Crash Test Dummy Diaries

Call a spade a spade!

2012-01-24T06:31:00.001-07:00

I was going to post on Sunday so l could wax religical, but instead I'll just tell you about my life.

My daughter got asked to the Winter Waltz on Thursday--four weeks early! It used to be called the Sweethearts Ball, but the students were complaining that they felt pressure to ask someone they actually liked, so the administration changed the rhetoric.

In my day we went to dances with people we were attracted to. And we liked it like that. Nowadays if you get asked to a dance, you can rest assured your date doesn't like you. And if you get asked four weeks early, there's a good chance he hates your guts.

The guy who asked her . . . let's just say she once threw a pie in his face. That might be why he hates her guts. She has high dating standards like that. If she can throw a drumstick or a tennis ball or cake batter at you, you are worthy to ask her out.

She's not the only one with high dating standards around here either. Everyone's got 'em. I once teased my Laurel's president that she needed a boyfriend and she scolded me for going against the proper authorities and trying to lead her down a path of destruction.

That's when I realized how much she really did need a boyfriend.

But we can't blame the teenagers. They're just doing what we say, and not what we did. And I think they're just saying what we say too.

On the bright side, we are teaching them how to wear the necessary masks and use the necessary rhetoric to face what lies ahead of them. Or should I say, to dodge what lies ahead of them.

Anyways, my 15-year-old has a girlfriend. But not the kind that goes against the proper authorities because he never actually uses the word girlfriend--he can't call a spade a spade. (Neither can my 13-year-old.)

His friends call her his "chica"--at least that's how they introduced me to her behind his back and against his will and without his consent while he was in the locker room after a recent basketball game.

I like her. She's nice. And cute. And she calls me Debbie. I'm not sure how to break it to her that my name is Dummy, but usually people figure that out on their own.

Over the weekend my son mentioned to us that he told his "chica" we are weird. Sooo weird is the way he phrased it, I believe.

"That's great," said my hub to me later as I was climbing into bed trying to pinpoint what evidence our son has against us. "I'm glad he told her."

That's all my hub could say. As if it was a compliment! As if he was genuinely thrilled that we are out of the closet.

My hub has no energy for masks. And rhetoric shmetoric. To him a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

(Granted, he doesn't have the most developed sense of smell. I mean to him weird smells the same as cool. As does odd, peculiar and strange.)

I tried to take my hub's approach, but I eventually got up enough gumption to tiptoe into my son's room while he was sleeping and confront him.

"Why do you think I'm weird? Huh? Huh? Huh?" I said. "I mean, I get why you might mistake your dad for a looney toon, but what about me? Is it because I don't read your texts or stalk you on Facebook? Is it because I don't give you a curfew? Just tell me if it is because I can give you a curfew. Don't think I can't. It's just that you're always home before midnight and . . ."

"Let him be," called my hub from the other room. "It's great he thinks we're weird."

"Is it because I carried you around inside me for 9 months then gave you life? That was a little strange, I confess. Or is it because I spend several hours a day cleaning your house and cooking your food and doing your laundry and driving you around and watching your basketball games and filming your basketball games? Or is it because I buy my own sweaters back from D.I. so I'll have enough money to buy your Nike socks? Is it? Is it? Is it? Huh? Huh? Huh?"

The more I talked, the clearer it became that he was right. I am off my rocker.

"No," he finally grunted. "It's because you leave the cap off the toothpaste."

{{{pregnant pause}}}

"That's not weird," I told him. "That's gross." And then I loosened his neck from the headlock and went back to bed.

See what I mean? Kids these days don't know how to call a spade a spade.

Another message brought to you by The Universe

2012-01-19T08:57:00.004-07:00

You know how I told you that I have the power to attract sweaters into my life that didn't work for me the first time? Well as it turns out that sweater is working nicely for me the 2nd time.

I guess sometimes you have to give something away, then buy it back, before you can fully appreciate it.

It's called second chances, peeps! Even sweaters need them.

I have other powers too. The ability to read sign language, for instance. From the universe.

I can also speak in code, and am fluent in Code Red.

Signs and code from the universe usually come in the form of fortune cookies, pop music, or spaghetti noodles on the ceiling, but they can also be delivered through everyday events. Take last Saturday, for instance; I called my mom while driving to the Provo Library to hear Haven Kimmel speak. We were just talk talk talking when suddenly she said, "Where are you?" and I said, "I'm right behind Provo High," and she said, "Oh my gosh, so am I."

We were both sitting at the same light, but going in opposite directions! What are the chances?

I took it as a friendly reminder that when it comes to relationships, sometimes you're like two ships passing in the night, and other times you're like two cars passing in the day.

That wasn't the only message I received last week. Check out this sign I came across in the weed fields where I take Lulu for her run: (located next to a Frisbee golf course)

Tree and obstacle removal is not only illegal; it defeats the purpose of disc golf.

Okay, so The Universe doesn't have a perfect command of the semi-colon, but the message rings true.

Trees are a bit of a mystery--how they offer us oxygen and shade and shelter and fruit and flowers and paper. Plus they smell sweet and they're fun to climb on and look at and carve your initials into. But then sometimes they can really cramp your style, you know. Especially when you're trying to chuck a frisbee around them.

Sometimes you don't want their shade or their shelter, you just want them to get out of your way and stop making a mess on your lawn.

You get me?

But removing a tree just because it's hard to get around? I confess I've entertained the notion myself from time to time, but I have found that just because a tree is gone doesn't mean it's gone.

Ever heard of phantom trees?

Me neither, but I've heard of a haunted forrest.

So next time you get the urge to go all George Washington on your cherry tree, remember that this course was designed with the obstacles in mind.

That's code for: Can't get over it. Can't get under it. Gotsta go through it, baby.

Gotsta go through it.

P.S. If you leave your credit card # in my comment box I'll send you my Crash Test Dummy secret decoder ring.

Wow! Just Wow!

2012-01-16T21:06:00.003-07:00

So I washed my hair and now I'm just regular ol' me again.

My Haven Kimmel daze ain't as much fun with curly hair and sweats, (especially when I'm doing dishes and laundry) but I'm still basking in the afterglow of meeting the author of A Girl Named Zippy.

In fact I've been inspired. To write a book. A Girl Named Dummy. What do you think?

I haven't been this inspired since I read Julie and Julia and started my cooking blog called Dumb and Dumber. Remember that? Unfortunately I threw in the towel after two weeks because my kids thought everything I made tasted like air freshener.

So guess what I finally did today? Saw Breaking Dawn. If I were a Brit I would say that movie is a bloody mess, but I'm an American and we like our romance messy in America--give or take a few pints of blood.

Honestly? Can I tell you honestly what I thought? Honestly, honestly, honestly? I was honestly shocked! Stephanie Myer shocked my socks off. Stephanie Myer, you spin my head round, baby. Like a record.

I was prepared for the predictable. Even though I haven't read the books, I wasn't born yesterday and I don't live under a rock and I'm not fresh off the boat. I knew there would be vows and after vows. (And how!) I knew the consequences of those after vows--first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes baby in a baby carriage. And I knew Edward was going to bite and Bella was going to sparkle.

But HOW in the WORLD did I MISS the memo that Jacob was going to hook up with Edward and Bella's baby daughter, Renesmee? !?! Holy friggin' snap!

First of all, COMO SAY WHAT?????

Second of all, Renesmee? Really? Seriously? Really? Steph, remember Spiderman? With great power comes great responsibility? Ring a bell? Do you not realize how many Renesmee's will be born in in 2012 in the state of Utah alone?

But whatever! The point is Jacob put his imprint on Renesmee.

Four words: Whatchu talkin' bout Phyllis!?

I didn't see that one coming. Granted I wasn't looking, but I really didn't see that one coming!

Hats off to Stephanie Myer. Bravo, girlfriend. I bow to your brilliance.

And hats off to you peeps--and to the rest of the world--for keeping that cat in the bag for me. Did you guys do that on purpose? Because WOW! Just WOW! I feel like I've been punked. Or flash-mobbed. Or Truman-showed. I mean, that was the greatest dramatic irony ever.

High Five.

Down low.

Too slow.

(HA! Gotcha!)

(But seriously, I'm kinda hurt that no one told me.)

My Haven Kimmel Daze (and have you seen my hair?)

2012-01-14T21:43:00.002-07:00

You know how you're just going along, ho-dee-do, la-dee-da, and all of a sudden, BAM, you get to rub shoulders with one of your favorite authors?

Well that happened to me today.

Haven Kimmel, baby! At the Provo Public library.

As soon as I got wind that she was going to be the keynote speaker of their literacy symposium I rushed to the library to get me a golden ticket.

Unfortunately they wouldn't give me one because I don't live in Provo.

"But I was raised in Provo!" I told the librarian.

She shook her head.

"But I'm a Bulldog, I promise! I can prove it!" I said as I pulled my pom pons from my purse and started stomp/clapping, We are the bulldogs! We are the best! And WE. WILL. CON. QUER!

"You won't be conquering today because these tickets are for Provo. Residents. Only." she replied.

"But, but, but, I used to skip classes all the time to hide out in your bathroom and read Nancy Drew. Please, please, pretty please,"

"Do you STILL have your library card?" said the librarian.

Sometimes your fate depends on something as simple as a library card. Ever notice that? But I wasn't about to let fate box me out. It's true I no longer have a Provo library card, but I know someone who does. My MIL. It expired in 1971, but they gave her a golden ticket anyway after she explained that she hadn't been to the library since then on account of her freezer being full of romance novels she's trying to finish.

I knew she would come in handy one day.

All due credit to my MIL for getting me in to the symposium, and to Jana Parkin for telling me about it, and to DeNae Handy for coming along.

But mostly all hail to one of my very first blog buddies, I am LoW for turning me on to Haven Kimmel with this darling memior:

LoW, to show my appreciation, I got you a signed copy of the sequel:

Here is Haven Kimmel herself signing it:

Eeeeeeeeee! That's me next to her.

(And gee, does my hair look terrific or what?) (Seriously, it could almost pass for a wig.) (Mahalo to Andrea at Dyson Studio in American Fork.)

The best part of the day, besides DeNae getting into a fist fight with Haven Kimmel over the future of Kindle, oh, and besides the artichoke dip, was this little family I adopted. The whole famdamily came out to meet Haven because they had all listened to her books on tape together.

Is that the coolest thing you've ever heard? (And how about my hair?) (Mahalo Andrea!)

They could quote Zippy almost as well as they could quote Nacho Libre.

That's my kind of famdamily.

As if the day wasn't exciting enough, I ran into my creative writing teacher from back and back and back.

For the record, he was also Melanie J's teacher (although I think he preferred me). Sorry MJ. You may have great shoes, but have you seen my hair?

My Mental Breakthrough

2012-01-10T11:03:00.005-07:00

My hub and I grew up in the same town, went to the same schools, had the same skin color, and wore the same religion under our sleeves.

Enough to form a more perfect union? Ya think?

Except when we don't speak the same love language--his being, "Are you sure you don't want to do something that makes more money?" and mine being, "Are you positive you want to wear that Red Raider t-shirt AGAIN?"

It's a good thing we both speak sign language so we can let our fingers do the talking once in a while.

Luckily our attitudes and platitudes about little things like religion, politics, money, education, and family have been in harmony throughout our marriage. But the big things have tripped us up from time to time.

Like food.

We both pretty much like the same foods, it's just that our families don't agree on the amount of time we should spend eating them.

A few days ago, for instance, I met some of my family members for lunch at Sizzler. I was 20 minutes late. It works to my advantage to be 20 minutes late when meeting my in-laws for lunch because they will still be nursing their salads, but arriving 20 minutes late when meeting my family means I'm just in time for dessert.

Our families don't agree on the pomp and circumstance surrounding food either. In my family the rules are simple and straight forward: when you want to eat, you eat, and when you don't want to eat, you don't. No one notices or comments one way or the other.

In my hub's family, you eat at appropriated times, and when you get permission, and when there is enough for everyone. If you don't conform to these protocols, or if you eat too much of one thing and not enough of another, it is observed and noted and you can expect a write-up about it in the family newsletter.

Same breed, yet I be raised in the jungle and he be raised in the zoo.

See how tricky perfect unions can be?

When my family gets together, no one asks, "where do you want to eat?" because the answer will inevitably be, "I already ate," or "I'm not hungry." When my hub's family gets together, asking where we should eat is a given and results in a two hour discussion about each restaurant suggestion with its accompanying coupon options. In rare instances they have even been known to drive to various locations to check out various buffets before deciding on Burger King.

Some people have longer food foreplay than others.

Not being rude, just sayin'.

In my family when we are done eating, we are done, which sends a signal to our brains that it's time to move on to the next activity. In my hub's family, the next activity is waiting. For everyone else. To finish eating. The person who finishes eating last holds the most power in the family.

In my family the person who finishes eating first holds the most power. That person is free to get up from the table and leave if they so desire. They don't even have to excuse themselves or say goodbye, which is exactly what my Gigi did at Sizzler. She bolted. As quickly as any 90-year-old wearing skinny jeans can bolt with a walker.

And I thought 40 was liberating!

Watching my Gigi get up from the table and leave simply because she was finished eating and ready to go home made me long for the day when I am 90 and rude is the new cute.

It's not as cute when I do it at Chuck-a-Rama, or Golden Corral, or Magelby's.

Oh, who am I kidding. I never get up and bolt. Instead I watch my MIL take a dainty bite from one of her three pieces of cake, put her fork down, and begin telling a story from her childhood.

"When I was a little girl, Mother made me pick strawberries to pay for my Jantzen sweaters," she might say," or "I bet you never heard about the time I stole my neighbors red wagon."

Without fail, after I begin beating my head against the table, she will add, "No really, it's true! It's the only thing I ever stole in my life!"

"Besides my sanity, you mean?" Reply my eyeballs.

Point is, I had a mental breakthrough while watching my Gigi bolt across Sizzler. Maybe eating patterns are genetic. Maybe I'm not rude, after all. Maybe my family is rude. And maybe my hub's not annoying either. Maybe his family is annoying.

Can't wait to tell my hub!

Arise . . . sniff . . . Arise

2012-01-06T23:14:00.003-07:00

OMGOSH! My ex-door neighbor Martha just sent me the link to the 2012 Strength of Youth theme song. I must share it because it features all my homies from da hood in da kine Laie.

(Dang! Is it just me or does my pidgin sound kinda rusty?)

And in case you were wondering, NO, this video did not make me homesick AT all!

(Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!)

But it did make me sad that I'm no longer YW Prez because now I have no one to show it off to while pointing and shouting, "oooh! I know her!" ooooh! oooooh! oooooh! I know him. oooh! been there. oooh done that!"

Gigi

2012-01-04T17:04:00.003-07:00

Remember a year ago when I started crying at JoAnn Fabrics because they have so many company policies?

It was that same day that my Gigi had that severe stroke? The very same Gigi who, no lie, was struck by lightening three times during her childhood.

Remember how I started seeing my tub as half empty for a while after that?

Well, after several miserable months of not being able to do puzzles or watch Jeopardy, she kinda recovered and then she fell and broke her ankle so she went into rehab for several more miserable months, where she couldn't even eat Burger King, and then she had surgery to install a pace maker . . .

And then . . .

She magically recovered. All the back to normal. Plus.

She's even better than before, peeps. Sharper. Wittier. Cleverer. And she does puzzles again. And goes out for Whoppers on Wednesdays.

And she just turned 90 years old!

Doesn't look a day over 80, does she!

Must be all that electricity running through her veins.

Happy Birthday Gigi!

LY!

P.S. I'm trying to talk my hub into giving me permission to exploit him with that viral video. Fingers crossed!

Special Gifts

2012-01-02T22:39:00.002-07:00

I wonder if Thomas Kinkade ever felt bloated? You know, sitting in one of his cozy cottages eating figgy pudding in front of a roaring fire?

Do you think he ever thought to himself, dang my life would be pert near perfect if only I wasn't so bloated.

And if only I hadn't accidentally bought my son Madden 12 for the Wii instead of for the Xbox 360.

And if only I hadn't grabbed two left shoes when I bought him his new Vans.

And don't even get me started about the briefs instead of boxers.

In my last post I told you that this year I was going to wrap up the things my kids didn't do and put them under the tree, like bags of leaves they didn't rake, and boxes of dirty dishes they didn't put away, etc, etc, etc, but what goes around comes around, you know. I ended up wrapping a few of the things I didn't do as well, like check to make sure the Madden 12 was for the Xbox 360 and the Vans had one of each foot, and the briefs were actually boxers instead of briefs.

Do you think Thomas Kinkade ever forgot to do things like that while he was roasting his chestnuts on his open fire?

Prob not, because these are the things that can threaten an otherwise happy cottage on Christmas morning.

But they are also the things that can teach our children important lessons about life.

If you think about it, we all come into this world with gifts, right? Special gifts. Maybe they aren't exactly what we asked for, like the wrong gaming system, or two left feet, or briefs instead of boxers, but it's what we do with our special gifts that counts.

At least that's what I told my son before I told him DEAL WITH IT, dude!

I'm pretty sure that's what the big guy upstairs would have told me if I was pouting over my special gifts. You don't see me whining because I'm dumb. No, I embrace it. I celebrate it. Just the other day I bought a sweater at D.I. that happened to be the same sweater I donated to D.I. two months ago. Did I cry? Of course not. No sense crying over recycled sweaters. That's what I always say. Even if you have to pay for them. Twice.

I look at my gift as a mutation. Some mutants can read minds, or spit fire, or walk through walls. I attract sweaters into my life that didn't work for me the first time. And I pay for them.

What my son decided to do with his special gifts was have me return them, which just goes to show that some people would rather wear boxers than learn about life.

Other than that my Christmas was great. My favorite special gift of the season was from my neighbor, Myken who brought me this clock:

I loved it so much that I making it my Dummy Blog Motto.

I know I made a New Years resolution that this year I am going to change my personal word from Whatever to Improve, but I haven't started improving yet. Mostly because I've been so busy not improving. But I will start improving . . . tomorrow.

I promise I will start improving tomorrow.

If you look at my blog it kinda looks like I've been improving, but this little makeover is just the tip of the iceburg, peeps. I haven't even started scratching the surface of labeling and organizing all 925 posts, and describing myself in a nutshell.

Get it? Nutshell. (no pun intended.)

It's just that I can't believe how much you can get done when you're not improving. The amount of addictions you can pick up over the holidays alone is breathtaking. Sleeping in, for instance. And watching movies. And eating leftovers. And not doing laundry. Not doing laundry is like the crack cocaine of domestic don't do's.

It's too bad they don't make paper clothes like they make paper plates.

Thanks to my children I'm also addicted to American Pickers and Storage Wars and Pawn Stars and Finding Bigfoot and Gold Rush and, of course, Celebrity Ghost Stories.

Btw, have you ever noticed that celebrities have better ghost stories than the rest of us? Why is that? Ghosts seem to reveal themselves to celebrities, while the rest of us have to settle for a cold chill and a case of the heebie jeebies. Celebrities, they get choked by their ghosts or levitated. Their ghosts text them and play their pianos. But the only attention we get from our ghosts is an occasional bout of nausea or a footstep across a creaky stair.

Not that I blame them, but I resent the fact that celebs always have it so much better. Not only do they get better jobs and better cars and better body parts, but they also get better ghosts!?

And they have better Nightmares too. Ever watched Celebrity Nightmares? And better rehab. Ever watch Celebrity Rehab? And whaddaya bet that after watching Celebrity Wife Swap tomorrow they'll have better spouses too.

But that's neither here nor there.

My latest and greatest addiction of the season is Just Dance 3 on the Kinnect. Not the dancing part, but the watching my hub dancing part. Let's just say I've lost control of at least one bodily function while ROTFLMHeadO.

He could go viral peeps. I'm telling you, HE. COULD. GO. VIRAL. And I have the video to prove it. If I didn't respect his dignity and privacy so darn much I would upload it faster than you could say ex. ploy. tation.

Or ex. hus. band.

Too bad I respect his dignity and privacy so darn much.

(Told ya I was dumb.)

Having a Holly Jolly Christmas . . . wish you were here!

2011-12-20T08:58:00.001-07:00

It's the most wonderful time of the year! (Besides all the stress and tension, of course.)

And this year is even more wonderful than usual because (are you sitting down) I am already finished with my shopping AND wrapping.

(Nani nani.)

