You know you do it. Before you start defending yourself, it’s OK. Everyone does it.

I am nearly positive that everyone has surfed the web, taken a call, or conducted some business, while conducting other business at least half a dozen times.

Personality Types of John-Talkers

Some people only talk on the phone (while on the john) in the privacy of their home.

Others feel comfortable talking on the phone in any bathroom- WalMart, the airport, McDonalds, work, church, you name it!

I know a few people who are insecure about their cell-phone bathroom secret. They try to hide their bathroom sounds. Never, ever will these people flush while on the phone. Instead, they finish their conversation and flush afterward. People- I have something to tell you. You aren’t fooling us. 

It kind of makes you think twice about borrowing someone’s cell phone, doesn’t it?

In the Toilet

With all of this bathroom talk, it is bound to happen. At some point, you might just do, what we just did. Yes, it is true. Someone in my home (who shall stay unnamed) dropped their iPhone in the frickin toilet.

This is not uncommon. In fact, I did a Google search and there are 4,340,000 web pages with the phrase “cell phone in the toilet.” I am not sure if I should feel better about our predicament or worse about society.

Anyway, if this happens, what do you do? Don’t worry. We can help. Follow these steps and you will be back to talking while making nature calls again- in no time.

7 Easy Steps for Fixing Your Toilet-Drenched iPhone

1. Retrieve the phone from the toilet. Quickly. Do not stop to pull up your pants.
2. Dry the phone off on a towel, your shirt, your dropped drawers- whatever you can grab.
3. Pull up your pants.
4. Blow-dry your phone. Do this for a really long time. Curse if you need to.
5. Put your phone in a bowl of rice for 24 hours. The rice will absorb the extra water.
6. Give up on the frickin rice idea. Swear again.
7. Go to AT&T and drop hundreds of dollars on a new phone. Curse one more time.

Voilà. You are back in business. Assume your position on the throne and hold your phone REALLY tight.

Disclaimer: The individual mentioned above claims to have been walking towards the toilet with their phone, when it launched from their grasp and landed in the toilet. The individual is adamant he/she was not watering the horse with phone in hand. OK. We believe you.

For those of you that know me, you are well aware that my passion is gardening. I believe this obsession may have begun when I was in the womb. Wait- probably even before then. There is most likely some genetic code in my DNA that is the root of my addiction. (Root. I know, I know, could I be any more clever?)

My Mom lives to garden and always has. I blame her for my obsession. Only my mother could understand the excitement that is brought on by a new load of dirt with peat moss. Further, only my mother gets the obsessive/compulsive behavior required to keep planting bulbs late into the night with a flashlight and bucket of water. For this, I love my mother.

I didn’t always love digging in dirt. My Mom used to require all of us kids to fill at least one bucket of weeds each summer morning. (I learned quickly to pull really big weeds.) As I grumbled under my breath, I vowed to never subject my kids to such torture. I was going to be a nice mom, a cool mom, the kind of mother that all the neighborhood kids wished they had. I would let my kids play all day and never, ever, EVER make them pull weeds. Further, I would have an entire yard filled of grass and not waste time or money on perennials, annuals, seeds, veggies, or anything else that grows in the ground.

Enter the genetic code.

The addiction is so strong that I wake up in the middle of the night and consider going outside and planting. If there isn’t anything to plant, I think about heading to the nursery… again and again.

A few days ago I got a pretty deep sliver while gardening. Like an idiot, I listened to some sage advice and left it in my finger- thinking it would work itself out. Today, I have a finger the size of a hot dog. It hurts so much that I am pretty sure my entire heart has migrated out of my chest, down my arm, and into my finger. I went to the doctor who attempted to remove the sliver without much success.  I was put on an antibiotic (yuck) percocet (yum) and was told to keep my finger clean and dry.

So, what did I do? Tonight when I was done working, I headed out to my yard and amended my soil. I think I need some serious counseling. Is there a gardening anonymous group I can frickin join?

Kids are the best! Nothing makes me laugh harder than the cute expressions that come out of my four-year old. Last night, I was working in my basement office when I heard Sadie upstairs. She sounded stressed, so I ran up to the kitchen to see what was bothering her. She had her face and hands pressed up against the sliding glass door and was yelling:

“Stop Snowing! Stop Snowing!”

