Are you there Gad? It's me, Dummy.

Aloha Mr. Universe,

Crash here. Your favorite dummy?

Remember when I said I'm living la vida fairy tale? Well even Demigods like me have their fears and insecurities.

Right now I'm AFEARED and INSECURE about the Tsunami heading towards Hawaii.

I know you don't owe me any favors, but PLeAsE Make it GO AWAY!

Please, please, pretty please! With sugar on top.

I'll give you a million dollars.

Make that a TRILLION dollars!

It's just that there are so many people I lub on those islands. Please protect them with all your might!

MAHALO in advance!

Livin' La Vida Fairy Tale

Today was a fairy tale.

That's what Taylor Swift says. But I have to disagree. I think yesterday was a fairy tale.

Actually, this whole week has been a fairy tale.

Not the chic-flick kind with the knight in shining armor, but sometimes I could swear the universe is playing favorites.  At least if there's food involved.

Like on Tuesday, I went for Chinese with my mom and got three fortunes in my cookie. My mom only got one.

See what I mean?

And a few nights ago I walked into my kitchen and my niece was there making spaghetti and meatballs.

What are the chances?

And today, my hub took me to Olive Garden and we ordered my favorite Zuppa Toscana soup and all-you-can-eat salad. Then tonight I was invited to a pow wow hosted by my Stake Young Women's president. Guess what she served? That's right, Zuppa Toscana soup and all-you-can-eat salad. 

Things like that happen to me all the time.

It was a pretty fun night once I got over my embarrassment. 

"You said pow wow, right?" I clarified when I walked into a run full of Young Women's presidents.  

"Uh-huh!" They nodded, wide-eyed.

"Then why am I the only one wearing a feather headdress and moccasins?" 

Things like that happen to me all the time too. 

So, I finally decided on a winter vice besides wearing drab colored sweaters. I decided on a French vice because French vices are more romantic than American vices. The best thing is, it's French, but it's not fried, and you don't have to use your tongue.

I'm hooked on . . . drumroll, please . . . crocheting.

Unlike porn and Prozac, crocheting is a vice you can teach your Young Women so they can make baby hats and booties for the humanitarian center.


It's also a vice you can sit around and do with other cast members of the Sponge Bob ward in between episodes.

One of my favorite cast members is our Relief Society Compassionate Service leader.  She's a real kick-in-the-pants. But for some reason she was as nervous at a pregnant nun to teach our Young Women how to crochet (her words, not mine). So a few days ago I invited her and some others over for a crash course in crochet. (Get it? crash course.)

Oh my goodness! Oh my goodness! Can I just say how addicting it is to sit around and crochet with a bunch of pregnant nuns?

Bless their hearts.

Except it was kinda weird when my Laurel adviser walked into my house and announced, "I had my first kiss in your basement when I was 14!"

Eww, I wonder how many other people I know have made out in my basement.

Ain't it weird to think on? I mean, all that hidden history just hovering around us all. Good thing we're so blissfully ignorant.

Speaking of history, this Sponge Bob ward has a lot of history together. It's the kind of ward that people grow up in and get married in and raise their kids to grow up in and get married in and raise their kids in. And so on and so on and so on.

My Laurel adviser, who made out in my basement, grew up in this ward.

Her mom grew up in this ward too.

And her mom's Laurel adviser grew up in this ward too. She is 83 years old and she's still in this ward.

And she still bowls every week on a bowling league. At least she did, until last month when she tripped over a stray bowling shoe on her way down the lane and broke her hip.

I can't imagine it. Bowling. Every week. For 83 years. Until you trip on a shoe and break your hip.

How would it feel to always know who you are and where you want to bowl? To know this is the place. Your place. Your series. Sponge Bob for LIFE!

I guess that's the advantage of being a cartoon character.

Me, I still don't know which bowling league I belong to. I'm like a bedouin or a gypsy, minus that sexy air of mystery. 

But hey, if you ever need a "This is where I wish I belonged" kinda gal, I'm your kinda gal.

