Toujours l'amour!

I am not a romantic person. Not from any lack of training in adolescent swoonery--I had my crushes, and no, I will not tell you about them!, nor from any dashed dreams--although that would make a fabulous title for a poorly-written Victorian romance novel. It's simply that romance is too time-consuming and inefficient for the life I choose to live. There are things to do and places to see, so why are you insisting I stroll slowly along this beach? Let's pick up the pace a little, shall we? I am a major disappointment to my husband, who signed onto this marriage with hopes of better things.

Roberto was born with stars in his eyes and romance in his soul. He looked for his one true love for years before settling on me, after very little arm-twisting on my part. He would love nothing more than to dance the night away while whispering sweet nothings into some one's ear --preferably mine. Instead he gets evenings of debate and intense planning, sprinkled with humor and witty repartee if I'm in the mood and not too tired. The closest we come to dancing is when we meet in our narrow hall and have to shuffle around each other. ( I shuffle very precisely, a legacy of years of tap-dancing classes. Roberto took social dance and leaned toward Latin styles. He shuffles with excessive hip action.) Whispered sweet nothings result in requests for q-tips, because they always make me feel like a fly has flown into my ear canal.

He tried for years to convert me. He bought roses when he could afford them, poor guy. I asked him to bring me potted herbs and rose bushes instead. He tried to hold my hand, which was fine until my nose itched (fondling phalanges has that effect on me. It's some sort of coping mechanism, I think) or until I wanted to make a comment which required the full usage of my upper appendages. Hot dates were spent at Home Depot. He gave up in defeat.

It's taken us eleven years, but we've come to an understanding: romance will be defined in strictly non-fairy-tale terms. I watch his carb intake and remind him to exercise. It's my way of saying, "hey--I want you to stick around a while." He cleans the bathrooms and throws away the moldy stuff from the fridge. Better than dragon-slaying and far more hygienic.

Occasionally he does things for me that are the Merkley/Kydd equivalent of "Dearest darling one--you are the light of my life." This week he did one of those things.

I chose to be my own camp director this year--I know: I'm an idiot, that I'm already over-stressed, and that three hours of sleep per day is inadequate, but there are some things that just have to be done!--and scheduled our pre-camp certification for today. Ummmmmmmm, slight problem: our backyard is not a pre-camp-friendly spot--far too many doggie deposits, far too few places to build fires.

Roberto to the rescue! In one week he dug a foundation, poured a concrete slab, and constructed a pre-camp-worthy Dutch-oven space/ fire pit/ barbecue. My hero. Our pre-camp was saved, and my reputation was preserved. (Sadly, the reputation is that I'm an utter goofball, but at least no one had to adjust their concept of me.)

Tell me, isn't that better than a dozen roses any day?

2 p.m.--102 degrees--is it love I smell, or just excessive sweat?

10 p.m.--95 degrees and still going semi-strong!

1 a.m.--almost done!

Lemons into lemonade . . . sort of

Announcement: I'm cheap.

How cheap? you ask. (Haven't you learned not to do that? It only stirs up all sorts of problems, and usually begins another rambling rant from yours truly. So stop doing it! We'll get through this a lot faster if you just sit there quietly and nod your head at appropriate intervals. Like now. Go ahead and nod. Good.)

Very cheap. Oh--you want examples? I warn you, what you're about to read may not be appropriate for all ages, especially those ages who prefer to think money grows on trees. Okay, here goes.

I'm so cheap I:

• made most of my first son's baby and toddler clothes. From remnants. Which were bought with coupons.


• occasionally make my own laundry detergent.


• eliminated the dishwasher from our kitchen ON PURPOSE .


• endure the heat until it gets to 100 degrees.


• asked my husband to give me a used engagement ring. (He did. What a sweetheart!)

So you can understand my absolute frustration when perfectly lovely potatoes head south and start developing appendages. ARRRRRRRRRGH! I hate it when that happens! I spent a whole $1.75 for those things, and they do this in return. Ingrates.

Here's the romantic part of the story: my sweet husband, party to and enabler of my insanity, took the latest batch of tentacled taters, cut them up, and planted them. Isn't he dreamy?