I don't know what's wrong with me. I've never been done this early in my life. Maybe because this is the first year I haven't been RS Prez or YW Prez or PTA Prez. Maybe because this year I didn't have to grade 60 research papers or host my in-laws for 42 days or campaign to win a 30 K blogging gig. Or maybe I have successfully completed the five stages of culture shock and awe and I'm officially settled.

Whatever it is it feels good. I'm even done with my grocery shopping, peeps. Been done since Friday. I'm ready to get snowed in and pretend I'm living inside a Thomas Kinkade puzzle. I'll build a crackling fire, make fudge and gingerbread houses, drink freshly squeezed orange icees and piping hot cocoa, and watch old movies. And none of my teenagers will bicker or sass or force me at gunpoint to poke their eyes out.

It was actually easy to get ready this year because my hub had an ingenious plan of attack. A plan to give back. To the kids. For all that they gave, or didn't give, to us this year.

So far under the tree we've got six bags of leaves they didn't finish raking, four bundles of smelly socks they didn't pick up, and twelve boxes of dirty dishes they didn't put away.

See why my hub rocks my socks!

For the first time in years I feel like a little kid at Christmas. The anticipation is killing me.

hee hee hee

ho ho ho

Wish you were here to see my face on Christmas morning.

hee hee hee

ho ho ho

Merry Christmas everyone! LY!

Gotsta go wait for the snow.

P.S. Something has crashed at blogger. Something other than me. Every blog link on my sidebar suddenly disappeared. POOF! Just like that.

(Is it just me, or has anyone else had this problem?)

I thought it would magically reappear, but it hasn't so I will take it as a sign from the universe that I need to change my word from WHATEVAH to IMPROVE!

I'm on it, peeps. Gonna do some renovating to this creaky old blog over the holiday. I'll see you bright and merry at the New Year.

Cookie Cutter Wisdom

2011-12-12T08:33:00.003-07:00

A few months ago, while video taping my nephew's reception, I noticed that people give the worst marital advice at weddings.

I like to call it, the 11th commandment: Thou shalt never go to bed angry.

Who thought of that anyway? Some sweet little single lady in Japan?

Everyone knows Asian people don't go to bed angry! They have no reason to, because their food is so deliriously delicious. If Americans got to eat Asian food every day, we'd never go to bed angry either.

Am I right? Or am I right?

The thing about Asian food is that it doesn't just taste delicious in your mouth as you're chewing and swallowing, it's yummy in your tummy too. For hours afterwards. Ever noticed how the satisfaction lingers on and on and on? Especially after you eat Korean Bulgogi. Mmmmmm. From Sam Hawks in Provo. Mmmmmm. Mmmmmm. Mmmmmm.

It's a quintessential What-about-Bob experience.

There would seriously be peace on earth if everyone on the planet could eat Korean Bulgogi before they go to bed each night.

And it would solve the world hunger problem too.

I wonder if that sweet little single lady in Japan had any idea how many people would tell two friends not to go to bed angry. And they'd tell two friends. And they'd tell two friends. And so on and so on and so on, until the whole world was laying in bed at 3 a.m., refusing to close their eyes until they were no longer breathing fire through their nostrils.

I figured out the trick to not going to bed angry years ago. It's called sleep! Not a whole night's sleep, just a 6-8 hour cat-nap, until the sun comes up and I feel rational again.

Works like a charm.

Never go to bed angry is what I call cookie cutter wisdom--a one-size-fits-all piece of advice, which works well if you're the right shape and size. Or the right age. Age four, for instance. Or size four. All advice fits perfectly at age four. Or size four. But as your brain starts to age and put on a few lbs., cookie cutter wisdom starts constricting your blood flow.

I'm not saying it's impossible to squeeze yourself into cookie cutter wisdom after you've grown out of it. With a little creativity and a lot of deep thought you can fit the mold forever.

Take for instance, the popular adage, If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all. The deep thinkers of the world have figured out that it's not rude to be rude, as long as you preface it with "Not to be rude."

And then suffix it with "Just sayin'" or "Bless her heart."

They also know that an apple a day does keep the doctor away. If you're throwing it at his head.

What I'm trying to say is for Pete's sake, go to bed angry if you must!

And say something rude while you're at it. Maybe as you're throwing an apple at your doc's head, (which works particularly well if your doc is also your hub.)

Bless his heart, he rocks my socks, (even though he doesn't match them correctly).

Just sayin'.

Evil Twins and Myth Busters

2011-12-07T09:37:00.004-07:00

Yesterday on the news I heard that The Muppet Movie is spreading communism, the post office is closing, planet Earth has an evil twin, and you can no longer wear skinny jeans at BYU Idaho.

HOLY SMOKES! (Can I say Holy Smokes ?) (Or should I say Holy Nicorette!?)

First book stores and now the post office?????

First mini skirts and now skinny jeans????? I just bought my first pair of skinny jeans last week!

I wonder if they wear skinny jeans on our evil twin planet? I wonder if they deliver mail and read books on our evil twin planet? I wonder if Miss Piggy is trying to control the world on our evil twin planet?

(Ewww, I wonder if they show that new K-Y Jelly commercial on our evil twin planet?)

Wait! What if WE are the evil twin planet?

As if that wasn't enough shock and awe for one day, yesterday was also family picture day.

(Thank goodness I didn't wear my skinny jeans.)

We look like the happiest family on "evil twin" planet Earth don't we?

But you didn't hear us in the car. Or during the 45 minutes before the car when my bangs were having an identity crisis. Curly or straight? Straight or curly? They couldn't decide. And neither could I, until finally they were just poking straight up and out.

My daughter refused to document it with photographic evidence because she said I would regret it later, but trust me, if I had an evil twin I know what she would look like, (minus the skinny jeans).

Anyways I stuck a clip in it and ended up looking like the sticky-sweet twin.

Seriously, I look like I could give you a cavity, huh? But you know better right? You know mo' bettah!

Before I go, last time I promised to share another one of my busted myths about Utah. The one about Utah having a high depression and stress rate. Remember? huh? huh? huh? Sure you do, because I've been busting Utah's chops about it for years, partly because I can. But mostly because I am.

That's right, I am Utah. Of it and from it, baby! The deep south of it. And the South Park Provo of it.

Yes, there were times when I twisted this truth--like at that West Point dance when I pretended to be of Connecticut. And of Mercedes Benz. And then there was that phase I went through in my early marriage when I lived in Utah, but not of Utah.

And then of course there were the apologetic years . . .

But that's over now. Now I am in Utah and of Utah.

I am UTAH, here me ROOOOOOAR!

(Did that scare you as much as it scared me?)

What I'm trying to say is I know what I'm talking about when I tell you that it's not the people in Utah who are depressed, it's the houses. The houses here practically slip into a coma when you're not looking. Turn your back for five seconds and their eyes roll back into their heads until you shake them alive again.

In Hawaii the houses wake you up each morning. Good morning sleepyhead, they smile. Which of the five senses can I get for you today? For your listening pleasure I've got cooing doves, tumbling waves, or a light rain. And for your aromatic pleasure I've got freshly cut grass, sweet gardenia, or . . . a light rain.

In cold places you have to wake your house up each morning. And then you have to cheer it up. You have to tell it it's good enough, smart enough, and doggonit, people like it.

When I get rich and famous I'm going to hire someone else to do this for me. If anyone wants a job I'll pay you big bucks to wake my house up 30 minutes before the rest of us roll out of bed--turn on all the lights, start a roaring fire, bake a batch of bread maybe, or squeeze some fresh orange juice. And most importantly, push play on my iPod, paleeeeease!

We the people of Utah are not depressed. And if we seem stressed it's only because we are trying to keep our homes from slitting their wrists.

Throwing compost on the weeds

2011-12-02T08:52:00.006-07:00

You know what's better than curling up to Cake Boss when you're sad? Curling up to Cake Boss while simultaneously eating cake batter.

I learned that from my daughter.

But that's not what she did when she found out that her friend had cancer. She did this:

Sometimes it makes you feel better to do nice things for the people who make you want to inhale cake batter.

I also learned that from my daughter.

There are other things, which I didn't learn from my daughter, that make me feel better. Like going to my happy place.

I call it my happy place, but it's actually just a bunch of big ol' fields between the two high schools my kids attend. My daughter wouldn't be caught dead calling a field her happy place, but my other daughter would.

That's right, Lulu and I have the same exact happy place. I'm not sure why we both love it so much. Maybe because it's full of weeds.

Beautiful weeds that grow tall and strong and bloom where they're planted, despite the fact that they're planted among a bunch of weeds.

When we get to our happy place I take the leash and harness off Lulu and let her run free.

I also take the leash and harness off my mind and let it run free to throw compost on the weeds.

Get a load of how artsy fartsy I look when my mind is throwing compost on the weeds.

(Btw, does this photo make my chin look hairy?)

So yesterday Lulu and I were in our happy place and my mind started roaming free about why I'm back here in Utah, and I realized that I'm here as a student, to learn a thing or two, and to challenge the Utah Mormon myths and stereotypes.

(I also came back because my hub was coming back, and I'm a follower if you ever did see one.)

Some of the things I've learned since I moved back to Utah are things I remember learning during my childhood, like how some people have way too much, and others don't have close to enough. But hey, that's life beyond Marxism, even for the Mormons.

Other things I've learned are personal things I've been trying to put my finger on for years, like why I never take anything edible from my MIL.

It's not her fault, it's her technique. She doesn't know how to sell the food she's offering. I'm talking about proper rhetoric. For instance, when offering a piece of cheese she should refrain from saying things like, "I already cut the mold off."

Aged to perfection. That's alls she needs to say. You get me?

Other phrases she should avoid include, "This fruitcake has been in my freezer since 1990," or "These nuts are bland and no one else will eat them, would you like some? I have plenty. No really, I have plenty."

And then there are the Utah stereotypes I've been busting. Like the one about Utah drivers. It is a mystery to me why we have such a bad reputation across the nation. I only see one problem with our driving and I don't blame us, I blame Harry Potter because he is the one who came up with that whole cloak of invisibility dealio.

Utards love the cloak of invisibility, though I concede we need to use it more responsibly when driving. See we don't use it to make ourselves invisible, but rather to make all the other cars on the road invisible. This is the reason our state song is that Beatles hit I'm Looking Through You.

Our cloak of invisibility allows us to become completely unaware of the great other. This is why we don't smile or wave you on, or let you turn in front of us, or scoot over when we are blocking your path. It's nothing personal, we just don't see you there waving hello with your middle finger.

This is also why our greatest crime on wheels is driving 25 mph in the fast lane without getting over.

Can you blame us though? Seriously, how else can we feel like were living in the fast lane without actually putting the pedal to the medal?

While I was in my happy place throwing compost on the weeds I think I may have also busted the myth about Utah's high depression and stress rate.

But I'll save that for next time.

Let it slide . . .

2011-11-30T23:19:00.001-07:00

I haven't posted forever, and it's not because I haven't written anything. I've written four or five things, I just haven't finished them. Heck even the ones I have finished I haven't posted.

I don't know why.

I think it's because I'm busy. And sad. But mostly busy. And sad.

I can't talk about the things that make me sad though because if I did then some people would feel bad and other people would feel happy.

Do you ever get that feeling? Huh? That there are a few people who are secretly happy when you're sad? And secretly sad when you're happy? Ain't it the darndest feeling? Maybe that's why so many people pretend to be happy. Maybe they don't want to give anyone the satisfaction of knowing they're sad.

Adam Lambert was right. It's a mad world. A mad mad world. It's a sad world too.

A sad sad world.

Why does the world have to be so sad? I don't know what to do about all the sadness so sometimes I just do nothing. Besides curl up on the couch and watch Cake Boss. I don't even like Cake Boss, that's how mad the world of sadness is.

Same goes for photographic evidence. When I take my camera anywhere I feel this sense of responsibility to capture all the beauty and wonder around me. Or all the magical expressions on people's faces that you notice when you have a camera in your hand. But it's funny how when you focus on capturing a little bit of the magic, you begin to notice how much of it you're missing, and it pert near drives you batty.

You get me?

For every great shot I get of my kids playing sports, I see a hundred other great shots that I've missed, you know.

When I leave my camera at home I can just enjoy the greatness. Either that or ignore it.

But for some reason it's harder to enjoy the sadness. Or ignore it. And once sadness has your full attention you notice how much sadness you're missing. Sadness everywhere is just slipping through your fingers like water through a net, and all you can do is let is slide.

Like yesterday my daughter came home from school and told me that one of her friends was having a lump removed from her neck.

"It's probably nothing," I said because I could tell she was worried. And also because I meant it. I knew the mom, after all. Those things are usually nothing if I know the mom. But five minutes later my daughter got a text and it turns out her friend has cancer.

How is that possible? She's a cheerleader. Cheerleaders don't get cancer in five minutes. Especially if I know the mom.

She's not the only person I know who has cancer right now either. That's what kills me. It's like take that one sadness and multiply it by a billion. Then add all the other sadnesses of the people you know, that don't even start with C, and round it off. Then square root it, to the tenth power, and solve for X and Y and Z. That's a pretty complicated equation. And that's just the people you know.

Then take me, who hasn't got a clue about math. I can't solve nothin'.

Fer reals, my GRE scores proved I couldn't even get into Harvard Elementary School.

But if anyone ever needs someone to curl up on the coach and watch Cake Boss . . .

Beautiful Losers and Ugly Winners

2011-11-23T10:48:00.006-07:00

I remember in college I wrote a poem about beauty. It won 1st place in a campus poetry contest and was published in the college literary magazine.

I remember the difficult task of reading it aloud in front of my peers, made even more difficult by the fact that each line was written in a new font, with it's own particular voice and slant.

What I don't remember is the title of that stupid poem. What did I call it, for goodness sake!? I have no idea. All that comes to mind is the first line of the poem, which was one of the deepest, most original questions I'd penned to paper to that point in my life:

Why couldn't the beast just stay a beast?

That was my thought. Belle falls in love with him as a beast, not as a handsome prince charming so why bother with the whole magical transformation for the sake of a happy ending? I mean, he's gonna get all big and hairy and cranky eventually anyway.

Am I right, or am I right?

Now that I've had four children and 17 years of exposure to the Disney channel I understand that it is simply a beautiful metaphor for the transformative power of love. It is inner beauty symbolized as outer beauty. It is the ultimate reward for sacrificing yourself for another.

Yada, yada, yada.

Blah, blah, blah.

But fer reals, what's so bad about being hideously ugly, anyway? Or freakishly freaky? Or even run-of-the-mill ordinary? That's what I always say.

And now I understand why I always say it. See a few nights ago I found out who I am and where I came from.

My mom.

I found this out when my sister and I took my mom and our girls to see our adorable niece in her high school production of Beauty and the Beast. It was amazing, and wouldn't you know it, my mom fell in love with the beast. She fell so hard that her heart literally broke in two when he changed into a stinkin' hot calendar model. It just wasn't the happy ending she was looking for, I guess. But then she digs vampires and the artist formerly known as Prince.

But I dig Adrien Brody, so who's counting.

Anyway, it's what's inside that counts. That's what my MIL always says to her two shortest children, and I believe it. I would phrase it differently if I were cross stitching it on sweat shirts for my two shortest children, but whatevah.

I might say something like: It's what comes out that counts!

What good are beautiful insides if they never come out? You have do DO SOMETHING beautiful to be beautiful. That's alls I'm saying. Like apologize or say thank you or smile with your eyes or give someone a hug or a compliment or a chocolate truffle.

Or make something authentic. Even authentic emotion is beautiful, especially if it's expressed as art.

I'm getting a little side tracked, but have you guys heard of the beautiful losers? That group of D.I.Y artists who are a bit on the visually disobedient side? Meaning they don't bow to societal art norms. There's a documentary about them on Youtube that you might love if, like me, you want to be a beautiful loser when you grow up. Truthfully, I'd settle for being a semi-attractive loser.

I came across the documentary on T.V. by accident one day, and I few things were said that made me realize I had found my clan.

To go from being just a regular freak to being a cool freak. It's kinda nice. We were pretty stupid. And great. Awesomely dumb. It was full of people who were speaking a language where you didn't have to be smart to understand. All you had to do was have a heart and that was enough. I think nerds, or the dispossessed, do sort of inherit the creative earth. If you're not dispossessed, why make art? If you're not feeling pretty rejected and all that stuff you'll probably be a little more content and not have this need to save your life making something. If you really feel something, if there is something inside you, it's important, almost a duty, to tell your story in a different way.

Different way . . . diFFerent wAy . . . diffeRent waY . . .

But I digress. I was talking about the beast, who isn't a beautiful loser at all, but more of an ugly winner. Who then turns into a beautiful winner.

Hmm m m m m . . . I'm not connecting the dots very well, am I? I guess I'll just let you connect them for me then.

So the ending to this post is a little bit anti-climatic because after the show I went to a lot of trouble to arrange a meeting between the beast and my mom. For photographic evidence purposes. But the beast had this kind soul and these piercing eyes and I got nervous, and when I get nervous with a camera in my hand dumb things happen. Like the time I saw Obama at Turtle Bay and I accidentally put the camera on self timer. I just kept pushing the button over and over, but the shot didn't go off until Obama had stepped out of my viewfinder, leaving only the bathroom door which he had exited in view. It was a lovely shot of a presidential bathroom, but still!

So when I tried to shoot my mom with the beast I didn't realize I had the camera on video mode so I have no photographic evidence to tie this post together.

I do however have a photo with my adorable niece, Dani, who played every part in the play but the kitchen sink. (She would have made a lovely kitchen sink too, btw.)

Good job, Dani!

I also nabbed one more photo with my daughter's favorite character, Lumiere, who, besides Dani, stole the show!

Ain't it just like light to steal the show from beauty.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

P.S. Here is the video of my mom with the beast, but there is an error so don't get excited because you won't be able to watch it.

Trust me, my mom is positively glowing. With light and beauty.

Wow! I stand corrected!

Feel free to judge me now

2011-11-21T09:16:00.005-07:00

Remember that time I came home from church to find someone was sleeping in my bed?

And she had goldie locks?

Twas a What 'chu talkin' bout Phyllis moment of which I have successfully recreated, with photographic evidence, for your viewing pleasure.

And mine.

he he he he he he he he he he he he he

Improvement and Destruction: Take Care

2011-11-14T23:29:00.013-07:00

I told a fib in my last post. I did know that Monterey was in California when I went there last week. I'm a California girl, after all. Least I would've been had my parents not fled to Utah when I was a baby. They needed some space from three people who were too dependent on my dad (and vice versa--no pun intended): 1. his ex girlfriend with the long blond ponytail, 2. his mother, and 3. his drug dealer. Or should I say his mood alteration manager?

If it hadn't been for those three people I would have been born and raised in Long Beach instead of born and almost raised in Long Beach.

As it turned out there were plenty of blond ponytails and mood alteration managers in Utah too. And my dad's mother knew how to dial a phone.

Am I making my dad sound like a two-timing mama's boy with a nasty mood alteration habit? I don't mean to, really, it's just that some people look worse on paper than they do in real life. In real life he looked like the kindest and gentlest soul you'll ever meet, with a really big heart, and a few really small issues.

Mother/other/mood issues.

But he had his reasons. Plus it was the sixties! Drugs in the sixties were like cigarettes in the fifties.

But anyway, if I wasn't born and almost raised in Long Beach, I would like to have been born and almost raised in Monterey. I kinda loved it there. I've decided that in my next life I want to be a Mexicalian. I really dig coastal cities of the Spanish kind.

And I really dig Steinbeck too. I even bought a Steinbeck book at Fisherman's wharf to read on the plane. Travels with Charlie. It's a book of observations Steinbeck makes about Americans in 1960 after he packs up a trailer and his poodle and, at 58 years old, travels incognito across the good ole' U.S.A. GREAT BOOK! He's very observant--my favorite observation being when he arrives in Seattle, a place he spent a lot of time in as a child, and says "Why is it that progress looks so much like destruction."

How's that for profound!?

It made me think deeply. About improvement. Improvement also looks a lot like destruction in a way, for you really cannot improve something without destroying something else. Or at least losing something else.

Now don't try to argue with me and say that improvement is always good because it does have its drawbacks. Take for instance my early years of marriage. I was hell-bent on improving my figure. And I did. I looked as good as I get given my physical limitations. But while I was super hot, I was also super itchy. With a B.

It takes a lot of time and energy to be super hot. My hub noticed that I had become consumed with myself and lost my pleasant personality. He also noticed that I had become a rude driver and said he'd rather take me soft around the edges in matters of both body and soul. And also in matters of the road.

Bottom line: Improvement takes a lot of focus and it makes some people itchy. That's alls I'm sayin, Phyllis.