Maybe I'm a Demigod like Percy Jackson. (I bet my real father was the god of traffic school.)

Not complaining though. It ain't so bad being a Demigod and hanging out with a bunch of cartoon characters.

Some of my favorite cartoon characters live in my ward. Russell, from UP, for instance.

He's fourteen now and he likes to choke my son during Sunday School--no doubt my son deserves it.  When Russell isn't wearing his scout uniform he wears a classy black wool overcoat with a beret and white gloves.  And he carries a cane.  

My favorite favorite characters in the ward are the wild Thornberries.

They're my home teachers--a father/son team.

Imagine Chris Farley and Mike Myers. With Chickens.

Chickens that play soccer.

Soccer playing chickens outside, and a five foot iguana crawling across the ceiling inside. Although one of their chickens does come inside and watch t.v. with them. Apparently he laughs and cries in all the right places. And he scootches over and snuggles with Brother Thornberry during the scary parts.

I guess me and Taylor Swift ain't the only ones livin' la vida fairy tale. 

My hub is such a silly goose!

I had to ban him from Matchmaker.com.

No worries, it's not THEE Matchmaker.com, it's his own little dating system thingie.


FOR SOCKS!


Such a softie. The thought of a sock sitting home alone on a Saturday night just kills him, so he's taken it upon himself to match up every lonely sock within a 2,400 square foot radius.

He just doesn't get that you can't hurry love. Even for socks. Patience truly is a virtue when you're waiting for your sole mate.

Any interference whatsoever throws off the balance and harmony of footwear foreordination.

(Plus it makes our kids look goofy.)


I have to hand it to him though, he's tolerant. And accepting. He accepts everyone and everything just as they are. He wouldn't hurt a fly. And he wouldn't try to change that fly either. It was hard enough for him to change diapers because he didn't want to make the diapers feel bad about themselves.

He's the same with light bulbs. Heaven forbid we hurt a light bulb's feelings just because it doesn't shine anymore. "Just leave it be," he says. "I don't want it to know we want to change it just because it isn't meeting our needs anymore."

At least he finally changed the recording on his office answering machine. Usually when I call his office, a reassuring voice asks me to leave a message for "Dr. Dunaway." Today, however, my hub's voice startled me by asking me to leave a message for . . . HIM.

It's Dr. Dunaway's fault that we're here in Utah, btw. He decided to retire. And then BYU decided to rehire.

Every day for the past 6 months Dr. Dunaway has been assuring me that he just stepped out of the office. And I believed him. I was convinced he would be back shortly, as promised, and that we weren't even in Utah at all.


But we really are here, aren't we?





Or maybe we're not.

After all, my silly goose hub still hasn't changed the car clocks or the computer clocks from Hawaiian time.

We got our first mission call!

We are officially trekkies!

Well my hub is officially a trekkie--I am officially a pioneer woman. You heard me right. I'm a PIONEER WOMAN! That's got to be good luck for an aspiring cooking blogger like me, huh?

My hub and I have been chosen to represent the Sponge Bob ward as a ma and a pa on trek this summer. Can you believe it? I'm gonna be a ma!

Trek is just a crazy little thing we do here in Utah where everyone gets to dress up like Little House on the Prairie and "boldly go where no man has gone before." (Get it?) And all because we are "The Next Generation." (Get it? Get it?)

I'm not sure exactly what all goes on during trek, but I think it has something to do with pulling handcarts across Whyoming until we hook up with the Starship Enterprise for our first ma and pa mission.

So excited!

Except I have to wear bloomers.

I told the committee I'm more of a hip-hugger kinda girl.

"Those bloomers won't really go with my low-rise jeans," I said. "Can I alter the pattern just a titch?"


There was a collective church-lady pause before the stake trekkie leader said, "Well, isn't that special . . . NO! "

As it turns out we can't wear jeans either, due to the high probability of chafing as we walk and walk and walk.

AND walk.

My hub gets to wear a sexy cowboy hat, but I have to wear a bonnet.


Not only do I have to wear a bonnet, I also have to SEW the bonnet in which I have to wear.

HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA

"You're not serious!" I said.

But they were serious.

DEAD-pan serious!

"Oooh, oooh, oooh," I said, raising my hand in the air like I just didn't care. "Can I make mine out of aloha print instead of plaid? Please, please, pretty please! Can I, huh? huh? huh?"

And then I told them about how the Hawaiian people love Star Trek almost as much as they love Magnum P.I.

And then the ma sitting next to me accidentally poked me in the eye.



In the end I got my way. Maybe because our ward Trekkie leader is a Hawaiian named Scottie.

(At least that's what we call him when we say "beam me up!")


Only problem now is, I don't know how to sew.

Iwa? Martha? Anjeny? Swirl? I know you all love to sew. Can you whip me up an aloha bonnet? And maybe a pair of aloha bloomers?--(semi-low-rise, please) (I don't want to feel to frumpy if I run into Captain Kirk.) (Please, Gad, let it be the Chris Pine Captain Kirk and not the William Shatner Captain Kirk.)



Mahalo Nui Loa in advance, girlz!

Church Chat

Well I spoke in church today. Again. Is it just me or does it seem like I just spoke in church?

The thing I hate about speaking in church is all the opposition I face during the week prior.

This week my hair faced the most opposition. I left my curling iron in Mosquito, Nevada and then my Chi broke in half so alls I had to work with was a cheap back-up straightener. You can always tell a cheap straightener if it has a turbo boost setting.

So, yea, I turbo boosted my hair for church.

The last time I spoke in church I got called to be the Young Women's president so I figured this was my big chance to get released.

The topic was prayer and promptings so I suggested to everyone that if they are facing tough dilemmas they should simply turn on the radio until the answer comes. I told them it will usually come through a John Mayer song. And then I told them to skip over the country stations because the universe would never send a message through a country song.

Am I right, or am I right?

The Church Lady didn't think so. Yes, she's in my Sponge Bob ward and yes, she gave me this look.

But spilling the beans about Country music wasn't the only faux pas I committed on the stand. I also wore a mumu. With riding boots.

I'm pretty sure that's against the word of wisdom.

Especially with nylons.

I might just be the first person in the history of the world to wear a mumu with nylons.

To top it off, remember this look?

Well, he didn't get it from strangers. Picture that face in a mumu with riding boots.

And turbo boosted hair.

I'm pretty sure I'll be back on the activities committee soon.

$14.50 Worth of Silver Lining

As you know last week was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad week.

But even bad weeks have their silver lining. My silver lining's name was Dolly. 

Dolly has been my friend for at least a dozen years. She knows me. And even better, she gets me.

She also knows my kids.

And my hub.

And all my friends from the island--Martha, Swirl, Anjeny, Colleen, Iwa, Mariko--she knows them all.

Well last week she came to Utah and we hung out.  We started at my Aunt Amy's yoga studio where we did handstands together and released our negative toxins together.

Obviously negative toxins look better on her than they do on me.

Then her cute mom and cousin fed us all-you-can-eat avocados.

And then, like pioneer children, we sang as we talked and talked and talked and talked . . . AND talked.

We talked about everyone and everything.  It made me so happy/sad.

sniff

LY Dolly.

This week wasn't as terrible or horrible as last week, but I've had a classic case of the blah, blah, blahs.  Plus I'm dazed and confused because we're trying to make expensive, life-altering decisions.  

Why do life altering decisions have to be so expensive and expensive decisions have to be so life-altering?  

Blah, blah, blah weeks have their silver-lining too.  This week my silver lining cost $14.50 and came in the shape of a mysterious package from Hawaii. 

It was prepared and paid for by another dear friend, Elaine, who also knows me, and my kids, and my hub, and all my friends from the island. She even knows Dolly . . . plus a bazillion other friends I've never even mentioned.

Elaine and I practically raised our kids together--we go way way back to play groups and preschool and PTCO presidencies. We were even roomies when we traveled to Mexico with the history department and we didn't stop giggling for a week. (I had no idea I could be that silly.)