Two months later, guess what we found lurking under one of those leafy things behind the garage:

So, it isn't lemonade, but it'll make pretty fabulous potato salad.

Please ignore the nut case in the background

Date: May 6, 2009, 2:30 p.m.
Place: my house--because I almost never get out of here
Occasion: The tiny tiger crawls for the first time

Bar the doors, 'cause they're all a-movin now!

El poocho es muy repugnante!!!! (How's THAT for a cinco de mayo headline?)

Run. Run for your lives!

It's that time of year again. The time I dread. More than dental visits. More than OB/GYN appointments. More than the monthly call from my (very sweet and absolutely lovely) visiting supervisor--who has never ONCE chided me for my lack of visiting teaching zeal, but who is disappointed in me, nontheless.

It's time for the shedding of the chihuahuas.

Let me explain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up. (Ten points for the correct movie identification!) We have a dog. She is a large, hairy specimen of her species. I'd say breed, but what that may be is any body's guess. (I'm betting on a German shepherd-rottweiler-yeti mix, but I'm no expert.) She is the subject of punch-lines--literally: she actually followed my aunt home one day. We were given the fabulous opportunity to adopt her, and we thought, naively, "Hey, free dog. Cool!" Idiots.

Tibby is, in fact, a very good dog--as far as untrained, affection-starved pooches go. She doesn't attempt to sleep on our bed. (She's deathly afraid of stairs.) She doesn't climb up on the couch. She is a very effective door-to-door salesman deterrent. She eats what we give her without complaint. (That's a better attitude than three of the four children in the house have.)

Alas, no pooch is perfect. Some dogs smell odd; some look odd; some are odd. Tibby is of the last variety. She is a keen hunter of home-baked goods, having eaten whole pans of cookies and brownies--and once a frosted cake--left on counters to cool. (Not that the cake was cooling, of course. It was left out accidentally. No matter--the effect was the same. As were the eventual results and the clean-up.) She has a thing for feet, burrowing under them in desperate and annoying attempts to get belly rubs. She is driven insane by the sound of the doorbell, by knocking on doors, by knocking on wood, by knuckles accidentally tapping on tables, and even by knuckles merely passing millimeters above hard-ish surfaces.

But the worst trait, as stated previously, is the shedding of the chihuahuas.

Tibby is a thick-coated dog--obviously one of those hardy Northern breeds whose fur enables them to survive in extreme cold. Slight problem: we live in the desert. Fur here is a problem. So, when the temperatures start warming into the 90s, Tibby starts to shed. Chihuahuas. Disgusting, grody, fuzzy-matted hairy chihuahuas. (Happily--if such a tern can be used appropriately here, this answers the question of where chiuahuas come from. They are, in fact, a Tibby by-product. like drool, or deposits on the lawn. Just in case you thought they were some sort of dog or something.)

The chihuahuas, knowing I don't smile kindly upon them, scuttle away as soon as they are cast into the world, taking refuge under the refrigerator, under the couch, and under beds. They come out at night to hunt dust bunnies and to exchange tales of survival and non-grooming tips. When dawn arrives, they scurry back to safety. Occasionally one fails to make it back to its lair, and I pounce on it, screaming my war-cry: "AIIIEEEEEEEEEE!!!! WHERE THE HECK DID THIS THING COME FROM???" sweeping it into oblivion. "DIE, YOU FILTHY THING! DIE!" Another day, another hunt, has begun.

I'm on the prowl. Take cover while you can.

Jobe Joy

Saturday was a red-letter day for us: Jobe was baptized. This is BIG. I've never been the mom at one of these occasions before--the sister, the aunt, even the teaching missionary, but never the mom.


Let me tell you how it feels: un-tell-able. There's the disbelief that this child is really old enough --how on earth is he 8?! Then there's the absolute joy that he's prepared himself for this step. And just when you're about to burst from overly-mixed emotions, the actual baptism takes place, and it's overwhelmingly perfect. That's the only way to explain it: perfect. The Spirit testifies, the heart answers, and strange watery stuff starts leaking from eyes.


Moms. We're moist about things like that.






