Growing up in Idaho, we experienced what some would call an “extensive” winter season. As in, good luck treat-or-treating without your snow boots on, and make sure your snow shovel is in your car when you come home from Spring Break. For a kid who didn’t know any different, it was the blessed time you could fly down Apache Avenue on the Flexible Flyer Sled, build snowmen in the yard, and beg your parents to sign you up for Ski School, when you and 200 other kids got to ride the after-school bus once a week and arrive at the icy slopes of Kelly Canyon just as the sun was setting. Brrrrr!

p.s. sun is our friend in winter

By the time the fourth and final week of ski school rolled around, you cursed the unknown fashion-setters of the 80’s that determined you should try to ski in your levis at all costs. Add to that the under-layers of pantyhose, long johns, and lycra and the lack of circulation enforced a pre-emptive hypothermia attack on your lower half, not to mention making your cute Guess Jeans Butt no longer cute.

It was also the time that the season started to morph from blessed to a bore. And a chore. There was only so much a mini-Idahoan could do to keep warm throughout the sunshine drought we experienced every winter. When the constantly dewey winter coats and boots started smelling like wet dog, then you worked on keeping yourself busy in the great indoors. There was always much to do, or get into, to keep yourself active during this point in the eternal Idaho Winter Season. After hunting down all the sugar cereal in the basement food storage, snooping through your older sister’s yearbooks, watching all of the Brady Bunch re-runs, and choreographing your own version of Footloose in the basement family room, after that? There was always your parents closet.

I loved snooping around that place. Floor-to-ceiling shoe cubbies held my mother's high heeled shoes that I loved to slip onto my dirty feet. I would admire my flexed calf, and then walk along my dad's many suit jackets while checking all of his inside pockets. He always had gum at church, and so I would regularly harvest his chewy leftovers forgotten in his Sunday suits.

Afterwards I would throw the heels off, then curl my toes on the edges of the stacked cubbies and monkey up to the top shelf of the closet. With the remaining inch available to my shriveled feet, I would practice my odds at reaching my dad’s money jar, or drop to the ground while leaning towards my mom’s personal weakness, individually wrapped gumdrops.

Eventually, all of my poising, leaning, falling, and balancing paid off.



It was a shoebox. A shoebox of secrets pushed deep on the tip-top shelf and practically out of reach. I positioned myself the best I could, then lunged and grabbed the shoebox in my hands. Got it! I carefully wormed back to my safety zone, then climbed down the shoe ladder to the floor where I could more easily examine the contents.



I cracked the lid and peeked inside. Before I could even see my treasure, I could smell the jackpot I had discovered: chocolate! Oh man, and not just a little box of chocolates either. A BIG Hershey Kiss of chocolate. The foil wrapper had already been taken off, and so I immediately pulled it out of the box and examined further. The underside of the chocolate kiss showed the settled krispy crunchy gems that we all love so much in our chocolate. How could I be so lucky? The base of the “kiss” was as big as a dessert plate! I could bite into this thing like an apple and hardly make a dent. Who makes this stuff? How does chocolate get this big? And why hadn’t it already been eaten by my parents?

I sat and contemplated my next course of action. I mean, how much trouble could I get into if I just replaced my next thirteen meals with my cocoa treasure? I pulled back the lid and put the oversized kiss back in the box, only to realize that it had a twin! Whaaat!? Wooo-hoooo! Hmmmm, except why are the tips of the kisses rounded off instead of curled like the regular Hershey kisses? And why are the tops orange instead of the milky brown? Why are there two big Hershey kisses that aren’t really kisses? With rounded tops instead of curls? With orange nipples?


Why do my parents have CHOCOLATE BOOBS!??


Shock swept over me! I didn’t have a full set yet, but it was unmistakable…these were boobs. Looking back now, it reminds me of a similar process I went through a few of years ago in the Health Office. While in the waiting room, I noticed a breastfeeding campaign plastered all over the walls.







Sheesh, these nurses are taking a long time to get us into the office. Oh look, dandelions! Man I loved to blow those when I was little.