Awww, shucks, of all the millions of times I've laid eyes upon Elaine, this was the very last time.

sniff

LY Elaine.

So I could barely lift the mysterious  $14.50 package from Hawaii onto my kitchen counter. Elaine must have sent it book rate because it weighed a ton. 

But it wasn't books, it was beach.

Inside was a heart shaped card that read, Happy Valentines Day! Here's some Temple Beach for you.

SHE SENT US TEMPLE BEACH!

At this very moment I have $14.50 worth of Temple beach sitting on my kitchen counter. How cool is that?  

(I hope that's not illegal.) 

$14.50 is enough to make a dummy's eyes sweat profusely.

And it's enough to make a dummy's kids eyes sweat profusely too.

"Why did you do this to us?" They demanded. "Why, why, why did you move us from Hawaii to Utah?"

I stammered out something about wanting them to learn valuable life lessons that they couldn't learn in Hawaii, like how to sit in the house all winter long and play video games.

"We could have learned those lessons on vacation!" They cried.

It's kind of a blessing to have silver lining sitting on your kitchen counter in the middle of February. 

But it's also kind of a curse. 

You get me? 

Still, I'm grateful for my blessing/curse.  As I'm grateful for all my blessings/curses.  

This one in particular: 

My Romantic Weekend (and other unsolved mysteries)

Remember the first time Kristina P. told me she hated me? It was after this post when I brought you all that serotonin surprise from last year's Valentines getaway to the luxurious Ihilani Resort Hotel in Kapolei.

I don't think this years getaway to Mosquito, Nevada will produce the same kind of verbal abuse.

It started off looking a little something like this:

That was day one of our (delayed) romantic weekend getaway.

Day two began in the wee hours of the morning with my hub filling up the car in his snowman pajamas.

Look, he thinks it's cute.

He thinks it's even cuter to sing Classy 95.9 love songs (out of tune) at the top of his lungs as we drive through Juab County at 1 a.m. Classy 95.9 is the only station in Utah where you can find Dinah Shore singing lyrics like vamoose to an accordion.

Nice try, sweetie pie.

Things got considerably better once we hit the Astroturf in Mosquito, Nevada. Something about that bright bold sun and that fake green grass made us feel positively playful.

Look ma, no shoes!

Even my hub got a little giddy

My daughter had arrived the previous day with her club soccer team.

On the way there she was approached by a total stranger at the Cafe Rio in St. George.

"It's Crash's daughter! It's Crash's daughter!" The stranger repeated several times, before asking my daughter to pose for a photograph.

Turns out it was April Ellerman, one of our best friends over her at the Diaries. But my daughter didn't know that. Alls my daughter knew was that WOW! She's famous!

The only thing more gratifying than going into a strange place and hearing a strange person say "Hey, you're the Crash Test Dummy!" is to have someone say "Hey, you're the Crash Test Dummy's daughter!"

Thanks April! My daughter finally respects me.

Anyways, can I just say how very nice it was to have a soccer flashback?

The whole thing felt kinda like the good ole' days in Hawaii (minus Jack Johnson).

Except the palm trees are implants. And they are way too well behaved.

What really made the weekend for me was that my IL's were there too.

And I'm not being sarcastic. Honest to Pete, they give me the giggles. Who needs books or movies when you've got in-laws? I laughed myself silly ALL. WEEKEND. LONG.

"No wonder you stay so skinny," my MIL told me, "you laugh so much!" And then she told me that laughing helps you lose weight.

"YOU help me lose weight," I told her.

It's hard NOT to lose weight around a woman who's hooked on JAG, hides her Harlequin Romances in the freezer and calls Oprah, Opree?

I wish you could meet her--the woman has absolutely no inhibition or guile whatsoever.

If Kellie Pickler watched Lawrence Welk every Saturday night, called Yoooohoooo instead of ringing the doorbell, and used words like trousers and picture show-house, she would be my MIL.

Imagine Kellie Pickler at age 76, on Valentines day, sharing with you and your hub and your daughter the story about the first time she heard how babies are made (wink wink).