So I'm home now and I left Monterey a few hours earlier than my hub--6:20 a.m. if you want to know the ugly truth--not because I wanted to, but because I needed to help my daughter get ready for her Preference date on Saturday night . In other words, I couldn't stand the thought of her looking super hot without me.

But for the record, she too paid a price for beauty, in the form of a restrictive corset. Let's just say she sustained some internal bruising from having to maintain such perfect posture all night. There are three things that are next to do well with perfect posture--breath, dance and laugh.

Case in point!

So on my way home from Monterey three things happened that have never happened before.

First, my hub texted me. I was sitting in the Phoenix airport waiting for my connecting flight and I had just sent him a text letting him know I had arrived safely. I don't know why I did it, since he goes for weeks without reading his texts, and he never replies, but within a few seconds I got a text back. Take Care it said. Such a kind and . . . unusual thing to say. Kinda tickled my throat for a sec.

Second, I wore my reading glasses in public. I had to in order to read the text.

Third, my plane almost went down over Salt Lake City. I was looking out the window at the time, when suddenly the ground underneath me started dancing around. The Rocky Mountains were shaking their groove thangs like there was no tomorrow. And honestly, I was pretty sure there was no tomorrow. For a fraction of a hair of a split second I thought HA! At least my house is wearing clean underwear! But then those two little words came to mind: Take Care. Had my hub had some sort of a premonition from the Universe? Had he been warning me with his text, bidding me a fond farewell?

It's freaky what two little words can do to you when Salt Lake City is rocking out beneath you.

I reached for my phone to send my hub a final text. But what would my final text say? It's so hard to decide when you're under pressure like that. Take Care, maybe? No, he'd think I was mocking him. Sorry I didn't take care like you asked me? No, too alarmist, plus it would be too weird if the plane didn't go down after all. I love you? Again, that would be too weird if the plane didn't go down.

As I was debating with myself about the perfect final text, the plane picked up speed and lifted it's nose to the sky. Up, up, and away, turning as it ascended above the airport so that all I could see was the long term parking lot, and my car right where we left it in lot 19A.

So close, and yet, so far away. And as they got farther and farther away they all looked so . . . pointless.

From my view in the air I could clearly see the path from the lot to the terminal where my hub and I had made our amazing race just days earlier, and it occurred to me how crazy we must've looked to God that day--me in my new cheetah print ballet shoes 40 paces behind my hub, who was moving like quick silver with both duffel bags slung over his shoulders.

God was probably like "Dude, slow down . . . take a load off. Your plane won't even be there for another 40 minutes."

Or maybe he just looked down in his infinite wisdom and thought, "Take care."

Getaway Vacay

2011-11-11T22:00:00.002-07:00

I am out of the state. And not just the state of improvement. In other words, I'm not in Kansas anymore, Toto.

I'm in Cali.

Monterey, to be precise. Oldest city in California and former stomping grounds of John Steinback. Ever heard of him, huh? huh? huh? Of Mice and Men . . . The Grapes of Wrath . . . Cannery Row . . . I've wandered up and down Cannery Row three times now, thank you very much.

I have also meandered down 11th Avenue, past his childhood summer cottage, where he spent the 1930's working on his craft and getting famous.

If there's one thing I love more than famous people, it's famous people's summer cottages. That's where the magic happens, baby!

The craft magic, that is. (Ahem . . .)

I also drove past Steinbeck's childhood home in Salinas. This is what it looks like when you're driving by.

From what I hear some magic happened here too. In that attic window.

But I'm not here to see John Steinbeck's childhood home or summer cottage or Cannery Row. I'm just here to support my hub who is attending a professional conference. To be truthful I didn't even know John Steinbeck was from California before I showed up. Heck, I didn't even know Monterey was from California before I showed up.

See how much edumacation you can get from professional conferencing!

While my hub conferences, I amble. Up and down the docks, and around the wharf, and through the harbor. Sometimes I buy fish and chips from Starbucks, or drink hot chocolate in the plaza. Other times I walk over the bridge and pour Robitussin down the seal's throats. Poor things have picked up a nasty croup, bless their hearts.

If you wanna know what it's like to amble down Fisherman's Wharf in Monterey, it's a lot like walking through Costco on Sample day. Only slower. And all the samples are clam chowder. And there's a live jazz band playing in the background. And a lot of boats in the foreground. But if Costco were less crowded and more . . . outdoorsy, it would be just like Costco on sample day.

And if you wanna know what it's like to travel to Monterey with the dummy and her hub it's a lot like The Amazing Race. We are that one couple. The one where the man, who has all the luggage slung over his shoulders, is booking it through the long term parking lot at the airport, calling "ARE YOU COMING?" to the woman 40 paces behind him, whose feet are moving as fast as they can in her new cheetah print ballet shoes.

See I have this routine when it comes to getaway vacays. I have to focus on the getAWAY part before I focus on the VACAY part.

Getting AWAY includes several steps that have to happen before I can leave the house. Things like remodeling the house, topping off the food storage, finishing the scrapbooks, baking bread for all the neighbors . . .

Can I help it if I travel like I live? As if each trip will be my last? For me it's like wearing clean underwear in case I get into a car accident. I can't leave the house until I know my underwear is clean. And remodeled.

So to speak.

My hub is patient with my process until the morning we have to catch our flight, and then he gets quiet. It's 8:45, he'll say. Or it's 8:55.

And so it goes all the way to the airport. It's 9:05. It's 9:15. And then as we're hoofing it through the long term parking lot because, as he puts it, we don't have time for the shuttle, he'll shout over his shoulder, It's 10:15!

No one can cram more meaning into the simple passing of time than my dear hub.

Speaking of passing time, we had to pass quite a bit of time at the gate while waiting for our plane to arrive so we could board.

Mmmhmmm . . . you heard me. And we had to pass even more time in the Phoenix airport waiting for our connecting flight.

More than six hours in total! To get to California! From UTAH!

I could have walked there faster if I wasn't wearing my new cheetah print ballet shoes.

I think you can tell how much your company values you by how they book your business flights. If it takes more than an hour and a half to get from Utah to California you can safely assume you're not near the top of the totem pole. And if your seating assignment is not next to your wife's seating assignment, you're probably closer to the bottom, especially if that seating assignment is the last seat on the plane, next to the window, across from the bathroom.

But no matter. We're having fun in California! Wish you were here!

(And yes, my eyeballs started sweating when I saw the ocean again!)

WHATEVAH

2011-11-07T08:40:00.002-07:00

I finally did it. Boiled Utah County down to one word--a feat I've been working on for the past two plus years since I moved here from Hawaii.

I got the idea from Eat, Pray, Love. Elizabeth Gilbert is sitting in an outdoor cafe in Rome with a guy named Giulio. He asks her how she likes the city, and she tells him she likes it fine, but she can tell she doesn't belong. When she explains why he says, "Maybe you and Rome just have different words."

According to Giulio, every city has a different word that defines it and identifies most of the people living there. Says he, "If you could read people's thoughts as they were passing you on the streets of any given place, you would discover that most of them are thinking the same thought." Whatever the majority thinks is the word of the city.

New York's word is ACHIEVE, Los Angeles is SUCCEED, Stockholm is CONFORM, and Naples is FIGHT.

Now cover your ears because Rome's word is SEX. Every person in Rome is thinking about sex, all day, every day (except at the Vatican where the word is POWER). This is why Gilbert doesn't feel comfortable there, because sex is not her word. If your own personal word does not match the word of the city, then you don't really belong there.

When Gilbert tries to define herself with one word, she realizes that our personal words shift and change as we shift and change.

I think she might be on to something. When I was a poor black child growing up in the ghettos of Provo, where we had to walk to school uphill, both ways, in the snow, my word was POWERLESS. I couldn't control my father's drug addiction or his endless battle with Hemophilia, or the fact that I got dropped off at school every day in a station wagon held together with duct tape. But then I went away and growed up and now I am back in Utah after 20 years with a different word. I would like to say that word is EMPOWERED, but life don't shake down that tidy. And anyway, my word is one step beyond EMPOWERED.

My word is WHATEVAH.

This is probably why I felt so at home in Hawaii. You might think everyone in Hawaii is walking around thinking ALOHA, but actually they're thinking WHATEVAH.

This is also probably why, although I love living in Utah, and I know this is the place, I don't feel like this is my place. Maybe because we have different words. The collective word for Utah County is IMPROVE. Everyone is walking around thinking IMPROVE, IMPROVE, IMPROVE, and not just their shining moments, if you get my drift.

Some of you might have thought the word would be STRESS since Utah got voted the most stressed state in the union last year. It makes sense if you think about it because it's stressful to constantly IMPROVE, especially when you are trying to IMPROVE faster than your neighbor. You try topping yourself every year, not to mention everybody else around you. In Utah last years good, better and best is this years gooder, betterer and bester.

If you think about it, the word STRESS is a natural by-product of the word IMPROVE. You get me?

And the people aren't the only ones thinking about improvement. Right now the word on the streets is UNDER-CONSTRUCTION, which is another natural by-product of IMPROVE. Nearly every street and freeway in Utah County is getting a face lift. It's like all of Utah County is a character in a Judy Blume book. The whole county is thinking, "We must, we must, we must increase our bust. And our trust. But not our lust. Or our dust. We must decrease our lust and our dust."

Once again, if you think about it, the desire to increase your bust and your trust, and decrease your lust and your dust is also a natural by-product of IMPROVE.

I have to admit that after hearing that church lady tell my former young woman that her voice wasn't appropriate for church I was tempted to change the collective word to CENSOR. Maybe everyone is walking around thinking CENSOR, CENSOR, CENSOR. If so, it's working. When that girl opened her mouth again, she was suddenly restrained and contained, as if she was trying to stay within the lines of her chalk body outline.

But then if you think about it, the word CENSOR is also a by-product of the word IMPROVE . .

But whatevah.

Voice Lessons

2011-11-04T19:42:00.006-06:00

Okay, I finally broke down and bought a bag of Halloween candy. At 50% off. You know why? Because a candyless house after Halloween is a FREAKY place to be. Especially when one member of the household has a secret candy stash that everyone else wants to sink their teeth into.

Twilight's got nothing on us.

As Gad as my witness, I will never be a Halloween humbug again.

So I need to make a correction to my last post. My daughter and her friends did not make and deliver Valentines on Halloween at all. They made and delivered creepy stalker notes, which fit the spirit of the holiday better. So they say. Apparently it was just a spooky prank. So they say. And I believe them.

Although just as there is a little bit of truth in every joke, I bet there is also a little bit of love in every creepy stalker note. A little bit of Valentines in every Halloween, so to speak.

But that's just one dummy's opinion, and the thing I love about being a dummy is that if your opinion offends, you can always just blink and shrug and say, "huh?"

Plus I love just sitting down at the computer without a thought in my head and letting my fingers do the talking for me--stream of conscience style. I'm amazed at the utter nonsense that comes out when I'm not planning or preparing or pondering. A cleansing breath after doing massive amounts of serious writing, which is what I've been up to for the past few months. We writers call it working on our craft.

I've been working on my craft, peeps! And guess what! I'm in a writer's critique group now. So I can work on my craft.

I. love. it.

What writer's critique groups do is they support and encourage each other as they work on their craft. And also they critique each other. Which means they help each other get literary.

Bet you can't guess what the #1 critique writers who are working on their craft give each other.

Too bloggy.

Bloggy is an adjective now. It means too much punch. And in my case, too much spiked punch, if you get my drift.

But yay for too much spiked punch every so often, huh!? After a hard days work, huh!?

Can I get an amen?

It may not get you into grad school or earn you respect in intellectual circles, but what the hay! That's what I always say. What the hay!

I'm writing a collection of voice lessons, and guess what lesson I learned from my own voice lessons? I learned that I love my dummy voice. Fer reals, I would marry her, cept she couldn't support me.

I've also learned that your voice is fragile. You gotsta protect it because when it doesn't blend, people will let you know. Not writer's critique people, who are trying to help you refine your voice, but proper authority people.

I'm talking about one of my ex-young women. She's still a young woman, but she's not MY young woman anymore since the bishop broke up with me. See a few nights ago I attended YW in Excellence and my ex-young woman was practicing a musical number for the program. She was singing her heart out and her voice was so fresh, so original, and so unique that it bounced off my soul in new and exciting ways.

But all of a sudden the woman accompanying her on the piano stopped, and, in her best church lady voice, gave her a voice lesson of her own.

"Maybe that type of singing is okay for a country song, but IT'S. NOT. APPROPRIATE here in the church."

You know what I have to say about that?

Because that just ain't true now, is it! Every voice is beautiful to God. Especially a voice that comes straight from the heart.

Which reminds me of a hundred stories.

Maybe I'll tell them someday.

When I'm finished working on my craft.

I mean Merry Christmas!

2011-11-02T17:17:00.008-06:00

Fer reals, one day I'm in my t-shirt walking my dog in a world consumed by goblins and ghosts, and the next day I'm walking through a winter wonderland, listening to Justin Beiber deck the halls under the mistletoe.

(Where did Thanksgiving go?)

Seriously, JB's got an R&B Christmas album out, peeps. And he raps the Little Drummer Boy. In fact, he might even think he is the little drummer boy.

(Pa rum pum pum pum.)

Either that or the king of pop.

Check it:

Rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum
Yeah I’m on the drum yeah I’m on the snare drum
Yeah I’m on the beat cause the beat goes dumb
And I only spit heat cause I’m playing for the sun
Playing for the king, playing for the title
I’m surprised you didn’t hear this in the Bible
I’m so tight, I might go psycho
Christmas time, so here’s a recital
I’m so bad like Michael I know
I’m still young, I go, I go
Stupid, stupid, love like Cupid
I’m the drummer boy so do it, do it

See what I mean?

I'm toying with the idea of adding a rap to my Crash Test Dummy Christmas album.

I'm surprised I didn't hear this in the Bible either.

Does anyone else gotsda Bieber fever?

Yeah, me neither. Me neither. Me neither.

Fa la la. La la la. La. La. La.

Word.

Okay, that was random. I didn't come here to rap about JB, but when he mentioned stupid and cupid in the same sentence it made me think of something that happened on Halloween. My daughter made Valentines!

I knew you wouldn't believe me so I snapped some photographic evidence when she went out to deliver them:

See if I was frumpty dumpty for Halloween, she was grumpty dumpty. You get me? All because she heard that people in Utah wait by the door with their shotguns for trick-or-treaters over the legal age of 12.

This did not bode well with her. She likes candy. And she likes Halloween. And there are no shotguns in Hawaii on Halloween.

So we all stayed home and pouted, without any candy, because I didn't even buy any candy. In fact, my twins had to risk their life to go out trick or treating just to get some candy to give to our trick or treaters.

It was just a big ole' McScroogey mess. Especially after we turned the channel to Hawaii Five-O. We all just sat there crying in our candy. (Minus the candy.)

But then my daughter's friends came over and all the sudden they were making . . . valentines. For boys.

Go figure.

They got busted, of course, because cupid ain't on-duty yet, and you can't get anything past the boogeyman.

(Is that even how you spell boogeyman?)

Btw, do I sound like I've been sniffing too much candy? (Minus the candy?)

Happy Helloweeeeeeen!

2011-10-31T08:47:00.005-06:00

Don't you think it should be called Helloween? Fer reals? All that boil, boil, toil and trouble. And all that wicked candy. And all those sordid Lady Gaga look-alikes.

HELLO! ween.

Plus doesn't Freud says you dress up like the person you would most like to be if the devil made you do it? I am dressed as a frumpty dumpty mom and my hub is dressed as a Kahuku Red Raider for life. In his PJ's. For life.

(photographic evidence not available)

My son wanted to dress up like the naked cowboy, but thanks to our next door neighbor, Grizzly Adam, he went to school fully clothed.

Love your guts, Grizzly Adam!

I think my daughter has nerd envy because she dresses like a nerd every year.

Analyze that, Mr. Freudian!

Sadly, I caught her rummaging through MY closet to put her outfit together, but all she came across were my frumpty dumpty costumes.

And then the twins. They have no deep-seeded longings. They just pop out of bed 10 minutes before school, throw on some skinny jeans, and raid the costume closet.

This twin is a Steven Tyler of sorts, who is thinking, dang, these skinny jeans are cutting off my circulation!

This twin is a Sherlock Holmes of sorts, who is thinking dang, if I had gotten out of bed five minutes earlier I could be rockin' those skinny jeans instead of this stodgy overcoat.

Anyways, party on, peeps! Happy Helloween

Don't Forget to Breathe

2011-10-27T10:56:00.002-06:00

When God created the world I bet he spent a lot of time on the human brain, holding it up to the light and examining it from every angle to make sure he was providing the earth with just the right balance of man power. I bet he seperated the brains into categories--those who could think in numbers, and those who could think in images, or acronyms, or explitives, etc. And then finally, just for fun, I bet he made one extra brain that could think in song lyrics.

My son got that brain.

Which reminds me of a joke I just made up:

How many dummies does it take to teach a family home evening lesson about s.e.x?

Two. One to drop the "S" bomb, and one to drop the soundtrack.

With four teenagers in the house it was time. To tackle that topic. I anticipated awkward, but I didn't anticipate how much less awkward it would be when put to music. My 15-year-old son is an improv troupe unto himself when it comes to isolating a point and driving it home through music and dance. By the end of the lesson, the whole family was singing songs from his Just Say No album--songs like "Naturally" by Selena Gomez, "How to Love" by Li'l Wayne, and "Don't Let me Fall" by B.o.B.

Choreography was also included, under his direction. And that, peeps, is what it's like to live in the Dummy household. In case you were wondering.

Which leads me to a story, because my brain thinks in story.

By show of hands, does anyone else's brain think in story? That's why we blog, right? (Well, that and all the attention we get.) Blogging allows us to regurgitate our stories on a regular basis, with the knowledge that someone somewhere is listening.

I wish my MIL had a blog. She's been up-chucking on me a lot lately. And by that I mean, daily projectile vomiting over the phone. I'm getting so that when I pick up, I hold the receiver straight out and away from my ear so I don't get slammed by all the chunks of story she blows.

I don't blame her, she's unclogging her brain, which we all know requires an audience, and isn't as gratifying as unblogging her brain would be, had she not been born and raised of goodly parents a million years ago during the great depression.

I'm trying my best to clean up after her by picking up all the little chunks and putting them back together in, what she likes to call, her family history.

Such an impending word, family history, but basically it's just a bunch of stories we heave onto the page, right? And if you think about it, writing your family history is a lot like being pregnant. First you feel really, really tired. Shortly thereafter the upchucking commences, followed by months of worry and discomfort. You can't sleep, you can't eat, you can't fit into your skinny genes, but finally, when the story is ready, you labor and deliver, until out pops your posterity.

We all know there are things that make pregnancy easier, right? Prenatal care. Lamaze classes. Support groups. Ice cream. Abstinence. But did you know that these same things can make carrying and delivering your story easier too?

Which is exactly why I've signed up for some prenatal care and Lamaze to help me learn how to pump out my MIL's stories. Or at least breath through the pain of it. Hee hee haw (Them's breathing sounds, not giggling sounds.) Because seriously, abstinence ain't no option when dealing with my MIL.

(Wow, can I extend a metaphor or what!??! I wonder what song my son would be singing right now.)

What I'm trying to say, in my roundabout way, is there is this cool conference coming up. It's called Story@Home, and if you are interested in eating ice cream and deep breathing with me here are all the deets:

WHAT: A conference to celebrate the power of story. Come learn to share your story with the world, bring the past to life, tell a captivating story.

WHEN: March 8-10

WHERE: JSMB and the LDS Conference Center

WHO: Hosted by FamilySearch and presented by Cherish Bound

HOW MUCH: Only $79.

This is not exclusively an LDS event! Anyone who loves to say what they need to say is invited, but there is a limited amount of pre-sale tickets for bloggers, so reserve your ticket now because once FamilySearch releases their tickets, the event will be sold out.

Make sure to go and Like the Facebook page for up to date information about the conference.

And don't forget to breathe!

R.I.P.

2011-10-23T07:07:00.002-06:00

Holy SNAP, it's Sunday, and I missed my daughter's birthday.

I mean YOU missed my daughter's birthday. I couldn't miss my daughter's birthday if I tried. Not with all these shoes in my house.

Is this not the loveliest sight you've seen in pairs since Lulu and diapers? Because where there are shoes, there are people, right!?

Lots and lots of people! Granted some of these people look like serial killers . . . well, at least one of them (in the bottom left hand corner) looks like a serial killer, but I allowed them all to cram into my basement anyway and wish my daughter a happy 17th birthday.