Waaait a second.........Boobs!




Sheesh, these nurses are taking a long time to get us into the office. Ear scopes? I hope the doctor doesn’t jam those into my kids ear.

Waaait a second.........Boobs!








Sheesh, these nurses are taking a long time to get us into the office. Ice cream! I love ice cream. Maybe we should get an ice cream cone if we ever get out of here.

Waaait a second.........Boobs!



It was undeniable. All the chocolate in the world couldn’t dissuade me from the fact that my parents harbored oversized edible boobs in their closet. The implications were deep, as chocolate boobs likely included an attached infidelity. I mean just look at my dad! He’s always been the funniest, coolest, handsomest, smartest, and toughest guy I knew. Why wouldn’t other women think so too! (pssst: see handsome cowboy at the top of this post)


There was only one course of action I could take! It was a risk, and it would require courage only found in Back to the Future Movies, but it was the only way to get my questions answered. I took a deep breath and rose up with my secret treasure in hand, then walked into the kitchen.


MoooOom? I found this in your closet!



Wiping off her hands, my mom came over to examine my find.


Aargh! she huffed. We got those at the Archibald’s Christmas party.


When she took them from my hands I was elated and shocked at the same time. No sexy secretaries trying to pick up my handsome dad, phew! But the Archibald’s? Was it from them or from someone at the party? Either way, linking the Archibald’s as the source of my shoebox treasure blew a gasket in my little kid brain. I mean, the Archibald kids couldn’t say fart without getting their mouths filled with paprika!



What a double life these adults lead! And unnatural. Come on and eat them already! Chocolate boobs are still undeniably…..deliciously…delightfully……chocolate!

So it's campaign season again. The fact that this "season" spans a good 8 rounds of God's regular seasons is, frankly, a little annoying.

I'm not much of a news junkie, I save that for The Mister of the House, but I have my values and my own issues that are important. For one thing, we are trying really hard to reduce our debt at The Olsen House. That was working pretty good until our $3,000 in car fixes this summer, and then The Mister of the House had an affair with chickens and built them a mansion in my backyard. Other than that, I'd say we're doing okay (we're starving, but we're doing okay).


My point is that I just found out that the 2 major candidates have raised over $480 MILLION FREAKING DOLLARS just to run for office. I realize this is a big country, and that it costs money to get the word out, but instead of spending X-hundreds of thousands of dollars on crappy TV commercials, why not illustrate some of your solutions in a microcosm environment?


Are you with me people? I'm Barack Obama and Iwant to invest in renewable resources. The average cost of producing a 30-second national TV commercial is nearly $350,000. So I take that money, go to Po-Dunkville in a battleground state and I shake up their energy grid by planting different energy sources on 50 properties in the village. Wind turbine at Mr. Smith's house, a solar panel at Mrs. Miller's house. So on and so forth and everyone is looking at the numbers and discussing the best solutions and possibilities...or alterations. But we're talking and getting solutions. You follow it with a camera, it goes viral online and the major news networks follow it like vultures.


Sheesh, that was simple. News just in! Mrs. Olsen for President!


McCain? He could use some money by picking some wounded veterans. After all, he was a wounded veteran. Well, he takes these guys (or gals) and he pays for their medical costs and their college tuition to illustrate the benefits he wants smother on these soldiers because of their love and sacrifice for our great country. These guys tell their stories, it goes viral online and the major news networks follow it like vultures. You see a PLAN IN ACTION.

Okay, I'm not waxing political on you. Really. Let's not get our panties in a wad. Let's have some fun okay? I'm sure you've seen this little ditty raging through emails, but it's so original, fun, and completely entertaining when you put your dad's head in there.


This is a JibJab original, it's equally teasing to both parties and it's got a catchy tune.

After some technical difficulties, we inadvertently deleted our week-old baby blog. We're back again (as of Monday) and have re-posted most of the content. I had just printed off the dating ideas comments for The Mister of the House to get inspired....I haven't forgotten and I will let the winner know via email! Thanks for visiting again and I'm really sorry I couldn't restore the wonderful comments from earlier onto the blog. I think we know what we're doing now. Out!