She was in the ninth grade (WHAT THE WHAT?) and a girl from church started divulging details about her weekly encounters with different men. (ewww, her words, not mine.)

Imagine the awkward pauses and the awkward attempts to change the subject.

But then imagine Kellie Pickler declaring matter-of-factly, "she was just oversexed! After she got married she was perfectly fine and normal."

(WHAT THE WHAT?)

I lost a few pounds over that story.

But then I gained it back at the Virgin River Hotel and Casino Buffet.

One thing I don't get about my IL's is how they can spend two hours at a buffet and never bat an eye, unless you say "are you done yet?" at which point they get defensive and say, "NO! we still have half a glass of diet coke to drink."

But if I invite them to dinner and serve them half a bowl of soup they protest mightily.

"OH, we CAN'T eat THIS much!"

If I pour either one of them half a glass of milk they will say, "That's WAY too much, we'll share."

Every morning they share one banana, one orange and one hard boiled egg on one plate. If we go to Costco they share one hot dog, but if we go to Chuck-A-Rama they suddenly need 6 separate plates of their own?

I'm just going to add that to my list of unsolved mysteries.

So there you have it, my weekend in a nutshell (or two).

And how was yours?

Mosquito, Nevada

That's right, we spent our Valentines in Mosquito, Nevada--just the eight of us--at a Soccer tourney.

Does that sound romantic or what?

It's called Mosquito because it's an itchy little town that buzzes in your ear when you try to sleep. My kids wanted to know why if it's called Mosquito, it's spelled Mesquite and I told them the truth, that Nevada discriminates against the letter o.

My (know-it-all) MIL corrected me and said the town is named Mesquite after all the mesquite bushes on the other side of the Virgin River.

"Well," I said with a hmph, "what are the odds that that Virgin River is actually a virgin? This is Nevada, after all."

Was that rude?

But I have a point, right?

I mean, remember when Brittany Spears became an oxymoron because she claimed she was a virgin? And remember when Madonna became a simile because she said she was like a virgin?

It's all just rhetoric.

Later on though I started thinking that maybe it really is a virgin river after all. I mean the whole town of Mosquito is pretty barren. The desert palms are kinda prudish too. They stand up perfectly straight and you'll never catch them teasing each other like the palms in Hawaii. The wind isn't playful either, it's more on the stern, abrasive side, like a catholic nun or a librarian--always shushing you or giving you the stink eye.

The whole place is just kinda impatient. Even the toilets flush every 30 seconds whether you're finished with your business or not.

However, there is one really attractive thing about Mosquito, Nevada--the sun. That is one HOT sun. Bold too. Nothing shy about it.

The Astroturf's not hard on the eyes either. It's a bee-U-tiful, bright, vivid green--almost the color of joy. Except it's not real joy. It's synthetic--little blades of grass implants all over the soccer field.

Between the bold sun and the Astroturf implants, let's just say I didn't wear a single drab colored sweater all weekend.

Picture this: me . . . walking across the Astroturf in slow motion . . . in my slippahs--toes fully exposed, and my flimsy hot pink, v-neck tee . . . my thumb hooked carelessly in the pocket of my denim culottes . . . It would have been picture perfect if that indignant wind hadn't kept scolding me every time I got too friendly with the sun.

The one thing I realized from my romantic weekend getaway is that love truly is all you need. Plus a little sun. And maybe a "periodic" pedicure.

I got plenty of all three this weekend. Except the pedicure, which I didn't get because of the recession. And anyway, I still have a little bit of polish left from my last pedi.

I didn't get much love either, but I still have a little bit left over from my wedding so I'm good. Waste not, want not, that's what my MIL always says (among other things).


Naybe I'll gather the courage to tell you about the other things tomorrow.


Stay tuned for photographic evidence of my hub pumping gas in his snowman pj's. (Talk about mood killer!)

Happy Valentines! (Bah Humbug)

Love is in the air. Can you feel it?

Me neither.

