If you're female, and married to a feminist, what does that make you?

That makes you Kristen, the little sister of The Mister of the House. For any and all conservative readers out there, I would like to expand you're world a bit by sharing this little revelation: some feminists are....male.

[shudder] whaaaaa. ?

I know you didn't realize that this was possible, but alas, it is true. And Kristen's other half, an Olsen transplant like myself, is a self-proclaimed "hard-core feminist".

As far as I can tell, being married to a feminist means that Marshall (guilty party) likes to make bread, play with his kids, adore his wife, and become sweetly stubborn when he encounters a world that exploits for the sake of power, that furthers injustice for the sake of greed, or that says his kids aren't the cutest mutts on the block.

In Mrs. Olsen's ongoing series called "Here's my family in 8X10 black-and-white snippets sharing a kiss for my future kissing wall" I hereby present Kristen & Marshall:

What makes their love unique? Marshall's muddied the Olsen gene pool with his trim-if-you-dare Grandpa eyebrows. And Kristen is the only person in my generation that, immediately upon marriage, frequently began using the word "dear".

Dear, could you bring me a diaper for Peter?

Let's sit down and watch a "Soldier's Peace" dear, I hear it's an excellent documentary.

No matter how hard I try, I cannot call The Mister of the House "dear", it's so granny to me. And I absolutely adore that this crazy couple frequently uses this moniker. Kristen, if you're reading this: please don't stop.

What else makes their love unique? Kid #1 was conceived in Africa. Kid #2 was conceived in Jerusalem. They have traveled, worked, and served all over the globe, and when they finally came back "home" they took the Olsen Family on a

500-mile journey after Marshall served in the Iraq War. They are passionate about life, their kids, and making the world a better place...for all the people they hold dear to their hearts.

Now that I'm getting a little age on my back, I've been thinking about who I am, how I've changed, and why I could happily be buried in the Colorado River running silty through the Grand Canyon.

You see my point is, that I once hiked through The Grand Canyon and was annoyed to learn that the average visit time was fifteen minutes. And how if I tried to hike right now, I would probably cry and not even have fun. My body testifies of a different life. But my spirit remembers. And smiles.


And how I truly in my heart adore old friends who are sacrificing their taut figures, and degrees, raising little kids who love the Lord. Seeing them do this knowing that once we slept on the trampoline under the stars, dreamed about boys together, or jogged alongside Idaho wheat fields makes motherhood more inspiring to me.


And hearing stories about The Mister's Grandma B (of those yummy caramel marshmallows) and how she grew up in the Depression. Her dirt-poor folks scrounged to get enough sugar to make...lollipops. Just one lollipop for each kid at Little Bernice's birthday party. Excited, she invited her entire class to her birthday party. She proudly displayed the suckers as a rare sweet treat for her guests. Then she waited. And waited. and no one came.

And you know what? She refused to celebrate her birthday for years. Oh, she was giving and loving and serving. But when it came to her birthday, forget it. Get back to her tomorrow. In her 80's, her family finally said enough is enough and threw a surprise party for her.

She was surprised alright. And she cried like a little girl.

Her body testified of service, love, and hours of cooking for her five kids. But her spirit remembered. And what? maybe it was relief. I'm sure it was part love. plus a little sad. maybe.


Power mother and dear friend who was horribly abused by various men in her life, some related. Pulling up the past and looking at it square in the face and empowering herself to rewrite history:


A piece of her will always be rising above the pain to love, serve, and protect her family. And as a testament to the wondrous nature of our spirits (as divinely gifted by a loving Heavenly Father) she has powered through the pain to be filled with more compassion, more love.

A piece of me will always feel a sisterhood for female returned missionaries. A piece of me will always wish I was carefree and careless on Apache Avenue. A piece of me will always cheerlead a woman giving birth at home. A piece of me will always be a daughter. Now a wife. A piece of me...someday...will always remember and cherish little chubby arms reaching across my head, tripping me when I turn from the sink, crying when their toy is broken, and peeing their bed.

Okay, not the last one. Just checking if you were still with me.