I'm not being rude about the serial killer thing, btw. Just giving my daughter, who thinks all of my high school friends look like serial killers, a taste of her own medicine.

She's not being rude, either. (She's never being rude.)

One of the boys in the photo does not look like a serial killer at all. He looks more like a tall Preference date with a dazzling smile. Do you want to see which boy I'm talking about?

Do you, do you, do you? Hmm? Hmm Hmmm? Do you?

Okay, hold you horses. Sheeeeesh! Here he is.

(I think the boy to his left might have serial killer potential too.)

Notice I strategically placed her Pref date's pumpkin in the background to prick his conscience about how long it took to say those three little words after my daughter asked him to the dance: Yes, Yes, Yes!

Luckily I don't hold grudges. I'm generously tolerant of people with commitment issues and/or time management issues and/or priority issues and/or date-dance-response block issues. As long as he doesn't have abandonment issues, I'm good.

So my daughter's 17th birthday was, as they say at the Moulin Rouge, spectacular, spectacular. She got a rainbow cake from her medical assisting friends, a darling sweater from my sister, and a perm from my mom.

You heard me right, a perm! As in permanent! (Yes, she listens to eight track tapes too!)

She also got asked on a date. Plus she got serenaded by a boy with a guitar and three back-up singers.

I only know this because during the party, while my hub, my twins, my dog and myself were shut up in the master bedroom, huddling together on our California King to give my daughter space, my twins decided to go outside and play football in the dark, where they witnessed the whole thing, from the boys leading her outside to them singing--get this--Baby, Baby, Baby by Justin Bieber. Apparently her Homecoming date isn't the only one who turns into Justin Bieber around my daughter.

Can you imagine having the Justin Bieber effect on so many boys? "I think you've found your gift," I told my daughter, but she shrugged and said, "Oh, mom, they sing that to all the girls on their birthdays."

Hmmmmm . . . . . . that's alls I'm saying.

I was going to give my daughter something for her birthday, but then I remembered that I gave her life, so I pulled out my favorite t-shirt instead: I gave my daughter life and alls I got was this lousy t-shirt!

I did eventually end up giving her something besides life. A modest shopping spree in Park City, with a friend of her choice, and a family of her choice--preferably our family. After day 1 I took her home because she had to work and take the ACT and go on her date. After day 2 I took my boys home because they were overdosing on the steam shower. Oh, and because they begged me to take them home.

But seriosuly, whodda thought steam could be so dangerously addicting?

Must be careful about substances that clear our pores.

"I can't wait until the boys are gone," I kept saying on day 2. But then after I took them home we were all alone. "I wish the boys were here," I kept saying, until, out of nowhere, my hub started a massive pillow fight. Then disappeared to take another steam shower.

Do you think he misunderstood me?

This retreat is actually the result of one of those time share dealios we attended two years ago. You know the ones where they call you and call you until, exasperated, you agree to take a free night, plus $100 cash, just to listen to a 30 minute seminar about the resort. Upon arrival they feed you finger foods and bring you Cokes laced with . . . coke, before they strap you into a chair for four hours and tell you you are getting sleepy . . . very . . . sleepy. Once you are in a trance-like state they ask you to fork out $16,000 for a once-a-year stay at the resort.

This breaks the trance.

"Can we think about it for a few hours? Maybe discuss it?" you say, but the answer is no. Thinking and talking are off limits. This a NOW or NEVER, once in a life-time opportunity. You choose the NEVER option, but instead of letting you go, they tighten your straps and call the manager over to smack some sense into you. He offers you a steal deal of $11,000, then $8,000, then bottoms out at $4,000. Finally he puts his final offer on the table. Three nights for $300.

You can do that. Because technically it's only $2oo when you minus the cash they are about to hand you. A small price to pay for freedom. Only you're not free at all. You are still in bondage to their constant phone calls and emails until you commit to a date.

So this is our date. UEA weekend, 2011. The very same date all the other suckers in Utah County committed to, after apparently being harassed and hypnotized into submission.

We are all victims here, sharing the pool with each others screaming children and maneuvering past each other down the narrow, dimly lit hallways on our way through the maze, a glint of recognition passing between us about where we have been and where we are going--back to our rooms, where the pots and pans are kept just out of reach in the cupboard above the fridge--the cupboard where you might store your punch bowls and flower vases at home.

Back to our rooms where the overhead light flickers and the sheets crunch and the fake plastic marble Kleenex box holds all of four tissues.

Back to our room where if you want a remote for the t.v. or shampoo for your hair, or garbage bags that don't bust open when you pull them out of the pail, all you have to do is place a call and the resort will be happy to provide you with what you need. It may take a few days, but if you hang tight, it will come. I am on a first name basis with the front desk now--an inevitable result of calling for more toilet paper at 4 a.m.

"And can you send the 2-ply this time, Julius?" I asked in all sincerity.

Click.

So last night, which was our last night, as my hub was finishing his steam shower, there was a knock on the door from someone at the V.I.P. desk. He handed me a ziploc baggie full of homemade cookies, and a welcome packet containing our internet access code, a whole bunch of coupons and discounts for local restaurants we might want to try during our stay, and a pair of handcuffs. His eyes narrowed. "You know that you will be in our custody forever and ever, throughout time and all eternity, right?"

I gulped.

"It's part of the covenant you made with us when you purchased your package, that we have to meet with you again before you leave. You know that, right?"

I gulped again. "What for? We did our time here like we promised."

"Oh, we just want to share a few . . . Cokes . . . and close out your account. How did you enjoy the steam shower, by the way?"

I gulped again and looked down at the cookies.

"When can we meet with you?" he pressed.

My mind was spinning like a hamster wheel. "How about tomorrow morning," I heard myself say. "Like say about 9 a.m?" And then he made me sign my name in blood.

Only thing is, we won't be here at 9 a.m. I've been up since 4:3o digging a tunnel to the parking lot with a spoon? After I changed our phone numbers and email addresses and identities? If you don't hear from me again, you'll know there were security guards at the exit.

As for my final wishes? I would like the words DON'T. DO. TIME SHARES. engraved on my headstone.

And if there's enough space maybe add (or steam showers) underneath.

Mahalo, peeps!

R.I.P.

Drumroll, please . . .

2011-10-17T22:06:00.004-06:00

Basketball season is underway once again. For my twins. And guess what! Guess what! Guess what! My short twin is starting to grow. Probably due to the large quantities of corn dogs he consumes on a daily basis.

(KIDDING, peeps! Don't call Social Services on me!)

He is as tall as me now! But I think all that growing is effecting his brain cells because the other day we were trying to teach him how to stop people from teasing him. By NOT reacting to them, right!? Because then they just leave you alone, right? So I used the example of my sister, bless her heart, who had to learn this the hard way.

"It was just too easy to get her goat," I told my growing boy.

"Wait!" he said, as sincerely as humanly possible. "She used to have a goat?"

Heee heee heee heee That's my boy!

FYI, the tall twin now has a B in choir, thanks to eating that corndog. Phew!

Oh, and guess what else! guess what else! Guess what else!

My daughter finally got her answer from that Ivy league boy with the dazzling smile, who even though he can score a 35 on the ACT, has a hard time answering a simple yes or no question.

And the answer is . . .

Drumroll, please . . .

He says he would "love" to go. He thinks it would "serve" him well. (And you guys were so worried!)

(Serve him well? Does that sound like a Hahvard boy or what? Except he forgot to add the dahling.) (And the apology for being such an Ace.)

hee hee (J/K peeps! please, PLEASE don't call Social Services on me!)

Btw, the candle in the pumpkin was a trick candle. My daughter huffed and puffed and it wouldn't blow out.

"He's sending you a message!" I told her. That the "love" can never be snuffed out.

But then she used her inhaler and POOF, the flame was gone! Just like that!

Your blog would suck without me!

2011-10-13T15:07:00.003-06:00

In case you were wondering, my daughter doesn't read my blog. She doesn't want to know what I'm saying behind her back. But a few nights ago while I was laying in bed composing the letter to her preference date and cracking myself up as I yelled it across the hall to her, she said, "Mom, your blog would suck without me."

Those weren't her exact words, they were Kelly Clarkson's, but that was the gist of it.

And then she called out across the hall, "As soon as you get famous my life is over!" to which I replied, "That's why I'm waiting for you to go to college before I get famous!"

I'm such a rock star mom, don't you think?

Knock on wood.

I only say knock on wood because as soon as you pat yourself on the back for being a rock star mom, you'll fer sure get a one-two punch to the gut, reminding you that your mom skillz ain't that great after all. Elsewise why would your 13-year-old son be getting a C in choir? Besides that fact that he chose to eat a corn dog for his comfort zone project.

I shoulda known betta! I shoulda known! How does eating a corn dog help you overcome stage fright or perform more confidently or get an A in choir?

Call me crazy, but I think he misunderstood the comfort zone project. At least this was my feeling as I read his report this morning:

Ever since I was little, every time I smelled a corn dog it made my nose and my stomach hurt, so I never liked to be around them, but of course my twin brother loves them. He could eat seven corn dogs a day if he wanted so I hate it when he shoves a corn dog in my face.

So now I decided to try a corn dog for this comfort zone assignment. I would never do this in my regular day life, but I’m going to do this because it makes me very uncomfortable. So first I asked my mom to get the corn dog ready for me because I couldn’t bring myself to do it. She put it on the edge of the table but while I was trying to get the nerve to eat it my dog jumped up and ate it. So I guess I can really say my dog ate my homework.

My mom made me get the next corn dog ready myself so I got some ketchup and put it on my corn dog and got ready. Once I took that first bite I hated it. It had a really weird taste. It was sweet and gross and nasty, but I still ate it. I timed myself and it took me seven minutes to eat the whole thing.

The good thing about this assignment is that I learned that you can do things that you’re not comfortable with. You can do new things so when a new thing happens and you’re not comfortable with it, u know it’s good to take risks and good things will happen. But bad things may also happen, so I think it’s good you made us do this assignment.

Ummmm . . . . yea, that's my boy.

FYI: No, my daughter's preference date, if I can call him that, still hasn't answered her. But FTR, apparently he didn't answer the girl who asked him last year for at least THREE weeks!!!!!!!

Ummmm . . . . yea, that's her boy. (Maybe) At least she's not asking him to get married. (Maybe)

A letter to my daughter's preference date

2011-10-11T08:18:00.007-06:00

I should change the title of this blog to Crash Test Dummy's Daughter Diaries, huh?

Okay, one more and then I'll start bashing on someone else.

Here's the dealio. When you're in high school and you want to ask someone to a dance you have to get creative.

In other words, it's a big ole' production.

And then your date has to answer you back with an equally creative production.

It all seems very mysterious and exciting to a mom without a life, but to a teenager with three of four lives, it can get a little stressful.

The boys are pretty chill about it all. They begin asking their dates 2-3 weeks before any given dance.

The girls, however, have to move on it 6-8 weeks before the dance. That's because the junior girls jump the gun and place dibs all the senior boys, forcing the senior girls to get in the race if they want to pin down their date of choice.

Like I said before, it's all very mysterious and exciting, this underbelly of the date dance world. Kinda reminds me of Black Friday how everybody waits in line to snatch and grab the perfect date off the the clearance rack.

Some boys, like my daughter's Justin Bieber Homecoming date, got asked four times, eight weeks prior to the dance.

My daughter's first choice got snatched up at seven weeks prior. So she asked the varsity tennis player that she beat. Not a consolation date, though. He's a cutie patootie fer sure, with all his ducks in a row. Harvard bound, dazzling smile, tall enough to be her big brother (who just so happens to be 6'1" now--just sayin').

She asked this tall, dazzling, Ivy leaguer with a sign that said "We could make a perfect "match!" (Get it? Match?) (It's tennis lingo, peeps, keep up.) Unfortunately the second part of that sentence that said "because I beat you, and what's more perfect than me winning!?" didn't fit on the sign so she left it off.

Included with the sign were five tennis balls that spelled out P R E F ?

Then there was a clue. "It's what's inside that counts." This clue referred to the teeny tiny pieces of folded paper my daughter had slipped inside each ball that spelled her name. (She likes to play hard to get like that.)

It was all very symbolic. And it was all very 12 days ago. Or should I say, 12 freakin' days ago! And he still hasn't answered her back yet.

12 days!!!! That's got to be a Guinness world record, don't you think?

Don't get me wrong, it's just a technicality and he's not being rude about it, or anything. Bless his heart. He still talks to her every day and acts normal, like any ole' tall Ivy leaguer with a dazzling smile would.

I told her she should light a fire under him by leaving the drum stick on his porch with a sign that reads, "The annoying drummer boy got back to me quicker."

But of course she isn't worried about it because she has three or four lives, so I took it upon myself to write him a letter in a language I thought he might understand. I'm patient and compassionate like that.

May I?

(BTW, names have been changed to protect the guilty.)

Dear Ace,

Can I call you Ace?

I would like to offer a bit of motherly advice, from one dumb "ace" to another. (Get it? dumb ace?)

Allow me to share the eight simple rules to a successful date dance "court" ship? (Get it? court ship?)

1. To git date dance "love" you gotsta give date dance "love."

2. See, winning usually boils down to how well you "serve" (and how fast you answer my daughter).

3. You can't find your perfect "match" by "default" . . .

4. But don't worry, you can always "rally" back . . .

5. If you get 'cha, get 'cha, get 'cha, get 'cha head in the game . . .

6. And answer my daughter . . .

7. PRONTO!

8. Before I poke your eyes out.

Savvy?

P.S. If you hit the net, you get a "let." So take two (weeks.) But after that it will be a "double fault" (and she will be forced to play the drummer)

Savvy?

Mahalo Nui Loa

Hee hee. Do you think this will make a good impression?

Tennis anyone? Anyone? Anyone?

2011-10-07T10:41:00.001-06:00

Yesterday me, my hub, my mom, and my MIL travelled through rain, sleet and snow to watch my daughter play tennis against the undefeated first singles champion from West High in Salt Lake.

When it comes to state tennis tournaments, as in life, there must be a winner and loser. But for the record, it took that winner a long time to beat my daughter.

My daughter was the loser. But she was a beautiful loser.

She was almost a beautiful winner. Almost won every point she lost. Every point went to deuce, and it was hard to tell the difference between the winner and the loser. Except when it came to beauty. That's where my daughter really shined.

Sometimes the line between winning and losing is fingernail thin. But the gap between beauty and not-as-much beauty is always deep and wide.

The upside to not getting all the fame and glory is that it frees you up to focus on your strengths and weaknesses, with special emphasis on your weaknesses. Each match becomes a lesson rather than a victory.

You learn how to keep your head in the game and how to keep your opponant out of your head. You learn how to pay attention and keep score because there are no refs in tennis. It's just you and your oppoanant battling it out. Your word against hers. And the more games you win, the more your opponant will challenge those games and question those games. Your opponant may even take a game or two from you if you let them. (But don't you let them!) Especially if they eats nails for breakfast.

My daughter eats hashbrowns for breakfast. (Buy if anyone has a good nail recipe, please do share.)

High school tennis is now over. Forever. (sniff) And my daughter will have to continue learning about life from life, rather than from tennis. (sniff). But at least she's got a head start. Yesterday, after the match, she got in the car and said "Well, I learned something really important about myself this season." We all waited with baited breath. "I gotsta stand up for myself. I let people walk all over me."

"Except the drummer in the band," I told her. "You didn't let him walk all over you."

Silence.

"I mean, he threw his drumstick at you, but technically he didn't walk all over you."

Silence.

"And you kept the drumstick to prove it."

Silence.

There's a moral here. There's a definite moral here. Why? Because I'm a Mormon and we love our morals. Yes my daughter lost, but ultimately she didn't come away from the state tourney empty handed. Besides the lessons learned she is now the proud inheritor of a sweat shirt.

That's right, she got really excited when she saw my MIL's cross-stitched sweatshirt, and now she has her dibs on it in the will.

Didn't I tell you she had a dusty soul?

Betcha can't guess the first thought that popped into my head when she said she's going to wear it to her children and grandchildren's tennis matches.

The Phyllis Era and The Comfort Zone

2011-10-05T19:08:00.003-06:00

In regards to my daughter's recent lyrical fopa, Becca said "Who even knows anyone named Phyllis anymore? Besides my aunt Phyllis?"

Oh Becca, you don't understand. I think my daughter might be a reincarnate from another era. The Phyllis Era, maybe. Fer reals. And in that era there was probably some little white kid, Alphalpha maybe, in a silent film, or a comic book, whose tag line was:

You can pick her soul off the shelf and dust it off is alls I'm sayin'. She's an oldie. But a goodie. (When she's not throwing tennis balls at the band.)

To be perfectly frank, and I wasn't going to mention this but, Phyllis is her favorite name. No lie, she asked me the other day, "Would it be weird if I named one of my kids Phyllis?"

"Very!" I said. "You might wanna stop beating the boys and throwing stuff at the band if you wanna catch a man who will agree to that."

Am I right, or am I right?

Speaking of which, she beat another boy on the varsity tennis team yesterday. Hope she doesn't try to date him too. Fingers crossed all these victories are helping her prepare for states tomorrow. Her first (and perhaps last) match is against the undefeated reigning number one first singles champion from the Salt Lake region. West High school. I understand they eat nails for breakfast at West high, but you didn't hear it from me.

But hey, I have other kids too, don't I? Raise your hand if it feels like my daughter is dominating my diaries!

I have sons too. Who are just as entertaining as my daughter. Although I don't think their souls are as dusty. I only say this because yesterday they were listing all the dumb things about middle school, like how you have to do a good job on your homework and everything, and how much everybody hates choir.

"I thought choir was supposed to be singing," said twin #1, "but you have to do stupid stuff too!!!"

"Like what?" I asked, as sincerely as humanly possible.

"Like get out of your comfort zone!"

As if!!!!

Apparently that dumb choir teacher thinks getting out of their comfort zone will help them be better performers on stage.

Teachers these dayz!!

So guess what twin #1 has decided to do to get out of his comfort zone?

Guess, guess, guess!!

He's going. to eat. a corn dog.

Baahahahahahaha!

Whodda thought eating corn dogs made him so uncomfortable.

Phyllis. And the "other" drum stick

2011-10-04T16:05:00.007-06:00

So my daughter, as perfect as she is, has a disorder. It's a hearing disorder. She hears fine, don't worry, it's just that her ears can't quite translate lyrics correctly.

Bless her heart.

She got it from her dad.

It's true I thought Sean Kingston's eyeballs were stuck on his plate, but trust me, she got it from her dad.

You know that song by One Republic about how it's too late to apologize? For years she thought they were saying it's too late to call the child.

Again, bless her heart. That sweet sweet heart that went out to that poor, poor child waiting to hear from his parents, who were never going to call because it was just too late.

I could go on, but . . .

Okay, so remember this catch phrase?

Course you don't. You're too young. But somehow my daughter found out about it because she recently busted it out, and it went a little somethin' like this:

And I quote:

"What 'chu talkin' 'bout Phyllis!"

LoLoLoLoLoLoLoLoLoLoLoLoLoLoLoL

Ah, she kills me.

You know what else kills me? Yesterday during tennis practice she hit a few dead tennis balls (on purpose) over the fence at the band, who was also practicing.

Don't ask. I choose to believe it was a term of endearment. I also choose to believe the drummer in the band is just as endearing because he threw his dead drumstick back at her.

Are they a match made in heaven or what? She is now the proud owner of one very dead drumstick. (How romantic is that?) And I am now on a mission to find the owner of the "other" drumstick.

As Gad as my witness, If I have to search every drummer in the state of Utah, I will find that prince charming and bring them together in holy matrimony before I shuffle off this mortal coil!

(I hope he's cute.)

You would do the same thing if the drumstick was on the other foot, right?

(And btw, yes, I told my daughter that she would be one dead drumstick if I ever catch her throwing tennis balls at the band again.)

Firm Foundations

2011-10-03T15:14:00.002-06:00

Conference weekend! My hub thought it was predictible, and in a way it was.

As expected we were inspired, uplifted and edified, but there were also a few surprises. For instance, I didn't expect to give my entire litter of children a haircut and a pedicure during the Sunday sessions. (Not breaking the sabbath if you think about it, since we were obeying the commandments to exercise self-reliance, avoid debt, and stop looking like rugrats.)

I also didn't expect my 15-year-old son's phone alarm to wake me up at 7:00 a.m. to the tune of How Firm a Foundation.