But I think my hub can because he's taking me away on a romantic get-a-way this weekend. Just the two of us.

And his parents.

And my boys.

Oh, and my daughter will be there too because she's got a soccer tournament. We might try to squeeze in some of her games in between all the romance.

A romantic get-a-way is exactly what I need right now because I have had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad week.

I knew it was going to be a bad week at our Super Bowl party when I guzzled four glasses of icy, cold Mountain Dew. On an empty stomach. In less than 90 minutes. On the verge of PMS.

Yes, I knew it was a dumb thing to do even as I was doing it, and yes, I heard the still small voice in the back of my head skipping rope and chanting, Grumpty Dumpty sat on a wall . . . Grumpty Dumpty had a great fall . . .

I anticipated the crash, followed by the burn, followed by some bloating and a surge of estrogen, but I JUST. DIDN'T. CARE. I don't know why. Maybe because I'm sick to death of not having any vices (besides drab colored sweaters.) That's what my life boils down to, peeps, DRAB COLORED SWEATERS!

"Bring it on, grumplestilskin!" I cried on Sunday as I poured Mountain Dew over my raspberry sherbet and jammed a Tim Tam in it.

To be honest, I rarely touch the stuff--maybe four or five times a year, and when I do I sip it like a lady with my pinky fully extended towards heaven, but last weekend it was on sale for $1 at Walmart so I figured it would only cost about 50 cents to get fully loaded on caffeine cocktails, nightcaps, shots and slams. GRAND slams. I was slamming it straight up and straight down and on the rocks, until my son said, "MOM! I think you might be breaking a commandment!"

My MIL was there to witness the whole thing, but she just laughed and turned her attention back to her story about how she used to play cowboys and Indians with the boys when she was a little girl.

"The cowboys always won," My FIL said and then my MIL winked.

"We also used to play Army against the Japanese," she said. And then she winked again. Only this time it was a double wink.

Wink, wink, like that.

I just kept my mouth shut and poured myself another drink.

The week went downhill from there.

I tried to salvage it by attending a yoga class, but this particular class did jump-ups and hand-stands, which is to say we had to jump from a down-dog position into a handstand. I haven't done a hand stand since I was ten-years-old. You get me? The whole experience released all the negative toxins in my body and do you know hard it is to stay positive when all your toxins are negative?

Even American Idol couldn't cheer me up this week. Or Ghost Hunters International. It just annoyed me how polite they are to all those rude international ghosts.

"Ghost, if you're here, we ask you to please step forward. Please . . . Pretty please . . . with sugar on top. And can I ask you one more favor, ghost? Will you touch me so I know you're here? Thank you, kind ghost. I promise I won't hurt you."

Have they ever considered the possibility that those international ghosts might try to hurt them?

What really gets me is when they try to speak to the rude ghosts in Spanish. "Porfavor kind ghost. Esta Lista? Quidado, kind ghost."

Oddly the ghosts always answer back in English, which proves my theory that I will have plenty of time to be bi-lingual after this life.

As a last resort to lift my spirits this week I went to the temple. Instead of feeling better I just felt like I was cheating on the Laie temple. I always get kinda judgmentally when I'm cheating. Well I don't really get judgementally, it's more like I notice things I wouldn't normally notice. BUGGY things. Like how I was the only one wearing a rental dress and how even though everyone was wearing uber cute non-rental dresses, no one was fully dressed.

Do they not sell smiles at Beehive Clothing?

I think the universe tried to humble me for my observations because half way through the session the lady next to me handed me a breath mint.

(It's so depressing when your breath isn't temple worthy!)


Anyways, happy Valentines weekend everyone! May yours be as romantic as mine!

An EGGcellent read that will CRACK you up.

I wrote my senior paper on The Great Gatsby so I'm kinda like an expert. Or at least I used to be kinda like an expert. Kinda.


I remember my theory had something to do with F. Scott Fitzgerald's contrast between movement--both East and West--and stasis. My paper explored his understated use of dynamic vs. static images to reveal the implications of the changing social and moral philosophy of the early 1920's.