After moving to the country, we decided to be chicken lovers and bought some baby chicks. The Mister of the House loves them so much he built them their own cottage in the backyard. And my oldest child, Rainbow Girl, well let's just say her Saturday morning cartoon days are over!

Rainbow Girl: Mom, can I have some chocolate frosted sugar bombs for breakfast?

When I was really coming into myself, you know, out of the awkward teen years and well into the college years, beyond the frosh independence buzz when you delight in filling your fridge with twinkies because you can. Well, when you're deciding for sure what your values are going to be and you know, you're confident "This is the person I am and I'm going to grow old gracefully".

So it was at that time in my life, I was still single, I started writing a journal to my "future husband". I marveled at my roommate who had cable TV in her bedroom, was obsessed with Mathew McConaughey, and watched TLC programming while writing her never-ending English papers.

I thought: TV sucks.

So into the journal I wrote: Dear Future Husband, If we never have a TV, we'll be more active and have fun. I don't ever want to have a TV. Gordon B. said that people waste a lot of time watching TV, so we are never having one in our home, okay? Love from, Your Future Wife

So when I met The Mister of the House, we dated, admired, kissed and eventually I said Here! and handed him my secret journal. Don't worry, I had a ring on my finger by then. But I wanted to make sure my bases were covered, no surprises when I said "Take back that 52-inch Plasma TV right now!".

Now for those of you who don't know, The Mister of the House is an avid movie lover. In fact, it's genetically ingrained into the Olsen DNA. Sunday dinner at the in-laws will go something like this:
Olsen Sister-in-law: Could you please pass the salad?
Brother Olsen: Yes
Olsen Sister-in-Law: [robot voice] In the future, we do not say yes. Instead, we say "Affirmative".
Pipsqeak Olsen: [robot voice] Yes, "Affirmative".
(name the source of that quote by the way and you become honorary member of the Olsen Clan)

Now don't get me wrong, my sister and I grew up watching Saved By the Bell Marathons, my own mother recorded Seinfeld, and High School was always brighter the morning after The Simpsons viewed prime-time. But in college I went through a multimedia drought and I absolutely thrived! So it was a guilty pleasure that I tried to kill, but that never fully died. It was then resurrected when I became Mrs. Olsen.

By my 5-year anniversary, my home swelled with a collection of over a thousand movies, albeit they were runoff from our first business.....but that's a story for another day.

But before you accuse The Mister of the House for backing out of our clearly defined entertainment standards, I would add, to his credit, that he didn't get cable TV until after anniversary number 8. Let's just say that having personally spawned 3 genetically enhanced movie-lovers, as well as being absorbed into the multimedia-absorbed DNA of the Olsen Clan, that I would practically be going against Nature Herself if I denied my family all of their digital delights.

Besides, part of growing old gracefully is willing to accept surprises.

And so, it is with great pleasure, that Mrs. Olsen presents a film illustrating the DNA she is up against, errr, I mean, absorbed into. A film starring the sister of The Mister, her husband, and filmed by the brother of The Mister. It's short. It's actually a little scary. So grab your softest blanket for comfort and enjoy this little ditty. It's called "Glad We Came?".

Now you enjoy, I've got to run and catch What Not To Wear on my 52-inch plasma.

NOTE from Mrs. Olsen: I wish that I had been able to save the comments from friends who watched this expecting it to be funny, but were seriously freaked out (Paula, Wendy...you know what I'm talking about). This illustrates my point perfectly. There was no bad picture quality, sound, or lame acting that distracted you from the point of the film: to be afraid....be very afraid. There was no pointing of the finger laughing at the lame-o home job. Pure Olsen DNA at work.