"HOLY COW!" Was alls I could think to yell at him while throwing my pillow across the hallway.

I also didn't expect my daughter to do a Nacho Libre leap in front of the whole school at the Homecoming assembly on Friday. Or to ask the boy she beat at tennis to Preference. Apparently she thinks she can have her cake and eat it too. In my day you either beat the boys, or you asked them out. You didn't get to do both.

Come to think of it, you didn't get to do either. You just got to walk to school uphill both ways in the snow.

And we liked it like that.

Another surprising thing that happened this weekend was that Martha, my ex-door neighbor from Hawaii, came to town. And she brought us Japanese rice crackers (Mmmmmmm) and strawberry belts and li hing mui powder and Seaweed (I have no idea why I capitalized that).

We were going to play tennis together at the magic cabin, except she kept getting lost, which, bet your bottom dollar, she'll blame on me.

So instead we took a partial family picture together, which sounds easier than it looks. Particularly if your holy cow son is a little on the irreverent side.

Not only does he like to take bad pictures, he also likes to take bad pictures.

You get me?

And at least my son's foundation isn't too firm.

p.s. Speaking of foundations, my house had it's by-pass surgery on Friday and is recovering like a trooper.

Visitors are welcome. And meals would be appreciated.

Drain your Brain: Baby Steps Edition

2011-09-28T12:37:00.004-06:00

Ahem . . .

Is this thing on? (testing testing)

Okay, I stand before you today to make an amendment to my last post about draining the clogs in your brain.

The amendment is really more like an addition--or an edition, if you will--inspired by your comments yesterday, as well as the recent developments in my daughter's continuing journey to learn about life from tennis rather than from life.

Okay, so lesson summary: sometimes your pipes get clogged, yada, yada, and then you need to drain your brain, or as I used to call it when I was a hoity toity English and history teacher, you need to deconstruct your brain. Which essentially means you empty it out (or if you think about it literally, means you tear down what has been (mis)constructed for you and by you) (that's a whole deep thought right there if you want to meditate upon it) (but let's not).

Any. ways. You drain your brain a little here and a little there. YaY for you, right!? And YaY for my daughter--braggetty, braggetty, braggetty. But as they say on Project Runway, one day you're in, the next day you're out.

That goes for clogs too, only vice versa.

One day they're out, the next day they're back in.

Gol dern clogs!

Draining your brain is evolutionary. It takes baby steps. Two baby steps forward, one baby step back. That's how clogs roll.

Two days ago my daughter beat a boy during practice. One of the varsity tennis boys who consistently beats her. She was down 5-2 and rallied back for the win. This was more than a baby step. It was a giant leap! It was like a big ole' super sonic plunger to her head.

The next day she dug in her heels and qualified for states.

But then today she played for 3rd place in the region and lost. She has lost to this girl twice before so it's not surprising she lost again. Big deal, right? 3rd or 4th! Tit for Tat. I could care less if she loses. I'm just in it for the life lessons.

But on this day she could have won. And she felt it. But for some reason she let it slide.

This is what it looks like to win 4th in the region when you know you could have won 3rd.

Look very very very closely and you can almost see the drain filling up again.

But that's life, right! You're up. You're down. You're up. You're down. I'm still proud as a peacock.

I mean, just because you CAN do it, doesn't mean you HAVE to (every time), right?

Some of your comments yesterday reminded me that sometimes letting it slide is as important to draining your brain as wielding your sword.

Dolly said:

My son only got a red card in his game yesterday. I think it just added to the clog in his brain.

I keep trying to be the roto rooter to my kiddos and they don't seem to appreciate me calling them out on stuffs. They must be those sensitive "words of affirmation" types... which are lovely types of people too, but when they need an experience and won't go and get one, it's just a bit exasperating and I'm not one to let too much build up in my brain before I finally say something that is insightful, but comes out all wrong. I sort of suck at parenting. You look like you've got it going strong. Ok, time for me to go watch Dieter Uchtdorf again. : )

First of all, YES, go listen to Uchtdorf again. He is a cure-all! Second of all, AMEN! Don't we all feel like we suck at parenting? One day I have it going strong and the next day I'm listening to Uchtdorf again.

Susan said:

I'm so glad for your daughter. My daughter plays soccer because she really likes it, but it's not her passion either. I try to tell myself that's okay, but it's hard. Thanks for the reminder of why they play.

Been there/done that/still there/doing that! It's like giving yourself a root canal to say, "that's okay" when your kid doesn't (how do I say this?) LOVE to do the things they are best at. Or see themselves as they really are, and as they really can be. YET.

We all want our kids to strive and learn and find their grails and live their dreams and bloom and grow, (but only where they're planted) right? That's why we're all listening to Uchtdorf.

We all want to be the wind beneath our kid's wings.

But you know what? Sometimes they just gotta flap!

DeNae said:

I'm pretty sure this post was about more than your house, or even your daughter.

DeNae is so on to me. She has noticed that I never really come out and say what I'm trying to say, and once you figure that out about me, you suddenly get me.

You get me?

You are right DeNae, that post was about more than my house or my daughter. It was about me too, plus all of you. Ain't we all still draining our brains?

Okay and the truest comment came from Jillybean:

So far, our youngest kid has decided that he is passionate about Mario Kart on the Wii.

Touche, Jillybean! Touche! Who isn't passionate about Mario Kart?

Brain Drain

2011-09-27T15:06:00.000-06:00

Last Friday my house got a colonoscopy (poor thing). And can I just say that watching your house get a colonoscopy is like watching Edward sparkle. At first, you're like, ewwww, but then you can't tear your eyeballs from the screen.

And then your brain kicks in, and you hope all those you-are-what-you-eat posters in the elementary school lunch room aren't true. And that it's not really what's inside that counts.

And yet it is what's inside that counts, isn't it? Particularly when your house keeps regurgitating it.

Careful what you feed your house. She may internalize it.

Poor poor house. We've been so worried about her. We thought she might have stomach cancer or something. Or irritable bowl syndrome. Or maybe even an eating disorder.

Poor poor us. When your house is sick, you is sick. How does that old saying go? You're only as happy as your unhappiest house?

Touche!

We gave her some Pepto and had her bowels emptied, but as it turns out, she just needs a by-pass surgery. Her main artery is blocked, that's all. Probably stress related. Probably been holding things in and letting things build up, you know, until she just couldn't contain it any longer.

Ain't that just like life? As far as emotions go anyway? We really are what we eat, if you think about it. As far as emotions go anyway.

When my daughter was trying to decide if she should play tennis this year, she said something that made me think she thought we, as parents, were disappointed in her because tennis isn't her passion and because she hasn't pursued it more . . . passionately.

"I could care less that tennis isn't your passion!" I told her. "I just want you to play so you can learn about life and push through your emotional blocks."

See I am of the opinion that there are better ways to learn about life than through life itself, you know. Might as well "unblock" your emotional pipes through tennis now than through a by-pass later.

Am I right, or am I right?

Fears, doubts and insecurities take up a lot of space in your brain drain.

So here is my daughter today, weilding her sword against self doubt, in the high school regional tennis tournament.

And here is her coach congratulating her on winning her first match.

And here she is on the phone telling my hub that she qualified for states.

If you look very, very, very closely, you can almost see her brain draining.

And ain't it a bee-U-tiful sight?

Behind closed doors

2011-09-26T10:20:00.001-06:00

The following story is completely, 100% true, without any embellishment or fancy spin.

It's about my dog, Lulu, who is a model of perfect human behavior when she is indoors. Outdoors she has a free spirit, but indoors she is as civilized as the queen of England. (If the queen of England drank from the loo every so often.)

Lulu never chews up our shoes or claws at the floor boards. She doesn't jump on the furniture or tinkle on the carpet. She won't steal our food or eat our homework when we're not looking. When we are away, our house remains intact, exactly as we left it.

But yesterday I had to run home real quick-like from church because I forgot something. I raced through the front door and clomped down my wooden hallway in my clickity-clak heels. When I arrived at my bedroom door I was met with a most peculiar sight. A sight so peculiar it stopped me dead in my clickity-clack tracks.

Someone was sleeping in my bed.

And her name was Lulu.

I mean she was literally sleeping in my bed, peeps. Not to be confused with on my bed. In other words, her head was on my pillow, and her body was under my covers.

I repeat, under my covers.

And she was sound asleep.

I knew you wouldn't believe me so I kicked off my heels and tip-toed down the hallway to grab my camera and capture some photographic evidence.

But she suddenly awoke, darted out of my bed, and started acting like she was a . . . dog.

Kinda makes ya wonder, don't it? About who's been eating your porridge behind closed doors.

Careful Combinations

2011-09-24T21:54:00.003-06:00

If you ever want to know the secret to quilting, ask Winona Ryder.

And if you can't get a hold of her just watch How to Make an American Quilt. Skip ahead to the very last scene where she says:

"In quilting you have to choose your combinations carefully. The right choices will enhance your quilt. The wrong choices will dull the colors, hide their original beauty. There are no rules you can follow. You have to go by instinct and you have to be brave."

Ain't quilting just like life? Or at least just like relationships?

You know how some combinations of people make you feel like a little church mouse? Or even like a tiny spec of dust on a little church mouse?

And then other combinations of people make you feel like the universe really does have a place for you. Somewhere out there. (Beneath the pale moonlight.) And maybe that place includes a room with a view. (And a laundry room that doesn't flood.)

This is how I felt a few days ago when I spent three hours over lunch with some of my writer friends who were gathered together to bask in the light of the lovely Melanie J, who was in town for a book signing.

She's on her 2nd book, peeps! Holy. Cow. (No disrespect to my son intended.)

Here is the photographic evidence (which also doubles as a magic button you can click on to purchase her latest ditty.)

Don't get me wrong, I'm not promoting it. Yet. I will probably read it first before I start forcing you at gunpoint to purchase it.

(I've got ethics, yes I do! I've got ethics, how 'bout you?) (Cue jazz hands.)

So anyways, upon Melanie J.'s arrival some of us word nerds met at this cool, hip, happening joint in Provo called . . .

That's right. I said, Communal. But no worries, there were no hippies or polygamists present. And the food wasn't served on lunch trays.

Wait. I just noticed the food was served on lunch trays. But cool, hip, happening lunch trays, right?

But enough about lunch. There is a moral here. A definite moral here. Choose your combinations carefully. That's alls I'm sayin.

Wait! Can I say one more thing though?

Isn't it the best when you get to spend time with good combinations of people?

And also good combinations of shoes . . .

and bags.

And can I also just say that if I was one of those people-who-need-people kinda people, I would have really needed to be with these people this week. And I would have really needed to hear some of the things Melanie J. said over lunch. Whodda thought a famous author could be so humble and vulnerable, plus generous with her words, even though she eats at hippie restaurants and sports chic purple toenails and CA bags!?

LY Melanie J!

P.S. Ink blots and claw marks become me, eh? Hopefully I'll be hot when I'm an antique.

Extreme Extremism (or how to love)

2011-09-20T10:14:00.005-06:00

I forgot to tell you the funniest part about my daughter's homecoming date. It wasn't the chastity belt, or even the piano belt. It was an incident which occurred while they were taking pictures at the public park across the street from the temple.

Suddenly a guy jumps out at them and starts yelling that they are trespassing. I mean he's really letting them have it. Freaking out, as my 15-year-old son would say. He paid $500 to reserve the entire park for a wedding reception so he tells them at the top of his lungs that if they want to pay him $500, they can take all the pictures they want.

Then he pushes the photographer and threatens to call the proper authorities.

Which. he. does.

Wouldn't you know it, the police actually arrive on the scene and start questioning the photographer. He had to fill out a report and everything.

Imagine the poor cop who took that call. "Mr. Policeman, sir. I'd like to report four teenagers in Sunday best trying to take adorable photos in the public park. Could you please come and arrest them ASAP! Before they get away with it."

But my daughter, through it all, found a way to say what she needed to say.

Bless her li'l subversive heart.

You probably don't get that do you? Raise your hand if you get that? You're too young to understand the subtle innuendo, huh?

First person who gets that I'll send you a Jamba Juice. Hopefully you don't live in Florida or something because it might be melted by the time it arrives. I hear Florida's hot like that.

Okay, I'll give you a clue. Two words. First word. Sounds like Potter. Only it's not spelled like Potter. It's the stuff that came out of the drain when my laundry room flooded last night.

Second word. Sounds like late. As in, I was up late last night because my laundry room flooded.

Now put it together . . . Potter . . . late. Potterlate.

You still don't get it do you?

Okay, last clue.

Now you're laughing, huh?

Me neither. But mostly because my laundry room is flooded.

You know when I lived in Hawaii I only feared one thing--besides racism and socialism and my kids being killed on Kam Highway--and that was skin-cancerism. Now that I live in Utah I'm afeared of many things. Underground pornism, blind perfectionism and culturally-induced depressionism, to name a few. I'm also afeared of women who look like they've been sucking on lemons or playing with Barbies. And of teenagers who only group date. And of adults who alert the proper authorities because they don't want to share the public park.

Come to think of it, I'm only afeared of one thing--extreme extremism.

In Hawaii that photographer probably would have been beaten to a pulp, or vice versa, without the proper authorities ever being alerted. (Especially if one of them was a "stupid haole" (I would add a URL link to that quote, but all the Urban Dictionary definitions include swear words.)

Or if the proper authorities had been alerted, they probably wouldn't have showed up.

Case in point. You get me?

You know what I'm most afeared of in Utah? Extreme happiness. Did you guys see that Acappella group from BYU on The Sing Off last night?

They say they want to conquer the world with happiness. YIKES! Is that a scary thought or what? I'm worried that outsiders are going to get the wrong idea about Mormons. What if they think we want to force everyone at gunpoint to smile from ear to ear? Not all Mormons want to impose their happiness on others like that.

It's just too bad the miserable Mormons aren't ever represented on t.v. The ones who didn't score a 32 on their ACT.

Isn't there an accapella group somewhere in Utah made up of those who failed their AP exams and who single dated in high school? Exclusively?

I would like to see those BYU singers sing about something that really happens for once. I mean, fer reals, no one jumps, jives or wails when it hails anymore. I want to hear them sing something by Lil' Wayne. Something like How to Love. Even extremely happy Mormons are trying to figure that out.

Am I right? Or am I right?

What not to wear

2011-09-19T10:03:00.002-06:00

Well for starters, if you're a dog, please don't wear a chastity belt when my daughter's homecoming date comes to pick her up.

My daughter made this very clear. Several times. And by that I mean, she made it VERY VERY clear. In no uncertain terms.

In other words, she felt exceedingly strong about not wanting her date to see anything resembling this upon his arrival:

But poor Lulu is in heat right now so I insisted that her chastity belt remain intact. (I just have this thing about morally clean dogs.) However, I did oblige my daughter by chaining Lulu up behind the house for the big arrival.

Then my daughter started in on my son who was mowing the lawn. "Put a shirt on!" she called to him from the kitchen door. "Or at least take your necklace off so you don't look like a gangsta rapper!"

Then she noticed my hub's t-shirt, which, heaven help him, he somehow keeps finding at the bottom of his drawer in the pile marked, "Emergency use only."

"Honey, please!" I said. "PLEASE change your shirt. We want to make a good impression now don't we?"

"Yes, we do mom," my daughter jumped in. "So you need to change your shirt too."

Hmmph!

Once we were all sufficiently dressed, or chained up behind the house, her date arrived and we learned what you can wear.

A piano belt. And suspenders. Suspenders are all the rage this year. I don't know if piano belts are all the rage, but I didn't hear my daughter ask her date to change so I'm assuming it is socially acceptable attire to meet the rents.

So while we were taking photographic evidence of her date's piano belt, Lulu began making a joyful noise from behind the house. It sounded something like "Hey, I want to see the piano belt too!"

I ignored it, but I guess my hub didn't get the fervent memo about chastity belts as opposed to piano belts, or maybe he wanted to give an object lesson, but unwittingly or not, he let Lulu off her chain.

Oh my! What happened next happened in super slow/fast motion.

Lulu came bounding towards my daughter's date, diaper and all, and you should have seen my daughter's face . . .

Her date, who's favorite movie happens to be Nacho Libre (he now has permission to marry my daughter (as long as he doesn't wear his piano belt to the wedding)) thought it was heeelarious, but my poor daughter could not stay in super model character after that.

Although I think she and her date would make surprisingly good animatronic-car-models.

I must say she looked loverly riding off into the sunset in that sleek black Lexus.

As did her date.

Long live the queen!

Ah heck, they all just looked loverly.

The End.

P.S.

I did her hair my very own self, btw.

But I can't take credit for her eyelashes.

Those were a genetic mutation.

(Either that or a gift from the Barbie Doll gods.)

The power of a loser

2011-09-14T11:13:00.001-06:00

I have, as of late, been checking off a few items from my bucket list.

Since I already got a dog--check, and bought a house--check, I am on to making other dreams come true. Namely, climbing a hay bale, and yelling yeeeeehaaaw! Always wanted to do that. At least since last march.

See I pass huge hay bales every day when I'm out in the middle of nowhere taking Lulu to run in the fields, and yesterday I finally decided to carpe diem! (Minus the yeeeehaw!)

(Baby steps, peeps.)

Instead I climbed that bale of hay, stretched out on my back and thanked gad I'mma country girl.

I didn't used to be a country girl, I used to be a city snob, but heaven help me, I'm becoming the opposite of everything I used to be.

Old age is a bugger like that.

Another thing I've always wanted to do is go back to bed after I send my kids off to school. Yesterday I also made that dream come true. I planned on sleeping until the holy cows came home, but I woke up at 1o with a sudden urge to water my plants.

(Don't you hate it when that happens?)

Please refrain from spreading rumors that the dummy is depressed. I know that laying on hay bales and sleeping till 10 sounds suspicous, but I was just recooping. Too much 9/11 footage for my stone cold heart. Plus I saw Planet of the Apes last weekend. Nothing breaks my heart like a misunderstood monkey. Especially a smart misunderstood monkey.

Seriously, that monkey had my eyeballs sweatin' to the oldies.

Yesterday my daughter checked something off her bucket list too. She split sets at her tennis match against one of the best players in the region. (Martha, you would have been so dang proud!) What that means is both players won a set, taking the match into a third set. My daughter ended up losing the match, but she won a set.

A WHOLE SET!

And she made that girl beat her in three sets.

Just goes to show you that in every loss there can be found a small victory if you put a fancy spin on it.

The whole match kinda helped me forget about that smart monkey for a minute because the thing about best players is they think they're all that. And the thing about playing for a losing team is that best players treat you as if you have a big L on your forehead.

I say never underestimate the power of a loser!

Don't ask me why, but for some reason I love to watch losers make best players squirm.

Is that sacrelig?

It's just so entertaining the things best players do when they start squirming. Things like calling for their entourage to come and massage their legs and heat their shins. Or accusing us of coaching our daughter from the sidelines, even though we are clearly wearing muzzles.

Not complaining though. It's all just part of the game. See the golden rule in tennis is, "Do unto others, before others can do unto you."

He who rattles first, rattles last.

Unless the loser rallies back.

Rally back, losers! Rally back!

SuWeeeet!

2011-09-12T22:53:00.000-06:00

A friendship can weather most things and thrive in thin soil; but it needs a little mulch of letters and phone calls and small, silly presents every so often - just to save it from drying out completely. --Pam Brown

MAHALO to my twin's lifelong ex-door neighbor besties, Jimmy and Nana (who also happen to be twins) for keeping the friendship alive with this birthday package to my twins. They were SOOOO excited!

Everyone was fighting over everything!

And Nana, this picture poem made us--as my daughter would say--smile and be happy!

How cute is that?

Hip hip hooray for friendship that never dies!

P.S. Martha, I found the letter and will drop it in the mail first thing in the morning.

HOLY COW!

2011-09-08T15:13:00.000-06:00

Remember my mad cow joke yesterday? And how I said it was the best laugh I EVER got? Well it really was. I enjoyed it more than any laugh I ever provoked because it made me feel like my son and I, we had a thing. A cow thing. Like we had connected on some kind of cosmic . . . cow level.

So after school yesterday we were just chillin' on the couch and I was like, "DUDE, if you were a cow, guess what kind of a cow you'd be?" And then there was that comedic pause thingie, where he gave me a what-the-what? expression, you know. And after the pause I was like, "A holy cow!"

Nothing! Nada! Not even a crack in his stone cold face.

So I was like "Get it? a HOLY cow! Cause you're always wanting me to read scriptures to you and stuff." And he was like, "That's not even funny, mom!"

So much for our cosmic cow connection.