Or something like that.


So tonight, at exactly 9:45 p.m. my daughter says to me, "Mom, I just wrote a paper on The Great Gatsby. Can you come take a look?"


"Of course I can, darling," I replied. "I am an expert, afterall!"


I thought her paper started off on the right foot:

At first glance The Great Gatsby seems to be just a series of random events that don’t really mean much, but the deeper you dig for meaning, the easier it is to find it.


True that, I thought. But then she revealed the deeper meaning:


West Egg and East Egg, Long Island are shaped like eggs, and it reminds me of humpty dumpty. Each character in the book sits on their own wall and eventually they all crack.

Wait! I'm getting an image:

ha ha ha HA HA HA HA snort HA ha snicker hee hee HA ha Ho Ho! aaahhhh!

Allow me a moment to catch my breath.

At first glance, I thought, "where did she come from?" But the more I think about it . . . let's just say, if anyone ever asks me how I know she's my daughter, I'll tell them this story.

And maybe I'll mention the time in college when I wrote a paper on Keats, Shelley and Byron entitled The Peanut Butter Poets, based on the fact that their images stick to the roof of your mouth.

Or maybe I won't.

Serenity, NOW!

Remember when I used to be the Relief Society president? And we'd all go do our visiting teaching together?

And remember when we'd have slumber parties and toilet paper the Old Boat Guy's blog? And then we'd stay up all night interpreting messages from the universe?

And remember when we had the Truth or Dare retreat and we helped each other carry our buckets?

(I miss those dayz.)

Well one of our friends needs help carrying her bucket right now. April's sister Robin, at Serenity Now, is going through the same thing that Pat (Nutty Hamster Chick) went through several years ago, and Tiffany went through last year--her foster daughter is being returned to her birth parents.

INCONSOLABLE, INCONSOLABLE! INCONSOLABLE!

I know!!!!

But we have to try!

So can you all please go kick off your shoes and put on your aprons and whip up some comfort food--something really cheesy and gooey and creamy--and then we'll meet in Robin's comment box for a group hug.

I'll bring the Jamba Juice. And you guys bring the tissue, because this post will make your eyes sweat.

LY Robin!

Would it be too oxymoronic to wish for you serenity, NOW!

The Truth about Happy Valley

This weekend I played Thelma and Louise with my sis-in-law.


Only we weren't driving a 1966 Thunderbird convertible, we were driving a 1990 U-Haul.


And we weren't being chased by the police--thank goodness, because I can't graduate from Traffic School again for three years--we were being chased by responsibility.

It was our responsibility to return the U-Haul after we moved my mom out of her trailer park and into a respectable neighborhood--she's been living her dream long enough and it's high time she gets back to reality.

It wasn't one of those baby U-Hauls with Louie Armstrong on the side.

This was the real deal--a ginormous 27 footer.

My sis-in-law jumped into the drivers seat and gave me the look. "Are you sure we should be driving this?" she said.

"Driiive Louise! DRIVE!" I said. "Go! Go! Go go go go go go!" (Names have been changed to protect the innocent and the guilty.)

We always talk about hitting the open road and blowing this taco stand so this was our big chance.

Or at least it could have been our big chance if I hadn't forgotten my camera. I don't really feel comfortable blowing this taco stand without my camera, ya get me?

So we returned the U-Haul and went to Wendy's for a kid's meal. While I sucked the marrow out of my mini frosty my sis-in-law revealed to me the truth about Happy Valley.

Did you know there are varying degrees of happiness in Happy Valley?

Me neither.

Apparently she lives on the lower East side of happiness. That's the side where you can't bring candy to primary because the children would rather eat spinach.  In fact every morning they beg their mom's for spinach and whole wheat bread smoothies. 

At least that's what the moms on the lower East side of happiness say.

Once my sis-in-law accidentally made a loaf of homemade white bread and took it to her neighbor who had just given birth. Her neighbor said, "My kids will be able to tell this isn' real bread."

She probably wasn't being rude, she was probably just saying. Bless her heart, it ain't her fault her kids are weirdies.