I asked her what was wrong, and she replied, “The snow is not listening to me and that is not very nice.”

She cracks me up. Only Sadie would think that she could control the weather. Sometimes I find us competing for the alpha female role at home, and a lot of times she wins. If you know me very well, this takes some serious effort.

One day after I came home from work, I noticed her hair looked cute. I asked her if Daddy did her hair that morning. She replied, “Yes, but he is only a boy.”

A few weeks ago, Sadie was whining because she was trying to roller-skate in our family room. (OK, before you think I am crazy, the skates have never been used outside.) She was frustrated because HER toys were in the way. I suggested that she clean them up instead of whining. Her response, “But, I am not a mom.”

She has been especially fond of Pinocchio lately, and asks to watch it on my iPhone, eight minutes at a time via youtube. This activity can keep her occupied for over an hour each viewing. (I am becoming especially fond of Pinocchio too, come to think of it!) The funny thing is, no matter how many times she watches the movie, she refers to Pinocchio as Uh-nocchio. We have told her over and over again that it is P-inocchio. Yesterday she said, “Mom, try again. It isn’t PA-nocchio, it is UH-nocchio. Say it with me- Uh-nocchio.”

Her favorite activity (next to watching Uhnocchio) is taking pictures on my iPhone. I have noticed the picture gallery growing on my phone recently. I now have over 50 pictures of her not-so-clean room (see above), 30-40 close-ups of Johnny, even more close-ups of Sadie, as well as about 10 pictures of our TV. Even as I type this post, she is busy taking pictures. So far, we have pictures of this post, her chair, the computer and the floor.

I heart her! Mommyhood is the frickin best!

Yesterday my friend and I went on a walking tour of our neighborhood. We visited with a number of our neighbors that have outstanding Richmond American warranty issues. We are excited to report that Richmond American has been very responsive, and has agreed to repair driveways, garages, drywall, stucco, porches, insulation, sprinkler systems, and other items.

While we were walking, our conversation turned to the sidewalks. Who is responsible for this eyesore? Is it Richmond American, Eagle Mountain or the Home Owners Association? There are huge sections that are spalling, cracked, chipped, and need repair.

A couple years ago, some moronic “repair” crew (I wonder who hired them, and further PAID them? C’mon folks, that was one frickin shoddy job!) came through our neighborhood and spray-painted circles around every cement problem. A few days later, a couple of inexperienced laborers came through and slopped some cement on top of the holes and cracks. Today, the cracks and spalling are worse than ever, and to add insult to injury, the spray-painted circles are still there, calling greater attention to them. There are approximately two to three of these “patches” in front of every home. What the frick? Who’s idea was that?

My parents have lived in a Lindon subdivision for almost ten years, and their sidewalks look great. This makes me wonder: Is this a Richmond issue or an Eagle Mountain issue? Perhaps both? I am curious if any other subdivisions have the same problem. Our sidewalks make our neighborhood look ghetto, and are a safety concern for kids on bikes, scooters and tricycles.

I took the pictures showing the cracks in front of my home. There are other houses in the neighborhood that are considerably worse. The sidewalk section adjacent to my driveway is spalling (the top is chipping off) but it is not as bad as the sidewalk shown below.

As responsive as Richmond has been regarding outstanding warranty issues, I am curious what their recommendation is on this.

Now that our houses are getting fixed, it would be really nice to have beautiful sidewalks as well. With all of these improvements, I might want to stay awhile! Can you say summer block party? Frick yeah!

With all the emotion I have in my soul, I have tirelessly embarked upon a journey of frickin artistic discovery. Richmond American, I dedicate this ode to thee.

For four long winters

I trembled on icy, frigid nights where heat escaped me.

For forty-eight unending months

I stumbled on our driveway, falling, trying to protect my Nordstrom shoes from gravel marks.

For one thousand, four hundred days

I wiped away tears of frustration over a dryer-vent that whipped through the air mercilessly, unable to be attached to the outside vent.

For 33,600 hours

I cursed the plastic covering our main floor fireplace, prohibiting its use.

For 2,016,000 minutes

I glared at my windows, wishing they protected me from heat and cold.

For 120,960,000 seconds

I swore I would never buy another Richmond Home.

Now, I shall change my song and begin a count anew.