1. a real honest-to-goodness backyard
2. water rights
3. and chickens

The Mister of the House, with all his entrepreneurial venturing and business sense, has got some good old-fashioned handyman skills to top it off. He built this sucker with his own two hands, and it's the beginning of our experiment called Living-Closer-to-the-Land-and-Knowing-the-Source-of-our-Food. Or for short we'll call it Being-a-Little-Closer-to-Natural-Living-but-Still-Being-a-Wannabe-Hippy. Yeah, that's a much easier way to say that, much better said. Okay, third time's a charm, it's called: Teaching-Your-Kids-To-Work.

Moving on.

It really does have a name though, it's called Bok Bok Cottage.

Now keep in mind it's a little cluttered. It's still a bit of a work-zone. We've still got some touch-up paint to do, got to find the perfect weathervane to mount on the roof, but it's powered up and ready to take our chickens on an egg-laying adventure over the winter.

Correction: The Mister of the House is actually much more handy with help from our awesome friends and family. Thanks Greg, Janis, Mike, Sara and Herm for your help with Bok Bok Cottage!

Once in a while I have these great ideas, like waking up at 6 am and working out before the offspring start running around, and well, I do it. I did it! A couple times anyway, then my alarm couldn't crash through my REM cycle.

So here's a great idea I did a few times, and it's easy to start up again. There's no chocolate splurging that will interfere in round 2 because all you have to do is sit on the floor, let your mind wander back, and remember......out loud.....to your kids. It's bedtime stories with a twist, real-life memories from when you (that big person bossing everyone around) was actually a small person (kids can't quite wrap their little heads around that one). So wash, brush, kiss, tuck, and reminisce.

Hands down, this is Rainbow Girl's favorite childhood memory, of mine. My childhood memory. It all began on Apache Avenue back in the 80's...



Poor sweet Niki. She's the baby, the one on the end. Keep in mind that that thing just kept growing, she's now over 6 feet tall, but then she was still our little baby sister. I'm right next to her, and we always shared a room.


Our next door neighbor was Wendy. This is Wendy now.







She actually stopped growing shortly after the first picture was taken. She's little and cute.


So Wendy and Niki were bestest friends. And one day, they were playing with dolls inside the walk-in closet in our room. Now I was the peacemaker of the family. There were no rivalries with me. But this day I did not establish peace. Instead, I turned off the light to the closet, shut the door, and then propped a chair under the doorknob so they couldn't get out.


Knock-Knock-Knock "Hey, turn on the light. HEY! Let us out!"


I quietly stepped outside of the room. I thought, hey, I'll just scare them a little. I'm make them think nobody is around and then come back and let them right out. So for full effect, I decided to go outside, let them get a good panic about their alone-ness, and then head right back in. Once I got outside, aaah, what a breeze. Then I saw my neighbor Beth and we started to play. Soon it was getting a little twilight-ey and the neighbor kids were starting the nightly routine of running from backyard to backyard to play night games.

Since Mrs. Archibald never demanded a full investigation about her little sweet Wendy, there's no telling how long I was out in la-la land running around. My guess is about forty minutes. A good forty minutes of taking in a wonderful school-free summer evening until all of a sudden, I remembered! Oh no!


I ran into the house and down the stairs and could hear the screams from across the family room. I rushed into the room, threw off the chair (I'm the hero now) and opened the door. I stood to see 2 little girls, curled up on the floor with their mouths full of carpet. *Gasp* Release! *Gasp* Release! "We almost ran out of oxygen!".


Just keep in mind those were the MacGyver days. That guy was constantly being closed off into a sealed room and losing oxygen. Poor Niki and Sweet Little Wendy, they must have just panicked and thought "Death is upon us! Eat carpet and get as much of your mouth under the door crack as possible! Limit your crying dammit! Limit your crying!".


Yes, they could too have said that! Niki didn't know dammit was a bad word yet, since our dad said it all the time.


So, thanks to MacGyver, my sister and Wendy are alive and well. Whenever Rainbow Girl hears this story, for the next week anytime we see family or friends she will turn to me and say Mom, tell about the time that Niki ran out of oxygen.



P.S. Poor little Niki today. She can't even wear heels when she's out on the town with her hubby (but you will all note, she's alive and well).