I'm just thankful my Sponge Bob ward is on the upper East side of happiness because at least our weirdies are animated, which makes it easier to refrain from smacking them upside the head.

See what I mean? 

My sister recently asked me if I call our ward the Sponge Bob ward because everyone wears square pants. 

"Nope," I said, "it's because every Sunday is the BEST DAY EVER!" 

"Well," she said, "if this is the Sponge Bob ward then YOU are Sponge Bob."

Then to prove it she rigged a hidden camera in the Young Women room while I conducted opening exercises.

I had never noticed the resemblance before, but she has a point. 

The coolest thing about the Sponge Bob ward is that everyone gets a chance to play their role in an given episode.  Some of the characters even get to write their own.  Like today I walked into the library and overheard one of our cast members discussing his upcoming episode in which he would hold a lightbulb in his mouth while a supporting cast member tasered him to see if he could conduct electricity. 

(I have witnesses who can testify that this is true.)

It goes to show that our cast members are aware of their audience. Everyone knows that cartoon electrocutions are much more entertaining than real life electrocutions.  

The Sponge Bob bishopric is aware of their audience too.  They know how to word things so everyone gets it.  Today the 2nd counselor kicked off our testimony meeting by declaring, "The whole idea of perfection is just bizarre!" 

We all shouted AMEN!  

And then we broke our fast with krabby patties. 

The best thing about our writers is that they understand a good show should be more than just entertaining. A good show should teach important lessons as well.  In cute ways.  

Last week we found this taped to our front door: 

It hooked me, line and sinker. Maybe because I lost my testimony of PJ's in Hawaii. I even called my sister, who used to be the primary president, and asked her if she knew why, why, why PJ's are so important.   

She had no idea.  Apparently it wasn't a rerun. 

On Saturday morning I yelled my kids out of bed.  "GET UP AND PUT YOUR PJ'S ON!" I screamed. "They're filming the primary party today!" 

I paced back and forth in my living room from 9-11 until they finally returned home bearing these pillow cases:

What a relief! PJ's aren't important at all. It's just a clever acronym.

Now that's entertainment!

But it's not the most entertaining episode. The most entertaining episode is the one where my son wins a HUMONGOUS pocket knife for tying the double sheep knot faster than all the deacons.  

GULP! 

Do you think those spinach-smoothie-drinking-whole-wheat-bread-eating weirdies get to play with knives like this?

P.S. Does it look like my son gave himself a haircut with that knife to you? 

Who is edumacating our children?

Last night was the first Young Men/Young Women combined activity since I discovered that almost all the youth in our ward are members of the VL club.

(virgin lips)

Being that it's Valentines--tis the season--I rallied for Truth or Dare and Spin the Bottle, but the bishopric said, "Uhhh, let us think about it . . . NOPE!" 

So we did a DaNcE pArTaY instead.

It was a pimped out dance party because my bro let us use his DJ sound system and his DJ strobe light and his DJ fog machine.

We hit the lights and then we hit the floor.

We did the limbo and the cha cha slide and the electric slide and the boot scootin' boogie and the hoedown throwdown and the chicken dance .

Then we did Thriller and High School Musical and the YMCA.

Then we did the macarena and the hamster dance and hokey pokey.

The only thing we didn't do was kissing.

Not even a peck.

Even my hub abstained.

"But we have to set the example," I told him.

"You're right," he said. "When you stop getting pulled over, I'll stop abstaining from you in public."

(Party pooper!)

I don't know what has gone on while I've been in Hawaii having babies but not only are the youth in the VL club, they also don't understand the concept of partner dancing. 

They think partner dancing is for slow songs only and cannot wrap their brains around the idea that they can ask someone to dance on the fast songs too. In other words, dancing is now like dating, it's done in large groups, and then when a slow song comes on they scatter into the hallways to avoid coming in contact with a member of the opposite s.e.x.

No wonder the divorce rate is so darn high!

Who is edumacating our children, anyway? 

I hope it's not the same person who let my kids to do this at the dance party: