the tables. They're still missing quite a few flower arrangements here.

Head table. The meal was catered by the taco bus. Yum!

Beverage table/Bobbie & Dave memory lane.

Yes, they had a pinata. It was AWESOME.

At the end of the night, all the flowers were going to be thrown away! I was distraught. So Danny ran home and got a box and we will filled it with flowers. I have three arrangements in every room. Like the roses, peonies, and dahlias with Frida...

Hydrangeas on the bookcase...

Roses in the bathroom...you get the idea.

The end. Posting this many pictures was annoying. So it may be a while before I blog again.

Rogue Guest Post

Introductions are in order!

My name is Daniel Toone, and I go by Danny—not Dan. Dan is Jane’s dad’s name. And I am hijacking this blog.

Regardless of what Jane says, her last name is not Sroufe, but Toone. It’s my doing, and I’m proud of forever tagging her with an ugly and obnoxious last name. There is at least one benefit to her new surname: Now when people say her last name for the first time, they don’t sound like they’re trying to imitate a Yorkshire Terrier.

I have ADHD. If you that don’t know what that means, I will explain. Hey look! A butterfly! What was I saying again? Oh yeah, ADHD. I have trouble paying attention to things. I can’t keep a stable train of thought. I tend to focus on whatever is most interesting in whatever place I find myself in. In some cases this is a butterfly. Other times it’s cute little babies. If a teacher is talking about a subject I already know about, I am probably paying attention to the loose thread in one of my socks, or calculating the market size of strike-anywhere matches in India on my phone’s calculator. And if you think my [insert random appendage here] is twitching for no reason at all, then you are right.

Oh, and if you give me a list of rules to follow, you better learn how to summarize that list into one single rule, or I am liable to stop paying attention and not follow any of them.

A lovely little fact about Jane is that she has OCD. Forty to 60 percent of the time she’s awake her mind is obsessively preoccupied about something. That something, for her, happens to be germs. Her life is led by a complex series of rules that help her cope with the multitude of germy objects that may afflict her.

So if you extend your hand to her, expecting a handshake, expect to get a quizzical look for about five seconds as she analyzes how many and what types of things you have touched since you last washed your hands. And then she will shake your hand. If you are lucky. However, if you have greasy hair, a wrinkly shirt, a zitty face, or visible grime anywhere on your body, don’t expect a handshake. She can conclude from this minute amount of evidence that you have not washed your hands within the last eight hours, and therefore your hand is a festering trailer park with germs as its gap-toothed residents. Literally.  

A romantic haiku that I wrote for Jane when we were still courting:

Two peas in a pod

ADHD, OCD

Man, our kids are screwed.

As you can tell, I’m both an irresistible romantic and an incredible poet. But more importantly, I’m a visionary. Let me explain.

Two weeks ago, Jane and I had a little tiff. Usually when we have tiffs, we just call each other names like fart-knocker or poopdeck because I drive like an old man, or because Jane doesn’t realize that she has been in the shower for 45 minutes. This tiff was different. I had committed an unforgiveable sin. I put my pillow on the ground.

Pillows to Jane are like cows to the Hindu people. You always wash your hair, face, and neck, every night, before you lay your head on them. Pillows must never touch the outside part of the bedspread, as it is unclean (although the inside part of the bedspread is clean, thank heavens). And the most important rule of all: They must NEVER touch the ground. Any pillow which comes in contact with the ground must immediately be washed and sanitized by a lengthy high heat drying cycle before it can come in contact with the bed again.

In my haste to fall asleep after an exhausting day, I lay upon the bed (on the bedspread because I hadn’t taken a shower and was not permitted inside the bed), and I pushed all 50 pillows on top of the bed to one side. A pillow big enough to serve as a body pillow kept getting in my way so without thinking I threw it off the bed onto the floor.

A few minutes go by and I am awoken from my slumber by a growl. Or a shriek. I can’t remember exactly. But it wasn’t pleasant. Jane is pacing at the foot of the bed with a sickly expression on her face. Upon asking, “What’s wrong?” the look transforms into a raging anger that could only be rivaled by a Greek chick named Lyssa. I ask again, “What’s wrong?!” And she stomps out of the room nearly in tears saying “NOTHING!” Uh oh.

Apparently, because I know that pillows are more sacred than cows, any infringement of the rules for pillows was a direct and intentional insult, a personal attack meant to strike at the very core of her soul. I didn’t really know each and every rule by heart, so I apologized and I asked her what I was supposed to do when the pillows got in my way.

Now she is much calmer, and begins to tell me what to do. I hear her tell me Rule One. I hear her tell me the Rule Two. Once I hear her launch into Rule Three, I think, “I wonder if the per-capita GDP of Uganda is higher than Kenya after you account for purchasing power parity?” Okay, maybe I wasn't thinking that, but at the very least it was “Hey look! A butterfly!”

It wasn't long before Lyssa-face was back and I was barraged by a set of words that only the devil himself could have invented.

This is why I said I’m a visionary. At the time that I wrote my Haiku there was no way for me to know that our kids would be screwed. But they are. There is no way around it. By choosing to procreate at some time in the future, we have impaired the lives of our unborn children due to the genetic traits that are inevitably bound to be passed on. They’ll be born with a complex set of rules that will govern their lives so that they can be free from germs, and simultaneously be afflicted with an attention span that makes it impossible to follow rules.

I can hear it now: “Hey look Daddy! It’s a dirty butterfly! Keep it away from me!!!!”

Trouble

Conversation about joint bank account.

Danny: This would be so much easier (sputter) if you (angry sputter) just.... 

Jane (makes innocent eyes): Hmm. What?

Danny (all angry sputters): If you could just put your name! Your REAL NAME! TOONE!

Uh oh. I think Danny's remembered I haven't changed my name yet. Can't it be Jane Elizabeth Sroufe Toone? I know Sroufe isn't the greatest last name ever (nor is Toone) but I identify with it! I had to wear frumpy, mannish clothes and be called 'Sroufe' for 18 months--doesn't that count for something!?

Shouldn't I be able to scrunch my maiden name in between my middle and married name? It's not even dignified to scrunch it in there, 'Jane Sroufe Toone' doesn't have some wonderful ring to it but I just want it. I need it. Is that so bad?

100 Ways To Kill A Peep

In honor of Easter, we killed a peep. Actually, we killed several because I couldn't resist eating a few while we took pictures. Mmm, fluffy. Our inspiration came from the blog 100 Ways To Kill A Peep. I think I'm going to submit our train scene and see if it gets posted.

I love the mustached pink bandit peep. You wouldn't believe it, but it's kinda hard to draw a mustache on a peep. We were going to do a gang fight between the pink and yellow peeps, but Danny hasn't finished making mini weapons yet and I don't know if we'll still be in the mood tomorrow.

Isn't peep a fun word to say? 

A Monster

Over the weekend I bought a few skin care masques. You know, one for hydrating, one to reduce the appearance of pores, etc. I’m running around the house with my moisturizing mask on and talk Danny in to let me apply one on him.

“Oh your skin would react so well to the clay masque,” I say. 

So he lets me apply it. He takes it off a few minutes later, no comment, and continues watching his soccer game. The next morning in the middle of a church meeting he leans over and whispers, with a sheepish but concerned look on his face, “Um…does my skin still look good?”

I’ve created a monster.

…Stay tuned for 100 Ways to Kill a Peep, coming soon!