And so I lay awake at night, and see SIXTY just around the corner. And hope to have some eternal friends who will look back with me, and remember, and smile. Because a piece of me will always pray, and hope, and yearn that my children will rise up knowing their divine heavenly parentage, and that...in spite of me...and maybe even because of me...they will be happy.

the end.

Since we're a good 8 weeks since New Year's and all those fruitless resolutions, I thought it would be safe to post a delightful, gooey, sweet, crunchy treat that are a favorite of The Mister of the House.

The reluctant poser introduces famous home cooking by Grandma B...beloved Granny to The Mister of the House who passed away in 2002.

• stick of butter
  
• sweetened condensed milk
  
• caramel squares (80)
  
• marshmallows, big ones
  
• Rice Krispies
  
  
  

Insider tip:

You want those marshmallows to be soft, each one still holding their individual dusting. See how they naturally separate when I open up the bag. Use marshmallows like these, not the leftover bag from canyon s'mores.

Snip those suckers in half.










Melt the butter, milk, and caramels in a double boiler. If you don't have a double boiler (like me) no big deal! Boil water and put a pie plate or casserole dish above the water (but not immersed at all in the water).

sugar + fat = cure for all your emotional pains

I heard that once from Marlon Brando, or maybe it was Rikki Lake. Anyway, sound advice that works!

Stir it together. When it look like this, you're ready to roll. Let's set up our assembly line. Right to left:

1) marshmallows 2) caramel 3) rice krispies 4) wax paper

Yum.

Anybody that has come to this blog for second helpings should know who the following guy is. If you're here for the first time, welcome! and please meet Rainbow Girl's first crush:

Glen Hansard. Musician. Irish. And one-time movie star in the indy film "Once" (p.s. Rainbow Girl saw the TV-version...she's seven for crying out loud).

It kindof reminds me of my first crush when I was her age.

Reminds me as far as they both have tousled shaggy hair (how cute) and that moms safely allow these crushes because it's impossible these TV studs to be in 2nd grade, chasing girls, and passing love notes.

As a kid, I didn't need love notes anyway. I had a Luke barbie-doll. Is that possible? Doesn't barbie-negate the luke? Anyway, he was the stud among the blondies and drove a cool black jeep all over my smurf blue carpet in my bedroom. Luke was amazing, passionate, and as a bonus? He had The Force. What more could a girl ask for?

For Rainbow Girl, her crush doesn't have The Force so she can't drive him around in a toy jeep. But his presence is definitely known. After Rainbow Girl showed off her favorite tune (that she finger-picked out on the piano) she discovered an unsuspecting accompanist in her Uncle Jackson. Here they are recently performing for the Olsen Clan. And in honor of shaggy TV crushes the world over, please enjoy:

Time to sign up the kid for piano lessons, eh?

The Week of Love proved inadequate in showcasing my family, their locked lips, and tales from the crypt. So I thought I would throw in a few Lovely Mondays to make up the difference. Having just returned from a weekend at my sister's house, I thought I would share the image of sissy with her husband of sixteen years.


This is the only picture that actually has no kiss--and yet I think it still qualifies for the kissing wall. Tell me if you think I'm right.

I love the false sense of defeat in the sissy's arms. She is obviously being solicited, and isn't quite reconciling the affection, but isn't fighting it either. I can just imagine the dialogue surrounding this captured moment:

Troy: Weeeell, I'm just about to go kill myself a 20-point buck. Can I have a snuggle before I go?

Monica: No.

Troy: Before the hunt, I need to defrost my high-octane nitrous exploder snowmobile from my pa's shop. How 'bout I take one of the kids with me? Would that help?

Monica: Um, you mean like the last time you nearly missed an avalanche and my nine-year old watched some guy get unsuccessfully resusitated and then put in an ambulance? Sounds great sweetie! [insert sarcasm here]

Troy: Ooooh.....you. Come here! I need a snuggle.

Monica: No. I'm mad at you. No pancakes for breakfast for 2 days.

Troy: [gasp] Come on! You know I get the jitters if I have to eat cereal.

Monica: Please stay home today.