The baptizer and the baptizee. (The rose? An old Merkley tradition. But not as old as I am, since I didn't get one on my baptism day. I am the un-rosed one of legend.)

If it has to do with LDSs, it involves food, right?
Jobe wanted a blue cake, "because water looks blue. right?"
(It was originally a Barbie cake--but we eliminated the incriminating evidence. Lindy loves the incriminating evidence. It's a win-win sort of thing.)

"Aw, man. Two more years until I can have a baptism/Barbie cake."

"TOO. MANY. ICE. CREAM. OPTIONS."

Cereal Killer No More

The fridge is dead! Long live the fridge!

In Memoriam:
Clyde the Fridge, ?-2009

Devoted chiller and family message center, Clyde the Fridge passed today. He is survived by the Kydd family, who barely survived eating anything that came
from his innards.

Clyde was a good fridge, a humble fridge. Of unknown origins and of uncertain vintage, nevertheless he strove to do his duty, remaining cooler than room temperature almost eighty percent of the time.

He came into our lives on a hot August afternoon in 2000, when we purchased him at a used appliance store as part of a package deal. ($600 for Clyde and his siblings, Mabel Washingmachine and Randall Dryer.) He was enthusiastic, eager, and kept our milk nice and cold. He was a bargain hunter's friend.

He slowed down a bit in his later years. In 2004 his lower shelf cracked in two, and he had a replacement shelf inserted using the revolutionary plywood technique developed by Dr. Rob. In 2007 his motor was replaced after a summer of buzzing so loudly he interrupted conversations. In 2008 his door shelf bar was lost, and his grasp on bottles of ketchup and jelly became tenuous. During his last month he required weekly defrosting and was only kept alive by frequent administrations of the blow dryer and ice scoop.

We know he has gone to greener pastures--or at least a dump that someday may be covered over and become a pasture. His space may be filled, but his odor lives on.


And so, in with the new! Meet Mandy, a dandy newer (we're still cheap!) model, sporting a fashionable and eco-friendly bottom freezer, as well as clear-view drawers--no more games of "what's in drawer number three?" ! (It was usually something green, moldy, and unidentifiable.) Mandy comes to us via Craigslist and is already purring away in her corner. We do not expect food poisoning to be a factor in our future food-related events. An open house will be held in her (and Jobe's) honor tomorrow after Jobe's baptism. Cake will be served.

Just a little daub'll do ya!

It's Friday, the first day of May, and I am sooooo done with teaching for the year.

We love homeschooling--really!--it's just by this time of year we've exhausted my meager stock of patience, and the kids are antsy to do something else, and NO ONE WANTS TO DO SCHOOLWORK! (You want proof: it took Jobe five hours--FIVE HOURS!!!!!!!--to do 40 math problems yesterday. Don't even ask. Just send carbohydrate-free chocolate.)

So here's what I figure. I figure we've accomplished all we needed to do August through April, and let's make May a fun month, with all the stuff I wanted to do during the other months, but which the children made impossible by their dawdling. I mean, hey, Jobe has already learned to multiply multiple-digit numbers and to do long division, and Charlie is adding and subtracting like there's no tomorrow, and they both read incessantly. (They'll even pick up a history or a science book if I request it.) So we've done well. I hope.

Therefore, this month we'll be making paper, and using quill pens to write our history books. And we'll create a play and produce it. And we'll bake some alphabet cookies and see if Lindy can remember which one is "A" and which one is "B"--and there will be much rejoicing if she does.

Today's activity: watercolor self-portraits. (I still have supplies left over from college. And you wondered why I was too poor to eat during those years. Perhaps I overbought.)

Gosh, doesn't the garden look verdant. That's the magic of photography, folks! And , yes, that is my daughter in the viking hat.

"Just a little more red . . ."

The finished portraits. Suitable for hanging in the finest salons. Or at least filling frames in the entry. Mine is the one that looks like it was done by a precocious kindergartner. The boys were VERY impressed. I love an overly-appreciative audience, don't you?

So that's the plan: education through creative expression. (It sounds very official when put that way, no?) I'll keep you posted.