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?