"You're actually more of a holier-than-thou cow," I told him.

(Was that rude?)

And I am actually the holy cow. As in HOLY COW, my daughter has been deemed eligible to play tennis again!

She can play!!!

I am the holiest cow in the pasture now because I have been down on my knees all night long sending thank you notes to those who signed my petition to the Universe. (BTW, if any of you have anything you want to say to Jackie Robinson or John Adams just let me know.)

Do you guys mind if I just send ya'll a group thank you for signing the petition? Just to save time?

MUCHOS MAHALO PEEPS! LY 4 Evah!!!!!!

(Can you feel my sincerity in all those exclamation points?)

I'm off to watch her first eligible match right now. But P.S. here is the photo I promised to post yesterday:

This is how my daughter answered her Homecoming date. With a personalized JB song, and one of six JB posters they sell at Walmart. (And did you know they also sell six (SEPARATE) JB Barbie dolls?) Walmart's got the fever.

She mounted it on cardboard and stuck it in his front lawn. His front lawn on Topspin Way. No lie, he lives on Topspin way, which is a cross street of Forehand street and backhand street, just above Crosscourt way and Ace Lane.

Like I said before, NO. LIE.

It's kinda destiny that she's eligible again, don'tcha think?

P.S. HOLY COW, one of my twins got his first kiss yesterday. On the cheek. A cute girl came up to him in the cafeteria, grabbed his face, and . . . well, planted one on him. For his 13th birthday.

If I were a cow . . .

2011-09-07T14:18:00.003-06:00

I'd be a mad cow.

Get it? MAD cow?

That's the line I gave my 15-year old son last night when he was trying to get descriptive about anger in a short story he was writing for English class. He laughed when I said it. Out loud. He laughed and laughed. And laughed

Oh, man! It was the best laugh I EVER got!

So my son's guardians are out of town right now so guess who gets to babysit. That's right, me who! Woowhoo! (BTW, no, my hub and I didn't split up, it's a school boundaries guardianship.) But you know what? You gotta be careful who you let raise your kids cause he's kinda spoiled now. He's been asking me to read scriptures and make him a home lunch.

The last time he asked for a home lunch I just stuck a jar of Nutella in his back pack. That's how I roll.

And the last time he asked me to read him scriptures I opened up to Mosiah and read one verse.

"Is that it?" He said. "Read more."

So I read it again.

"Wait! That was the same verse!"he protested.

Can you believe he actually noticed??? I pull that prank on my twins all the time and they don't even bat an eyeball.

In other news, my daughter got asked to Homecoming!!! By Justin Beiber!

At least that's what she calls him.

Did you know Justin Beiber was the prom king at American Fork high? And the fastest runner on the cross country team?

Me neither! But he is. At least that's what my daughter tells me. Anyways, my daughter and I stayed up late listening to JB songs trying to change lyrics and come up with a cute reply. But you know what happens when you stay up late listening to JB songs? You catch the fever. The Beiber fever. (What a cutie patootie, right?)

Does anyone have some extra-strength Tylenol I can borrow? Anyone? Anyone?

Other than feeding my fever I haven't been doing much besides throwing parties and going out to lunch with visiting relatives from out of town. Oh, and last Friday I got to help with a funeral at the church because I'm on the compassionate service committee now.

So. Much. Fun. Fer reals. I love working with the old women as much as I loved working with the young women. Plus I have a soft spot for funerals. Not just because you get free funeral potatoes and Jello, but because people at funerals are so humble and thankful.

Loss can be flattering if you wear it well.

Capiche?

One of the fun things about working with the old women is that it's a lot like going to charm school. Setting a table for a funeral is not at all like setting a table for four teenagers who slurp their spaghetti. You gotsta be proper about it. You gotsta think about napkins pointing in or out, and silverware left or right.

I'm kind of an expert now, after getting my hands slapped a few times. Alls you have to remember is that the knife always runs away with the spoon because knives and spoons are republicans. They sit to the right of the plate. To the left sit all the forks, because they ain't afeared of same sex marriage. In other words, a fork always runs away with a fork.

Capiche?

(Notice I'm saying capiche now since I finally saw Pirates?)

Anyways, I don't have time to give anymore charm school lessons because it's my twins birthday today.

Gotsta go!

P.S. JB photos to come!

Thinking things through logically

2011-09-03T18:06:00.002-06:00

My hub is on this crazy kick right now of thinking things through logically (except when it comes to raising chickens).

He keeps saying, "You know, if you really think things through logically, nothing makes any sense!"

This all started last weekend while spending time in St. George with his parents.

Not to be rude, but my MIL, bless her heart, is not a particularly logical person. I mean, she's fun, she's entertaining, she's a sweetheart, but sometimes she doesn't make a lot of sense.

Just sayin'.

Like, for example, when she does things like knock on our bedroom door at 8:30 a.m. to tell us not to worry about getting up yet because they are still sleeping.

"That doesn't make any sense, if you think about it logically?" My hub's eyeballs said to me.

During breakfast she tried to teach us how to stand so that our insides don't fall out. What you do is you cross one leg in front of the other--like you do when you have to go shi shi--and squeeze real hard.

"They say this keeps your innards from slipping out," she told us, while simultaneously demonstrating.

I won't repeat the specific innards they say will not slip out if you squeeze your legs together, but I will say that my hub looked his mom right in the eyeballs, like Eminem recommends, and said, "That doesn't make any sense! And you're grossing me out!!!!"

See my MIL believes everything they say. That's her problem. Especially if they have witnesses.

"It's the truth!" She declares. "There were witnesses."

There were always witnesses. Like the time one of her ventriloquist relatives was being attacked by an Indian. He threw his voice into the plants so it sounded like the plant was speaking, and by darn if that Indian didn't high tail it outta there.

"What did the plant say that frightened the Indian off so quickly?" I always ask sincerely, because honestly, I'm sincerely curious. I want to put myself in that Indian's moccasins and walk a mile with him. Back to his tribe. I want to see the whites of his eyes when he tells his buddies in the teepee, "You would not believe what this plant said to me today!!!"

But the witnesses didn't write that part down because it wasn't important to the story. The important part was that one man's mad skillz saved his scalp.

"That doesn't make any sense if you think about it logically!" said my hub at The Olive Garden in St. George, after his mom told that story.

But my hub has heard that story a million times. He even told that story in one of his primary talks. Why all of a sudden he's thinking things through logically about a talking plant is beyond me. If his mom says there were witnesses, there were witnesses. Even if they didn't write down the direct quotes.

There were witnesses in other stories we've heard before too. Like the one about little Sarah, who walked 5,000 miles across the plains, singing all the way. All of a sudden this does not make any sense to my hub logically, just because there are only 3, 492 miles from coast to coast, and no one in his family likes to sing.

(Except you, Miss Shelby!)

There were witnesses in the story about the ship that hit an iceberg too.

"Was it called The Titanic?" I always ask. But nope, this ship didn't sink, even though they found a hole the size of Vermont below deck. This ship was carrying two Mormon missionaries and the captain had never lost a ship that was carrying Mormon missionaries.

"Well how many ships did he lose that weren't carrying Mormon missionaries?" Asked my hub.

A seemingly logical question, but apparently there were no witnesses to that.

Power to the Peeps!

2011-09-02T08:46:00.001-06:00

I can see why my daughter loves her tennis coach so much. He's a 70-year-old, male version of herself! (If she was the senior citizen national tennis champion and the top law student in her class.) He's got sass! And class!

Guess what he did yesterday?

So she wasn't allowed to play her match because the Utah High School Athletics Association is still deliberating over our paperwork to waive the transfer ineligibility--it's not an issue of parents complaining this year--this school is not a tennis threat in the region--it's an issue of we turned in the proper paperwork and now it's going through the proper red tape. So anyways, her tennis coach is like, "This is ridiculous! If she can sit in class and take tests, she can participate in sports! I'M PLAYING HER!"

But he's a lawyer so he did it legally. He forfeited her match and then let her play her opponent "just for fun."

What a stud muffin!

That's why I like playing for losing schools. When you lose, you have nothing to lose. You get me? It's big L's on the forehead all the way around. Here here!

I'm not worried anymore. Whatever happens happens, let the chips fall where they may. We turned in the proper paperwork to the proper authorities and put in a petition to the Universe. And the coach has my daughter's back.

Thank you for all of your cheers for her as well. You're always so supportive.

And thank you for voting for the Nutty Hamster Chick's Turkey Bone photo. She won!!! She actually won! It looked like she was going to lose by a landslide, but the top three contestants were cheating so she crossed the finish line first and now she gets 10th row seats to the Utah vs. BYU game!

If any of you know Nutty, like I know Nutty, you know that she's coo-coo for Cocoa Puffs over BYU football. I swear her blood is bluer than blue and her loyalty is truer than true--I've seen her football player stalking scrapbooks first hand. And I've seen her Facebook profile:

Nutty, did you know LaVell was my hub's home teacher when he was a teenager?

Just sayin.' I'm important. By association to association.

So I have one more favor to ask. I have this really cool neighbor named Katie Terry who was in a car accident when she was a young mom. When she woke up the doctors said, "We have some good news and some bad news. You're pregnant . . . and . . . you're paralyzed."

She went through the whole pregnancy paralyzed and now she's going through her whole life paralyzed. But she's a total trip. Not only is she a mom, she skiis and bowls and (ahem . . . goes to pole dancing class) and she won the Boston marathon, and, and, and . . . the list goes on. Fer realz! She does more without legs than I've ever done with legs.

And she even looks better in a swimsuit than I do. And I have this exact same swimsuit so I would know.

Katie is running for win Ms. Wheelchair Utah 2012 because she wants to be a public speaker, and part of the gig is winning the essay contest.

You only have to vote once (thank ye lard), so alls you have to do is:

1. click on this link

2. cast a vote for essay #1

That's it! You don't even have to read the essay, I'll tell you what it says. It says my life is great and being in a wheelchair ROCKS! yada yada yada!

She would be a spectacular representative for the disabled in Utah! Think of all the downtrodden and disabled people out there in Utah who need a voice--someone to look to and say "I can do that!"

And we've got the power! Nutty's votes went up by over 200 points in a few hours--GRACIOUS! Let's catapult Katie into the public speaking circuit.

(Plus, I'm her visiting teacher and I can count this as my visit.)

(J/K proper authorities, J/K!)

Conversations with God

2011-09-01T09:39:00.001-06:00

Oopsidaisi. I accidentally published this post before I finished it. EEEEK. My WORSE nightmare. Thank goodness Barbaloot commented or I wouldn't have noticed.

Bout gave me a heart attack Barb! But here is the finished post:

Last May I went to the LDS Storymakers conference in Salt Lake City. I roomed with DeNae from My Real Life Was Backordered, and we went out to dinner with Motherboard from Crazyland and stayed up into the wee hours of the morning talking about serious matters and giggling like school girls.

One of the serious matters we giggled about was the scriptures. They are in love with the scriptures, those two. They can recite them front to back. They can also tell you the entire history of the church as they drive you through the Avenues in Salt Lake City. While we were talking DeNae said something really profound. She said that she thinks God knows every language, including every love language, and communicates to us in in our own particular language.

In other words, he speaks to us in ways he knows we'll understand.

DeNae and Motherboard both speak scripture. When they read the scriptures they feel like God is telling them stuff.

Me? God tells me stuff through music. He tells me to say what I need to say and that this is my temporary home and that tonight's gonna be a good night and that my eyeballs are stuck on my plate.

No lie, once he told me that he loved me during Mozart's Requiem.

If I'm not listening to music he tells me stuff through fortune cookies. Fer reals! Like this morning. I woke up at 5:00 a.m. because I heard my daughter leave to go to the temple. So I got up and started vacuuming. It's what I do when I'm distressed. Or when there is dog hair everywhere.

I've been distressed for the past few days. Plus there is dog hair everywhere.

What I've been distressed about is my daughter. She feels like she made a wrong choice.

No, she didn't get a tattoo. It's something worse. She transferred schools. Last year. And then she transferred back.

See there is a law irrevocably degreed in Utah that if you transfer schools after the 9th grade you have to sit out a year of sports. You don't have to sit out a year of band or of drama or dance team, but you have to give up a year of athletic eligibility. Even when you think you've filled out the proper paperwork.

Remember how last year she transferred to the best tennis school and I sang Waka Waka and pumped my fist until she won 2nd in the region, but then she got anonymously turned in to the proper authorities and disqualified from states and I got addicted to gangsta rap, so she immediately repented and transferred back to the proper school and is now playing for the proper team?

And remember how I've been so happy lately and how my life has been so perfect (besides the fact that the bishop dumped me for a blond YW Prez)? And how my daughter has been so happy lately because she loves her proper teammates and her proper coach (even though he told her she's going to get slaughtered)?

Well history is repeating itself and at this very moment there are committees trying to decide if she is eligible to play tennis at all. Even for the proper school. It seems she's just plain ineligible that girl. And she blames herself. And I blame myself, because what is that old saying? Disqualified once, shame on you. Disqualified twice, shame on ME!

Or something like that.

So yesterday I went to the temple and I squeezed my eyes shut hard during the entire session and I petitioned the universe. Just like in Eat, Pray, Love.

First I asked for forgiveness and mercy for being such a dummy. Then I literally wrote a petition in my head that said "LET HER PLAY (please, please, pretty please)" and I imagined all the people who would sign it. (All of you were there signing it, thank you.) (And my Papa was signing it and Jackie Robinson and John Adams and Jack Johnson were signing it, and Jean Val Jean and Martha and Hamlet were signing it.)

And then I imagined stadiums of people doing the wave and shouting:

LET! HER! PLAY! (please, please, pretty please!)

And then, just like in the movies, I panned out until I could see the entire planet shouting LET HER PLAY over and over and over.

And then I took a quick cat nap.

It's exhausting to ask the whole wide world to join in my crusade. Especially when I know she's going to get slaughtered anyway.

But I digress. I was telling you about how God talks to me through fortune cookies.

So this morning. I was vacuuming at 5 a.m. And I came across a little wadded up piece of paper. Normally I would just pick it up and toss it, but today I picked it up and smoothed it out. It was a fortune from a fortune cookie, and it was torn in half. I had never seen it before and I have no idea where it came from or how it got on my floor, but as soon as I read it, I taped it back together, and then pressed it to my heart like a band aid from God.

And then I handed the band aid to my daughter when she walked in from the temple.

She smiled. And then she told me about a random woman who walked up to her in the temple and told her that something good was going to happen to her today.

Maybe that's how God talks to my daughter, through random women.

I wonder what good thing is going to happen to her today. Who knows, maybe she'll become eligible. Or maybe she'll get asked to homecoming. Or maybe she'll just be able to breathe.

Breathing is one of the best things that can happen to us if you really think about it.

Someone should put that on a fortune cookie.

Extra! Extra! Read all about it!

2011-08-30T21:29:00.005-06:00

READ the LATEST UPDATES since MY LAST TWO POSTS:

Sports induced asthma. That's why my daughter can't breathe. And she hasn't been asked to Homecoming yet either, gosh darnit, so if anyone needs a Homecoming date that can't breathe . . .

My 15-year-old started basketball boot camp this week. Lifting and conditioning, baby! But he missed his 6:15 a.m. scripture study this morning. Uh-oh. All six versus of it. At least he made it in time for the closing song so maybe he'll get half a blessing. And guess what!!? His guardian makes him a home lunch everyday! La-dee-da! If I was his guardian I would make him a home lunch too, but I'm just his mom. So I say, let him eat cake! (Someone grab a pen and write that down.)

Today when I picked my 15-year old up from conditioning, he says to me, "This is what I'm going to need from you when I get home: A really tall protein shake, some Ibuprofen, and a cold, wet cloth." Then he put his head back and fell asleep. Toldya his needs are great.

But did I tellya he got his Learners Permit? And did I tellya that I went through a phase? A phase where moving vehicles made me want to FREAK OUT, so to speak? The only thing that made me want to freak out more than moving vehicles, so to speak, was when my son would say, STOP FREAKING OUT!

Speaking of moving vehicles, I almost ran over my next door neighbor yesterday. He darted in front of me on his bike across a busy street on his way home from high school. When I told my daughter that I almost ran over our next door neighbor she said, as sincerely as humanly possible, "Well, if you're gonna run over someone, I guess it's better to run over a neighbor than someone you don't even know."

FER REALS! She said that!

Lulu's shock collar was sent to Hawaii by mistake. Oh wells, at least there's one more temple worthy dog in the Islands.

Now my hub is saying that a year from now he either wants to raise chickens or a garden. I told him to keep fasting and praying about it. I'm sure the right answer will be revealed to him. One way or another. Or at least the answer that will make us more popular in the neighborhood.

That's it folks. But tune in tomorrow to hear about my hub's sudden, adult-onset thinking-things-through-logically kick.

P.S The Nutty Hamster Chick is trying to win some tickets to the Utah vs. BYU football game with her lucky Y shaped turkey bone. I personally think it would be easier to just take up a collection, so either click on this link, then click on the 5 stars (which gives her five points), or just leave your credit card number in my comment box.

Mahalo!

That's how we roll in Utah

2011-08-29T15:47:00.002-06:00

Here's a riddle for you: (Sorry, sometimes my mind works like a Five for Fighting song.)

How do you know when your kids have reached puberty? (Besides the fact that you can't get them out of bed in the morning, and they spend a lot of time looking in the mirror.)

They start laying their clothes out for school . . .

And shamelessly promoting themselves.

Notice they are wearing jeans. In August. (They also wanted to wear their new jackets because it's been a little . . . ahem, nippy . . . in the mornings.)

Please check back in January when they start laying out shorts and tank tops.

That's how we roll in Utah.

Okay, I unintentionally omitted a few things in my Seasons Greetings update. First of all, LULU! My dearly beloved! I haven't talked about Lulu in forevers!

Lulu is doing just great. I am happy to announce that she is now the proud owner of a seat belt harness, which allows her to be buckled in at all times while traveling in moving vehicles.

(Mwuahahahahahaha!) (Remember when it was really trendy to say Mwuaaahahahaha when you blogged?)

She couldn't be more thrilled, as you can see, because there is nothing she loves more than to be restricted and restrained.

By the way, has anyone seen this bone? Anyone? Anyone?

I am also happy to announce that we are anxiously waiting for her remote control shock collar to arrive in the mail so we can help her become temple worthy. By shocking the bad out of her. And by bad I mean her passion for chasing moving objects. Some people would call it classical conditioning, but I like to call shock therapy.

There are several forms of shock therapy. One of the most effective forms is to scream at the top of your lungs in your neighbors face when her dearly beloved dog chases your bike. Throwing things at your neighbors dog is also effective. It's not being rude if you think about it. Some dogs (and people) need to be shocked straight.

That's how we roll in Utah.

When I'm finished shocking the bad out of Lulu I'm going to shock the bad out of my kids. And if that doesn't work, I'm hoping it will at least shock them out of bed in the morning.

Another thing I unintentionally omitted from my Christmas letter . . . remember how I told you about how my daughter's tennis coach looked her in the eyeball (sorry, sometimes my mind works like an Eminem song) and said, "whoever plays 1st singles is going to get slaughtered"? Well I forgot to mention that he added something to the end of that sentence. He added, "but you'll learn a lot."

Ain't that just the truth? Sometimes you get slaughtered, but you learn a lot.

Not only is my daughter's tennis coach the best old guy tennis player in the country, (that's what my daughter said) he is also like a Zen master of tennis philosophy (that's what I said).

I'm going to take his Zen tennis philosophy and raise it a couple of Buddhas. You also learn a lot when you can't breathe. You learn that air is the spice of life.

The reason I bring it up is because it appears my daughter has a theme song. No Air by Jordan Sparks. "Tell me how'm I s'pose to breath with no air?" That's an important question, now that I think about it. Now that I know my daughter is only able to access 30% the amount of air of a normal person.

"Well what percentage of air is she accessing compared to a crazy person?" I asked the doc, but apparently they don't do breathing tests on crazy people.

Wanna see photographic evidence of my daughter winning her first tennis match without any air?

(Martha, ain't it so adorable to see her in a skirt!?)

She looks surprised that a person can win without air, doesn't she?

Now here she is in her second match, going like a lion to the slaughter.

What a little trooper scooper!

(Btw, yes, it's true, no one around here plays tennis without a temple in sight.) (That's how we roll in Utah.)

Anyways, I took my daughter to the doc again today for a 2nd set of tests so we're waiting to find out how much longer she's s'pose to breath with no air.

In the meantime, we can't help but be thankful about how much she's going to learn this year.

That's how we roll in Utah.

Seasons Greetings

2011-08-27T22:37:00.003-06:00

If I ever get to meet Santa Claus, I'm going to make a suggestion. I'm going to suggest that the kids start each new school year on Christmas day. That way, instead of coal, we can just fill up their stockings with school fees receipts. And we can wrap up all their school supplies and text books and sports uniforms and back packs and back-2-school attire (and scrubs, since my daughter is studying to be a medical assistant) in bright packages and bows, and say ho ho ho, and call it good.

Two birds, one stone. You get me?

I just don't think I can put my wallet through this again in four months, you know!

Speaking of Christmas, I feel like I need to write you a Christmas letter. That's how long it's been since you've heard from me. I just checked the stats and I've only written to you THREE times in August!

What the what!? That's less than a handful!

I pinky promise I write to you in my head every. single. day. Can't wait till they come up with an ethernet cable you can plug into your brain. Then none of us will ever have to write Christmas letters again.

But since we're still in the stone ages, let me send some seasons greetings from my Dummy family to yours.

Let's start with me. Ever since the Bishop broke up with me as the YW Prez I've been drowning my sorrows in work. Work, work, work! That's what we do best here in Utah. We are industrious about our grief. It's the quickest way to turn our hearts back into stone.

Mostly I've been working on my "to do" list rather than my "to bee" list. (Another Utah dealio.) First I finished unpacking from the move two years ago. Then I cleaned out and organized my storage room, then my laundry room. Then I took a nap. Then I cleaned out my kitchen drawers, and rearranged the kid's play room, which is actually more of a man cave now, since all my kids are teenagers. With teenager needs.

There was a time I used to cry in my soup because I couldn't seem to get pregnant. I was afeared I would never be a mom. Then I started getting pregnant. Then came all the miscarriages. Then I was crying in my soup and my salad. Then came all the babies. Boom, Boom, Boom. (Even brighter than the moon, moon. moon.) (Sorry, sometimes my mind works like a Katie Perry song.)

Anyways, now my daughter is 16-years-old and my son is 15-years-old and my twins are 13-years-old son. And they are full of needs. Needs, needs, needs. Deodorant needs and protein shake needs and cake batter needs.

It just goes to show you, you should never cry in your soup. Just keep the faith, because one day you'll probably be crying in your cake batter.

But enough about me. It's a milestone year for us. My twins just started Jr. High, which means their needs include zit cream and new shoes and an extended course in how to open a locker. They also feel the need to shake their heads and say, "OH MoM! You ruin every song. And why are your waistbands so high?"

My middle son just started high school. And so his needs are great. But then his needs have always been great, so I should probably say his needs are greater. For some reason this year he had a great need for a gold fish. Go figure. He also has a great need to play basketball for the team with the best program. I have been fighting it for two years because we are not in the boundaries of the best program and it requires us to give over our guardianship to my hub's brother. In short that means that every week night he has to sleep at their house and wake up at 6:15 a.m. for scripture study. It's a sacrifice fer sure. We don't wake up for scripture study until 6:20.

But whatevah! I'm over it! GO MY SON! Go and climb the ladder! Who am I to hold you down!

And then there is my daughter. Who is in her senior year. And who still refuses to cause any trouble. All she wants to do is make us proud. She saves her money and doesn't text while she drives. She takes flowers to the elderly and organizes family temple trips. And yada yada yada, she finished her Personal Progress. I keep telling her that one day she's going to go off the deep end if she doesn't get a tattoo or something, but I'm just her mom. Whaddu I know?

She made the high school tennis team. But then everyone makes the team at AF High. No one gets cut, so if any of you want to play on a high school tennis team let me know . . . I can hook. you. up.

Martha, you will be happy to know she is playing 1st singles. But I'm not being Braggetty Ann in saying that. It's not the same school she played for last year, which was a tennis school. This school is a band school. The best band school in the whole world. The kind of school where people get cut from the band if they've never played an instrument. But it's not the kind of school where they get cut from the tennis team if they've never picked up a racket.

Last season they only won 2 matches all year, but they're all super nice and my daughter loves it. She could care less about playing for the best program and getting up at 6:15 for scripture study. She reads her scriptures at night. And she could care less that her new coach looked right at her and said, "Whoever plays 1st singles is going to get slaughtered."

And so she goes, like a lamb, to meet her destiny.

But not without a fight. She won her first match 6-1, 6-2. Woooohooooo! (Sorry, sometimes my mind works like a Black Eyed Peas song.)

She lost her second match, but she didn't go down like a lamb. That sassy pants went down like a lion. Rrrraaarrrr!

As for my hub, he's doing great. He spends a lot of time outside trying to reset the sprinkler system. Oh, and he wants to raise chickens.

Just when you think you know a person, they decide they want to raise chickens. There goes the neighborhood, right? As if we're not popular enough with our charming dog. FTR, my hub has agreed to fast and pray about it for a year before we start building coops, so don't start checking the by-laws yet. And please don't leave any anonymous letters on our doorstep from the proper authorities.

Mahalo!

So that's life in the dumb lane. Hugs and kisses to all of you! Ex's and Oh's. Hope your season is merry and bright. And filled with peace and prosperity. Above all, prosperity.

LY everyone!

No "strings" attached!

2011-08-19T08:04:00.007-06:00

Get it? No strings attached. And I'm posting about violins today?

(You gotsta admit, sometimes I really am punny.)

But fer reals, there are no strings attached to this post. I promise you won't hold it over my head later, or throw it back in my face. And you won't have to send me on a guilt trip around the world. I'm simply going to ask you to do something for nothing. Something kind and generous and enormously helpful, that will enrich the lives of a whole bunch of kids on the North Shore of Oahu.

It's super quick and easy--a few clicks on your computer--and you will be helping me, help my friend Amy Gold, help a bunch of kids from Laie Elementary School get some violins.

And believe you me, it ain't easy to get violins in Laie.

This is Amy Gold, doing her thang. Teaching violin lessons.

Only she's not a teacher, she's just a mom offering to teach. For totally free. Because that's how much she loves it.

The funnest part about this photographic evidence is Amy doesn't even know I have it--hee hee. I took it clear back in 2006 while she was preparing a bunch of Laie El kids to play a violin number for the Christmas program.

SURPRISE, AMY!!!!

You just never know what someone's got on you, do you? And I've got more. Muaaahahaha!

You wanna see what it looks like when a bunch of kids from Laie El are learning to play the strings for the Christmas program?

Now Amy is trying to win violins, music and music equipment for 30 low income students at Laie Elementary School.

Are you sold yet? If so, click on this link to vote for Amy Gold's proposal in the Pepsi Refresh Project.

But if you're one of those people, who need more information, who just wanna know every little deet about every little project, then continue reading this note from Amy Gold herself:

...................................................................

Aloha! There are two weeks left in voting for the August Pepsi Refresh Project. My ranking has hovered around 27/28 all along. I had one five-place jump the last time my friend Anna helped me, so we’re going to try this again! And double the jump! Remember, I need to be in the top 15 to get the grant money. Hey, that means we need to triple that jump.

A little about the Pepsi Refresh Project: Pepsi is giving away millions each month to fund refreshing ideas that change the world, one community at a time. Consumers are encouraged to cast their vote on www.RefreshEverything.com – giving them the power to decide which ideas are funded. Each month, Pepsi is giving away more than $1 million to 60 ideas that move communities forward. Groups or individuals, like myself, can submit ideas which are randomly selected to be voted on.

I appreciate your support! Please help me do a great thing for the children of this community!

Pepsi Refresh Project: Laie School Strings

We have discovered the best ways to maximize the vote:

1) Vote using your Facebook account
2) Vote using your PepsiRefresh account
3) Text in a vote (text 107867 to Pepsi (73774))
4) Use some of your extra votes to vote for related ideas in other monetary levels (i.e. $5K, $25K, or $50K) and leave a comment indicating that Laieschoolstrings2011 is voting for them and would really appreciate the favor returned.)
5) Use Power Vote codes found on select Pepsi products: bottle lids of Pepsi, Diet Pepsi and Pepsi Max or on 12 & 24 packs of cans. If you have more than 10 a day, share them with friends who can enter them! We need everything submitted by August 31st.

Pepsi is giving away millions to fund refreshing ideas. Vote for your favorites and buy Pepsi products to get up to 100 extra votes. Buy Pepsi & Power Vote today!

It's ain't Code Red, but let's hop on the bus Gus! No need to be coy Roy!

Look to it, peeps!

MAHALOS!!!!

Find a way!

2011-08-15T23:17:00.010-06:00

A few weeks ago I got to drive to Island Park, just me and my one and only daughter. And then I got to drive home from Island Park, just me and my three sons.

Driving with three sons is a teensy bit different than driving with one daughter. First of all, my daughter works at a flower shop so there are no nose plugs required. She also doesn't try to teach me how to duggy from Pocatello to Malad, so there are no ear plugs required. She also doesn't feel inclined to swap childhood excrement stories, so there is no need for me to smack her upside the head while shouting, "who raised you, again?"

The biggest difference, however, between driving with my daughter and driving with my sons is that I didn't get lost on I-15 with my sons. Mostly because I had already been there, done that with my daughter.

Which, if you think about it, is the best thing about getting lost, right? Not getting lost again?

Getting lost doesn't just help you figure out which road to take, it also helps you figure out which road not to take.

You follow?

Trust me, I've had a lot of experience on the wrong roads. Mostly because I grew up in Bronxville, New York. Which is not to say I was raised in Bronxville, New York. I was raised in Provo, Utah, but all of us who spent their 18th year of life being a nanny in Bronxville, New York used to get a kick out of saying we grew up in New York, being as that's where we learned all our whats and what nots and shoulds and should nots and all that jazz. (And jazz nots.)

One thing I learned fer sure is that there ain't just one road to get you through life. (Unless of course that road is paved with yellow bricks.) But I learned this the hard way.

See there is this one road that runs through New York. It's called Boston Post Road. Post road to those of us who knew it well. Like the back of my hand.

I was convinced that Post road would take me to infinity and beyond if I stayed on it long enough.

Either that or it would take me to China.

See I'm kind of a one road sorta gal. When I meet a road I like, I get clingy. And I commit. I'm just loyal like that. And at 18 years of age, Post road met all of my needs. It got me everywhere I desired to go. At least to the more important destinations, like church, Nathan's hot dogs, and Friendly's ice cream.

I'm only admitting this now because of a comment I received from Stephanie @ Diapers and Divinity on my post about how I thought I-15 was like the iron rod. She said, and I quote: I can't even explain why that is so funny to me. It's like there's something metaphysically true about that (to some people).

Darn straight! To (some people). Like me.

To the (other people), who are capable of having no-strings-attached relationships with the streets they drive on, it's hard to understand those (some people) who do.

Take my boss for instance. My poor poor boss. He was Italian, bless his heart. Italians have a way with words, that's alls I'm sayin'. My Italian boss was like the Cake Boss, only he didn't bake cakes. And I never heard him say the word fondant. Actually I never heard him say much. Unless something disgusted him. Like if you put mayonnaise on your hot dogs. Or if you said, "Oh my heck!" while doing jazz hands. Or if you drove up the driveway too fast in his BMW and knocked his alignment out of whack. He really had a way with words in those instances. And also when giving directions. He knew how to turn a phrase or two when giving directions. Especially if you stuffed your fingers into your ears and said, "La la la la la. I'm not listening unless you tell me how to get there from Post Road,"

Those words had a way of making my Cake Boss boss feel like drinking raw eggs and punching brick walls. Not in a bad way. It's just that Italian guys always think there is an easier way or a faster way or a better way to get where you're going, you know. And usually it's called the parkway.

At least that's what he always said.

But to me the Cross County Parkway and the Hutchinson River Parkway and the Saw Mill River Parkway and the Bronx River Parkway seemed like the hard way. I mean, if you got off at the wrong exit, you could never change your mind and get back on.You just started going in a whole nother direction.

Keep in mind that this was during the stone age when the GPS was just a twinkle in Gad's eye. Before GPS we used to drive uphill both ways in the snow. And sometimes late at night. In fits of tears.

And we liked it like that.

We liked it like that because all those late nights spent driving around (in a fit of tears) (uphill both ways) (in the snow) taught us a thing or two. Like where to go, for one. But mostly where not to go.

But most importantly it taught us how to find a way. A lost art if you think about it. (Get it? Lost art. (Ah, sometimes I crack myself up.)

Eventually I took my Cake Boss' advice and broke up with Post road. It was one of the hardest things I ever did at 18 years of age, in New York. But it was one of the rightest thing I ever did too.

There's a moral here. There's a definite moral here. There's more than just one road on the Atlas of life. And even if you miss a turn or two, you can always find a way to get to where you're going.

Which is exactly what Merril Hoge, of the Pittsburg Steelers, wrote to my kids on the football he signed after coming down the stairs from his weight room above the garage at his cabin in Island Park where we rent from him for one week of every summer. (inhale/exhale). He's never been there before and he'll probably never be there again, but for some reason this year he was there at the exact moment we were packing up our garbage, aka crap, to take to the land fill. He heard us shoving our crap into the back seat of our car and took pity on us.

I kid not. Merrill Hoge descended his staircase, much to our shock and awe, like a regular prom queen, and threw our garbage into the back of his truck.

And then wrote some swell advice on a football.

FIND A WAY!

That's what it said.

Whaddaya know! Not only do I have a knack for bringing famous people into my life, it appears I also have a way of getting them to take my crap (ba dum bum) while simultaneously giving me swell advice on a football.

Seriously folks. Merrill Hoge gives great advice. On footballs. It's almost like looking into a magic 8 ball when you read the stuff he can dish out on a stinkin' football.

FIND A WAY!

FIND. A. WAY.

See what I mean?

It really makes you stop and think what advice you would give on the side of a football, given the opportunity to take someone else's crap.

Forwards and backwards. (And clean underwear)

2011-08-05T23:50:00.007-06:00

The most exciting thing in the history of the world has happened.

I have finally finished unpacking from the move!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

(Note how many explanations marks I used. Each one shows how totally psyched I am about my accomplishment.) And you thought I had dropped off the face of the earth, huh?

So it only took me two years to get settled in! Can you believe it? That's gotta be one for the Guinness world record books.

You know what this means don't you? It means I'm over my moving issues. It's official! I'm a perfectly well-adjusted, transition-free Utard.

High five!

Up high!

Down low!

Too slow! :) :)

You probably haven't noticed, but I'm giddy with enthusiasm. That's why I added the double smiley face.

It's just that it's such a relief to be unpacked. It was so so so so so hard, peeps. So. stinkin'. hard. Hard, as in I've been working on it for four days straight hard. Because all of my kids were away at Hemophila camp hard. So I didn't have any interruptions hard. Except to change the channel back and forth between Project Runway and America's Top Model hard.

Let's just say it is easier for a camel to squeeze through the eye of a needle, and for a rich man to get into heaven, than it is for me to finish unpacking.

That's how hard it was.

I pulled out every single box and bag and bin from my storage room and laundry room and spread their contents across my basement until it looked like I was auditioning for Clean House.

(Ain't it just ironic what a mess you have to make to clean things up sometimes?)

So there, strewn across my basement, were all of the things I was not ready to deal with before leaving Hawaii. Things I just had to shove into boxes and bags and bins and then turn away. I turned away and never looked back. Lest I should be transformed into a pillar of salt like Lot's dumb wife.

Instead I took the advice of the Robinsons and kept moving forwards. (Except I added an s to forward to make it more grammatically backwards.)

(You get me?)

So the thing about Lot's dumb wife is . . . I mean, have you ever noticed how hard it is to move forwards if you haven't sorted through the backwards?

The backwards weighs a ton when you're lugging it through the forwards. Especially because, well, once you start sorting through it, you realize most of it is crap, and who wants to lug a bunch of crap with them into the future?

Or, if you prefer the edited version, who wants to lug a bunch of junk with them into the future?

You gotsta get the junk out of the trunk. That's what I always say. Lighten up! That's what Chieko Okazaki always says.

But it ain't that easy, you know. Mostly because it's so so so hard. I mean, there I was, knee deep in the past. Literally holding the past in my hands. Touching it. And it was touching me. Day one it exhausted me. Day two it made me heavy laden and sad. But then day three dawned and I felt a spark of excited, as if I was seeing old, dear friends again, after a long, long absence. Day four, I was just done. So very done.

So you wanna see what the junk in my trunk looks like after I lightened up? After I seperated the wheat from the chaff? (Can you tell I'm teaching Sunday School this week?)

One fun thing about sorting through the backwards is that among your trash you will find your treasures. I found so many treasures which I had lost. Although technically, I hadn't lost them, I just couldn't find them. There's a difference, you know.

I found my favorite books and my favorite photos and journals and composition books and class notes. Boy do I have a lot of class notes. And none of them make any sense at all.

And I found my favorite print. I bought it for $1 from a street vendor in Mexico. Something about it instantly pierced my stone cold heart, but I was with a group and they didn't have time to stop. They just kept moving forward towards Tenocchtitlan's Plaza de la Constitucion. And I kept moving forward with them, until I couldn't stand it any longer. I broke away and sprinted back to the vendor to buy it. I kept it under my bed while I was going through my grieving season so I could slide it out at night and let my eyeballs sweat upon it.

I found other treasures too. Like a sticky note dated 2/23/07 at 1:55 that said "Please call Martha." And Pens. You thought 46 pens was a lot to find in my car? That was nothing. I found pens in every box and bag and bin. And chapstick spf 15. And little quotes written on the backs of receipts and movie tickets and unopened junk mail. I could write an entire quote calendar, peeps. I kid not.

The only place I didn't find pens or chapstick or little quotes was in my 72 hour kit. GO. FIGURE. See what I mean about the forwards being backwards?

At least now I'm not afraid to die. Now that I'm orgazined. Because ultimately isn't being organized a lot like wearing clean underwear?

Wish you were here!

2011-07-28T08:22:00.002-06:00

It's the most wonderful time of the year. That time of the year when we pack up and drive to Island Park, Ideeho for a whole week at the lake. With the In-laws.

All the in-laws.

I'm not saying that tongue-in-cheek either. Even with all my in-laws it's my favorite week of the year. Nothing can bother me at Island Park. Except my in-laws. And even they can't really bother me.

Does that make sense?

I got to drive here with my daughter. Just the two of us. At first we tried to listen to Wuthering Heights, but books on tape always give my daughter a royal headache. Especially books on tape written with an English accent, using all the GRE vocabulary I downloaded onto her iPod whilst I was studying.

During chapter two my daughter started telling me all of her flower shop stories and we got to giggling something fierce. Flower shop customers make the funniest stories. Also Personal Progress stories. Actually any stories told by daughter, in order to avoid listening to Wuthering Heights, are the funniest stories.

Except for my MIL's stories. Her stories are right up there with my daughter's stories. She is one of a kind, I tell ya. A real original. When Gad made her, he broke the mold. There isn't an actress alive who could portray her accurately when they make a movie about my life. I just hope she doesn't kick the bucket before they can cast her in the role.

So while my daughter was telling me all of her stories, I forgot to turn on I-20 towards Rexburg. Actually I didn't even know I was supposed to turn on I-20. I thought you just stayed on I-15 forever. I thought I-15 was like the Iron Rod.

I also thought the sign that said 15 miles to Roberts said 15 miles to Rexburg.

My daughter has eagle eyes, however, so she disagreed vehemently.

"Listen, girlfriend!" I told her, "If I've been on the road to Rexburg once, I've been on it a hundred thousand times! I know the road to Rexburg when I see it."

I wasn't just saying that either, as an adult who likes to exercise power and authority over her children, I went to school in Rexberg for a year. My best friend lived in Shelley. I've been around the block a time or two and I know without a shadow of a doubt there is no town in Ideeho called Roberts.

At yet there is. A town in Ideeho. Called Roberts. 632 people live there. And they are the nicest people you'll ever meet. Especially when you need directions to Rexburg.

But before we got directions, and after we realized we were on the wrong road, we got on The Truman Show for a few minutes. About 15 minutes actually. So I guess you can say we've had our 15 minutes of fame.

See the speed limit on the wrong road is 45 mph. And you know how you always have to go to the bathroom while traveling on the wrong road? Well, the producers of the Truman Show thought it would be funny to cue the slow car with the Fisher Price people in it to turn in front of us for about 10 miles.