Troy: You've already vacuumed three-thousand-square-feet of carpet, fixed kabobs for the kids lunch, knitted 12 hats for orphans, cleaned the bathrooms, and mastered Debussey on the piano. What else have you got going on today?

[begins to invade personal space and places arms around Monica's waist].

Monica: Not much I guess. Just fix dinner for the widow across the street, do three loads of laundry, and then fix 200 servings of berry-topped brownies for the church ladies tonight.

Troy: [leans in closer and begins flirting with his eyebrows].

Monica: Ooooooh-kay. You had me at 20-point buck.

Monica and Troy. What makes their love unique? He works hard and plays hard. Soon after their marriage, my family was trying to understand the psychology behind an Idaho ruffian during hunting season.

{For instance: What makes one purchase a crappy truck, overpriced, with too many miles, and without telling your spouse? That's easy! An Idaho Hunter on the last day of the hunt who has been driving a sedan for the past year.}

But seriously folks, he's forgiven. Why? First of all, he learned his stupid lesson with the truck. Secondly, he can cook a mean Sunday roast, does dishes, plays with the kids, and always...always...is ready to give a snuggle to my amazing sister. And his success as a small-business owner comes from a beautiful tango between with his insurmountable work ethic along with the wizardly-number-crunching skills of Monica. She was working her way up the corporate ladder as a CPA, and leaving co-workers speechless at the speed in which she could perform, audits, tax returns, or memorize complete rolodexes. But she left that life and trudged through 5 difficult pregnancies, and began devoting her business smarts into Troy's electrician business. She stands her ground with her own hobbies to keep her active and smart: like the 2 tennis matches she won over the weekend. The same tennis matches which made for exciting cheerleading and applauding by her number one fan: Troy.

Mrs. Olsen is fortunate to have a blue recyclable container at the house. I channel my pioneer essence of frugality and thrift by keeping out from the trash: plastic syrup bottles, soda cans, cereal boxes, soup cans, milk jugs, junk mail, more junk mail, newspapers, and catalogs.

Yet there's a few things that the recycling centers can't or won't allow me to put in my pretty blue bin: plastic grocery sacks.

And yet, those suckers are every.where. In my house I had a nest as big as a curled-up Vanilla Wafer (age 3). So after lining my bathroom garbages with my shopping leftovers for years, I finally learned why these bags are taking over my house, as well as my planet: they're sooo extremely cheap to produce (about one penny per sack), and they're soooo very expensive to recycle ($Four-Grand for about $32 worth of plastic).

So Mrs. Olsen keeps waiting, and watching, for her many neighbors and consumers to ditch the bag and carry re-usable sacks like this:

"Eccentric weirdos can kiss it. I'm taking frugal to the next level at Sam Walton Incorporated"

Is it possible when she gets that inkling in the middle of the night for chocolate covered cinnamon bears, that she's not left with a plastic sack that will sit as a 100-year memorial to her midnight whim?

But for now, with every jaunt to the market Mrs. Olsen inevitably remains one of the 2 out of 50 shoppers with re-usable sacks. So out of curiosity, I have to ask...

why?

Mrs. Olsen finally gets a kiss...

Since I've been shoving kissing pictures down your throat for a week, ooohing and aaahing about the over-and-over show of love...I finally talked The Mister of the House into kissing me on camera. No matter how much I faded, cropped, or softened, I couldn't completely erase the disturbing quality of this image.

This week Mrs. Olsen got all sorts of love in her inbox, check it...

A couple that bikes together, stays hot together. This could be the only person you will ever meet named Gheen. Here he is with his lovely wife, Beth.


This is the only person I've ever met named London. She lovingly calls her daughter Urchin, and they snuck a kiss in while playing at Disneyland recently.



Back during High School in Idaho, Jennica was always...ruh-neeng. Apparently, being a runner has big payoffs: you can smack on your hubby without your kids getting sicked out.


Nice pics. Just too perfect for me to tweak over to my favorite black and white.


Here's Jenny. I haven't seen her in about ten years, and apparently she's been busy creating adorable offspring since then. Here she is loving on her little cutie.


Here's another of Jenny's offspring trying to steal a kiss from a non-compliant cousin. Loving that mess of chubby kiddie fingers!