They didn't break the speed limit once. NOT ONCE! Fisher Price people don't do things like that. They do what the producers tell them to do. Drive their little Fisher Price car the speed limit, without moving a muscle. Seriously. Even when you're right on their butt, peer pressuring them to pick up the pace so you can pee, Fisher Price people don't fold. They just stare straight ahead. All three of them--the mom, the dad, and little johnny, perfectly centered in the back seat.

By the time we got to Roberts to ask directions to Rexburg we'd already pee'd our pants from LOLing so hard. (Figuratively speaking, of course.)

I bet the audience at home had a good laugh on our account.

When we finally got back on the right road, it was dusk and the sunset was in full bloom and the silhouettes in Ideeho are to die for when the sunset is in full bloom! All the jutting pines and the silos and the amber waves of grain! The only thing busy at dusk in Ideeho are the cows eating the amber waves of grain.

It's such a breath of fresh air, driving through Ideeho. A deep breath of fresh air.

There's a moral here. There's a definite moral here. Sometimes getting lost or delayed ain't such a bad thing. As long as you eventually get to where you're going.

Especially if where you're going is the same place all of your in-laws are going.

Amen.

And there you have it, peeps, the most exciting part of the most wonderful time of year. Immediately upon arrival at Island Park it turned into a real snooze fest. Literally. We don't do anything here but sleep. And eat. And forget to pick up after ourselves.

Wish you were here!

Wish you were all here.

Those darn Brits. And that darn James Joyce.

2011-07-23T12:46:00.002-06:00

I accidentally, at random, just so happened to catch an episode of The British Office yesterday. That is to say the British version of The Office.

Eeeee-Gad! It's naughty! And I mean that in a nasty sort of way.

And I thought The Benny Hill Show was dirty. When I used to sneak out of bed to watch it as a teen.

I even had to be selective when choosing photographic evidence to post, because sometimes they are even crude in their still shots. "My hub was like, EWWW, you can't post that one! Or that one! Or that one . . ."

But you know what's weird? We Americans totally plagiarized the British Office. Characters, plotlines, conflicts, everything.

Fer reals! We copied all of it!

Except the British Jim (named Tim) is a lot . . . grosser. And the British Pam is a lot more . . . seductive.

And the British Dwight is just plain creepier.

And the British Michael Scott is not even half as heelarious. (And to think, my IL's think the American Michael Scott is stupid!)

Other than that we definitely stole the whole show.

Or maybe we just borrowed it so we could clean it up a bit. Improve upon it, you know. Turn the smut down a notch and the humor up a notch.

We got humor, yes we do, we got humor how' bout you!? Shouted with a hurkie kick in Britain's face.

But fer reals, our Office is WAY funnier than their Office.

That's what she said.

(Okay, that didn't work, but at least it was squeaky clean.)

P.S. So my daughter finished Catcher in the Rye. She said it was fine, but she was hoping something hopeful would happen at the end. (Poor thing doesn't have her finger on the pulse of reality.)

She started Wuthering Heights and is having trouble getting into it so guess what? I went to the library and got the book on tape so we can listen to it all the way up to Island Park today.

(Yes, it's that Island Park time of year. WOOOHOOOOO!)

She also made me check out James Joyce's Ulysses. That's next on her reading list. HA HA ha ha he he heee heee. See what I mean about her grasp on reality? James Joyce!!! Ahhhh, that's a gooood one. She'll think Wuthering Heights is a piece of pie before this week is over. Mark. My. Words.

(Okay, I've never actually read Ulysses, but I've HEARD!)

Edumacated people.

2011-07-21T11:58:00.000-06:00

So yesterday I passed the YW torch, along with the YW mantle, along with all the other junk that goes along with YW, to the new YW Prez.

Then I went to my last YW activity.

Then, as I was walking out the church doors, I suddenly had the most irresistible urge to so something wild and crazy, like clean my laundry room, or write a best-selling novel, or clip my boys fingernails.

Or finishing unpacking from the move.

It was a breathtaking, edge-of-your-seat sensation that I can't even describe. You had to be there. You just had to be there.

Instead I went home and watched Love in the Wild and thought about Holden Caulfield. I'm kinda in love with the kid ever since I read Catcher in the Rye. And now my daughter is reading it and she's kinda in love with the kid too.

(I would like to know if her hoity toity English teacher from Hawaii is in love with the kid also. Mariko, do tell.)

My daughter is a little bit more edumacated than I was at her age.

I mean I was more edumacated in certain areas, like in the art of disrupting Sunday school, and the art of wallpapering my bedroom with Scott Baio, and the art of sucking face. She doesn't know the first thing about any of that stuff. But she's more edumacated when it comes to things like the art of passing the AP calculus test, and the art of getting a 4.0 GPA, and the art of reading classic literature all summer. So far she's hauled through Les Miserables, Jane Eyre and Pride and Prejudice. And now, Catcher in the Rye. Next she's going to read Wuthering Heights.

By raise of hands, who thinks she's going to love it? Who thinks she's going to hate it?

I'm putting money on the hate it side. If she wanted to smack Edward and Bella, she's going to want to Kung Fu Panda kick Healthcliff and Catherine.

Am I right? Or am I right?

My daughter is also more edumacated than me in the art of floral design. But for such a smart girl, she's kinda . . . dumb, if you know what I mean, just sayin', not to be rude.

Sometimes smart people do things a little backwards if you ask me. For instance, last Saturday my daughter did four weddings and a funeral. (I know, right. Her life is like a movie.) And for one of the weddings she makes these centerpieces out of crystal skull heads. And as if that isn't weird enough, she gives the skull heads a mohawk. Fer reals! Out of ROSES!

A roses mohawk!

Fer reals!

Wouldn't a mohawk skullhead be more fitting for the funeral!?

That's edumacated people for ya! Full of irony, every last one of 'em.

The Catchers

2011-07-19T05:54:00.001-06:00

Do you ever get the feeling that people are watching you? Watching and waiting? For you to step out of line? So they can alert the proper authorities? And talk behind your back?

Do you ever wonder if they derive secret pleasure from your pain? Secret happiness from your sadness? Secret success from your failures?

Me neither, just wondering if you ever did.

So you wanna know the first thing you do when you get released as YW Prez, besides take a long hot bath and cry your eyes out? You throw yourself across your bed and read The Catcher in the Rye, because that Holden Caulfield can really pinch a nerve when you're feeling edgy.

And because you're ashamed you've never read it before, being that you spent 16 years of your life pretending to be a literature major slash literature teacher.

And because your daughter checked it out from the library so she could read it.

If there is one thing we moms CANNOT tolerate, it's letting our daughters read Catcher in the Rye before us!

(Too late for you, mom. Sorry. I waited as long as socially acceptably possible.)

Speaking of my mom, and The Catcher in the Rye, yesterday I went to pick her up from the opthalmologist and I pulled out Holden to read while I waited for her eyes to dilate.

"What ya reading?" She askeed. So I showed her. "Oh, that's the book that inspires all the criminals," she told me. And then the doctor called her in.

That really started messing with my head. I mean, I'd always heard it was a controversial book and all, but I thought it was because Holden was a cusser, not a criminal. I was just so worried about him for the rest of the book. He's such a hard-core sweetie pie, and you never know what he's going to do next. I kept crossing my fingers that he wasn't going to rob a bank or kill his sister or something. He loved her so darn much that would have really busted my heavy heart in two.

And then I started fretting about suicide. I just didn't think I could handle it if he knocked himself off like Sylvia Plath did in The Bell Jar. I really got attached to the kid, you know.

Not to be a spoiler, but I am SOOO happy to report that Holden doesn't kill himself OR his sister. He does lose his marbles, but who can blame him in this mad, mad world.

I've decided I'm going to write the sequel. First I'll have Jane break Holden out of the psych ward. Then they'll get married and move to my in-laws magic cabin for some R&R. Then Holden will get his dream job as a catcher in the rye, which is to say he will get paid to stand at the edge of a cliff in a rye field and catch all the children that teeter too close to the edge.

Too bad there were no catchers around when Holden was teetering.

Then Holden and Jane, and all the children they save, will live happily ever after.

The end.

Breaking up is hard to do . . .

2011-07-17T19:05:00.000-06:00

I lost a lot of weight this weekend. Mostly around my shoulder area.

Best diet tip ever if you wanna lose your shoulder weight is to be released as the Young Women's Prez!

It's amazing how much lighter my shoulders feel, and yet how much heavier my heart feels. (Maybe I should put my heart on a diet.)

Why, why, why would the bishop break up with me like that? After I gave him the best two years of my life?

Do you think he was just using me? For girls camp and youth conference and trek?

"But I don't wanna break up!" I told him. "Please, please, please!" I begged.

He looked at me like he'd never seen a dummy on her hands and knees before. And then finally he spoke.

"We can still be friends."

Friends??

Friends???

Oh, sure, we can be friends, but not friends with benefits! Not girls camp benefits, or Youth Conference benefits, or Trek benefits.

Maybe he just didn't like my leadership approach?

Hee hee

But fer reals, alls I know is Neil Sedaka was spot on. Breaking up stinks!

I'm going to miss my YW peeps somethin' fierce!!!

Fiercer than Tyra!

LY 4 evah YW peeps!

P.S. MUCHOS mahalo to my YW peeps for the flowers and the banana bread and the cards and for saying my hair looked pretty today.

WAAAAAAAAAAH!!

Blast from the Past

2011-07-13T17:49:00.002-06:00

Well, I s'pose you all wanna know how my lunch date went with my hub's ex-girlfriend, huh? The one who drove the Trans Am and made my vida la miserabla?

Well, let's just say I was ready with squirt gun and sharpie in hand (In case she needed more facial hair, which she did.)

I mean if God didn't want her to have more facial hair, he wouldn't have invented Sharpies, right?

I was going to get hair extensions and eye lash extensions and silicone extensions before I showed my face at lunch, but I decided that would put me at an unfair advantage, you know. So instead I just decided to wear my t-shirt that says Nani Nani Boo Boo.

I probably should have gone with the extensions because even with a sharpie it was almost impossible to make my hub's ex look bad.

But where there's a will, there's a way. Am I right, or am I right?

Seriously though, she's like a Charlies angel.

Jealous? Who me?

Nah, just trying to decide if I should do the peace sign. Behind her head. Because after all these years I think I'm finally mature enough to call a truce.

For the record, the lunch wasn't just with my hub's ex. It was with a bunch of smarty-pants girls from high school and since I'm such a dummy, this is my first invitation.

So while everyone was sharing what they have made of themselves since high school . . .

I began to sweat because I couldn't think of anything I've made of myself, so I was like, Project Manager? Me too. I'm a project manager too. And they were like oh really, do tell what kinds of projects you manage? And I was like um . . . I manage to get out of bed each morning. And I manage to get my dishes done almost every other day. And I manage to keep my oldest son from starving--now there's a HUGE project. And . . . and . . . and . . .

But that just turned the conversation to food prep. Food prep, food prep, food prep, that's all smart girls talk about. They know their food prep.

And coincidentally, the restaurant where we ate, Molly's, just so happened to be owned by my prom date, who also knows his food prep. (What a YUM-O restaurant.) (BTW, lucikly he had plenty of facial hair so I didn't need to use my Sharpie on him.)

Ironically he and I had a foods class together in high school so at least one of us was paying attention.

We also won a cake decorating contest together with our rendition of a hamburger, complete with real lettuce and tomatoes. (Hey, it was the 80's! There was no Cake Boss, or fondant, or hanging chads. It was easy to stuff a ballot box in the olden days.)

BTW, yes, I took the opportunity to apologize, after all these years, for wearing such a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad dress to his senior dinner dance.

He said he couldn't remember, but I could tell he'd been holding a grudge.

(For the record, and just to clear the air, we never did any smooching. Mostly because he didn't like Lionel Richie, and how can anyone kiss a guy who doesn't like Lionel Richie?)

So all the smart girls asked my prom date if he would take us on a tour of his kitchen. Go figure!

But, OMGOSH, it was three times the size of Vermont. And probably three times cleaner. And the bakery walls were lined with Betty Crocker cake mixes and red velvet sheet cakes, and there were two big smokers in the back, and a bin full of hickory smoked wood, and the smart girls were like, Mmmmm I can smell the brisket, and I was like, what's a brisket?

Bottom line, if you ever go to lunch with your hub's ex, I highly recommend Molly's! Tell my prom date I sent you and I bet he'll make you a hamburger cake. On the house.

My Quick Fix

2011-07-12T00:09:00.007-06:00

I don't think the Universe likes reality t.v. because as soon as I said I wanted a new drug, it gave me a quick fix.

Now my life is super exciting.

~Super exciting, first of all, because I got a cool job.

~Second of all, I got to spend an entire evening chillin' and grillin' at the magic cabin with four dear-to-my-heart families from my old hood in Hawaii. (Okay, okay, it was pouring rain and I made sloppy joes, so we weren't exactly chillin' or grillin' but you get the drift.)

(I also made Martha's pasta salad and for the record Martha is still the reigning queen of pasta salad. When it comes to pasta salad, it appears the only thing I do well is spend hours and hours chopping vegetables with a heart full of love.)

(My camera battery keeled over during dinner, but photographic evidence will be available soon. (Hurry up, Margaret!))

~Third of all, at the very same moment I was chillin' with my Hawaii peeps here in Utah, my ex-door neighbors, Martha and Swirl, were chillin' with my blog peeps in Hawaii.

See, one of my first and favoritest blog readers, Sandi, is there for the birth of her daughter-- Kute Kasey--'s first baby. (P.S. I knew Kute Kasey when she was still a virgin. That's how long I've been blogging.) (P.S.S. I also taught Kute Kasey's hub when he was still a virgin. That's how long I haven't been teaching.)

I was kinda gang green with envy about the whole thing, but Martha and Swirl eased the blow by giving Sandi and Kute Kasey a tour of my former postage stamp yard, and front porch as if it were Graceland. Then they asked the new owners to turn on the porch light so they could get a picture in the very spot where all the magic began.

Someday this picture might be worth more than a thousand words so I decided to autograph it for them.

You're welcome guys.

I mean, thanks guys!

LY!!!

~Fourth of all, I am dogsitting my niece's puppy so I get to double my pleasure for the whole week.

~Fifth of all, my oldest son, who is now in Boston playing basketball with the big boys, and who got to meet Danny Ainge, will once again be in my arms and under my thumb tomorrow night.

~And last, and yet least of all, I am having lunch tomorrow with my hub's ex-girlfriend. Don't ask, but yep, it's the same girlfriend who drove a Trans Am. Yep, same girlfriend I used to fantasize about flinging across the universe by her natural blond pony tail. Yep, same girlfriend I squirted with a water gun while she was slow dancing with my man. (Oooops-a-daisy.)

In a nutshell, it's the same girlfriend who made my senior year kinda les miserables. Kinda la vida miserabla. If you get my drift.

But I'm over it. Totally over it. 27 years later and I'm a big girl now.

Besides, I have no idea what he saw in her anyway.

Mwuaahahahaha.

Kidding, peeps! I am mature enough to admit she was bee-U-tiful.

And that not only did we fight over the same boyfriend, we also fought over the same cheer camp counselor.

I just hope and pray that time has been kind to her. But not too kind. You get me?

(pssssssst . . . do you guys want photographic evidence? Just say the word and I'll recharge my battery before lunch.)

I Want A New Drug!

2011-07-09T21:51:00.000-06:00

I totally get Huey Lewis right now. Mostly because I need a new addiction. Something besides my dog and my bed and my car.

Is there rehab for excessive sleeping and disproportionate amounts of driving your children around? Is there a twelve-step program for extreme smiling while walking your dog? I think I need intervention because my cheeks haven't been this sore since my wedding reception.

When I asked my daughter these questions she handed me her Personal Progress book.

"If it's rehab you need, this book will change your life," she said. "But for us normal peeps, who already walk the straight and narrow while holding to the iron rod, it's a real snooze fest."

She's a corker, that one.

Anyways, lately I've been thinking I have way too much love in my heart. For my dog. And my bed. And my kids. I need to temper that love with something . . . I don't know . . . more productive maybe? Like flossing my teeth. Or scrubbing my toilets.

Or maybe I need to do something less productive. Like go inactive. But just between me and you, I can't stomach the thought of the whole ward council discussing ways to reactive me during their meetings, so I've decided on plan B--to watch more reality t.v.

I've made a list of t.v. shows I'm pretty sure I can get hooked on if I try hard enough:

The Glee Project
Project Runway
Celebrity Rehab
Love in the Wild
The Bachelorette

I'm still on the fence about Finding Bigfoot because can squatches really whistle, knock on trees, and have human conversations with each other as they tromp through the forrest?

I. think. not.

So back to my new drug of choice--reality t.v. I'm totally open. To suggestions. So please advise.

MAHALO!

P.S. Sandi, has Kute Kasey had that gosh darn baby yet?

Top Ten Things I Don't Miss About My Son

2011-07-08T13:32:00.003-06:00

My oldest boy is in Indiana at the Hoosier Shootout. I miss him.

No, I don't miss him.

I mean, I do, but not that much.

You get me?

Allow me to illustrate:

TOP TEN THINGS I DON'T MISS ABOUT MY SON

I'm HUNGRY!
I need a ride. RIGHT NOW!
What's for dinner?
Can you pick my friends up too?
My friends are hungry. What can we eat?
I need FOOD! I'm STARVING!!!
MMMMMOOOOOOMMMMM! Hurry up! I CAN'T be late!
Can you take me and my friends to Seven Peaks?
Can we stop at Harts for a drink? I'm thirsty.
Can we drive through McDonalds? I neeeeeeeeed a shake!

P.S. You guys know Annette Lyon, right? Theeeeee Annette Lyon? She's in 2nd place of a photo contest. Let's help bump her to 1st. Click on this link and write "I vote for Dad and Daughter" in the comment box.

Thanks peeps! You da bomb diggity dawg.

Keepin' it reals

2011-07-05T23:15:00.002-06:00

Soooooo, how was your 4th of July? Mine was goooood too, thanks. Good and bad. But mostly good. Mostly good because we spent the weekend at The Magic Cabin playing tennis and listening to 8-track tapes.

Holy Cannoli that magic cabin is like tripping on a wrinkle in time. You seriously become get dazed and confused about what era you're in.

It's trippy, man. Super trippy.

And groovy too. Super groovy.

You know what else is trippy? Listening to Jethro Toll on 8-track. Especially when your hub is doing his Irish jig slash air flute.

John Denver is trippy on 8-track too, especially when your son is beat boxing to Grandma's Feather Bed. And your hub is doing his Irish Jig slash air fiddle.

The guy's got skillz, what can I say. In fact he's so skilled . . . how skilled is he? He's so skilled he can flex and point his toes all at the same time.

It's trippy, man. Real, real trippy.

I must confess that my hub's famdamily's 8-track collection is kinda fascinating.

But kinda creepy too. Creepiest 8-track tape award clearly went to My Turn on Earth.

"How did you stay members with music like this?" My daughter asked, as sincerely as humanly possible.

What a silly goose daughter. Simple. We grew up with cassette tapes. Everyone sounds like they've been smoking pakalolo on 8-track tapes, even the Mormon Youth Symphony. And Ernie Ford. And Frank Sinatra. And Peter Frampton.

(But I'm pretty sure Peter Frampton never touched pakalolo when he was making cassette tapes.)

After we listened to the family 8-track collection, we watched VHS movies on the VCR, and the 13 inch TV. Namely The Matrix and Braveheart.

Word: Nudity, Medieval warcraft and Keanu Reeves are much easier to stomach at 13 inches.

Just sayin'

After we watched VHS movies, we played Checkers and Scrabble and more tennis. And we drank picante flavored saimin from a heavy glass measuring cup. And then we got bored.

Except me, because I never get bored, so while everyone else was getting bored I was devising ingenious plans. Plotting really. To overthrow my MIL.

See there are only two things I hate, Spagetti-O's and dried flowers. Oh, and hate crimes. I hate hate crimes. But mostly I hate all the dried flowers in the whole wide world.

But my MIL LOVES them, so here's my secret, underground, evil plot: every summer one dried flower bouquet will mysteriously disappear from The Magic Cabin. Mwuaahahahaha

Starting with this one (2011):

And then this one (2012):

And so on and so on and so on.

(2013)

(2014)

(2015)

(2016)

(2017)

Then I will start on the plastic flowers.

(2018)

And the plastic fruit.

(2019)

(2020)

And the plastic cake covers precariously perched atop other plastic cake covers.

(2021)

And finally the silk tulips in my front window box will mysteriously disappear too, because if there's one thing I refuse to make it's a hypocratic oath.

That should keep me keepin' it reals for at least ten years, eh?

Ingenious, right?