Is your happy too loud?

An important question if you think about. Which I have been lately--ever since I saw We Bought a Zoo.

In the story, 7-year-old Rosie can't sleep because the neighbors are always partying at the top of their lungs. Oh, and also because her mother recently died.

In one scene her dad tries to help her fall asleep. They're looking out the window watching the neighbors dance and laugh, and Rosie makes the most profound observation in the history of the world: Their happy is too loud.

Ain't that just the truth? When the volume on your sad goes up, suddenly everyone puts their happy on surround sound.

Why can't happy people just plug their headphones in once in a while?

I only say this because I live in Happy Valley. If I lived in Death Valley I would say, why can't the sad people push mute once in a while? And if I lived in Silicon Valley I would say, why can't the perfect people stop pumping up the volume on their implants?

(Wait, did I take that out of context?)

It's about balance, peeps. That's alls I'm sayin'.

(Wait, did you take that out of context?)

Balance your happy with your sad. And if you don't have your own sad, borrow someone else's. Believe me, there's plenty to go around. I've been borrowing other people's sad for the past several weeks and it works like a charm to take your happy down a few decibels.

You can borrow from the sad I'm borrowing if you want. I wouldn't mind some help carrying it.

Never mind. I probably shouldn't be lending out things that aren't mine. And anyway, we keep our sad on the down-low here in Utah. I think it's a Mormon thing.

Or is it?

I sometimes worry that Mormons are trying to corner the market on happiness, and maybe that's why Utah is the most depressed state (not to mention the most stressed state). Think about it logically; not only is it capitalistic, it's also depressing (and stressful) to be as happy as a clam all the time (even if you think you're shaping pearls).

Dang oxymormons.

Take me, for instance. I'm a Mormon. Oh yes I am. and if you want to study a Mormon I'm a living specimen. (Not like a bug-pinned-wriggling-to-the-wall specimen, but a religious specimen.)

Feel free to study me. To do as I'm doing. Then follow, follow me.

As a child I learned that no one likes a frowny face. So I changed it to a smile. I quickly turned it upside down, then smiled all the while.

But then I started getting cavities.

Not from smiling, from watching other people smile. Which is the reason I started blogging. My teeth were practically falling out of my mouth from hearing about everyone's wonderful husbands and wonderful lives and wonderful children, and I realized someone needed to step up and help fight the tooth decay.

(You're welcome. And don't forget to floss.)

It was easy to fight tooth decay when I lived in Hawaii because everyone's happy was way too loud, but then so was their sad, and their mad and their bad. I once witnessed a man beat his grandson up at ward camp for smoking pakalolo and laying on top of his girlfriend in the bushes.

During testimony meetings it wasn't uncommon to hear people get up and say they wished they could leave their spouses, or stop screaming at their children. Of course no one ever did leave their spouses or stop screaming at their children.

They were just sayin'.

I've never heard anyone in Happy Valley say they wish they could leave their spouses or stop screaming at their children, but then they do stop screaming at their children, and oh my, do they ever leave their spouses! Do. They. Ever. Seen it with my very own eyes.

Also seen way too many people here leave their lives, or try to leave their lives--as in shuffle off this mortal coil of their own volition--although I've never heard them say they wanted to.

But then maybe I wasn't listening because my happy was too loud.

Exuding a hormone

Warning: NOT the best choice of words to use in front of your teenagers, even if you are merely trying to find an explanation as to why your dog might be in love with your 15-year-old son.

"Maybe you are exuding a hormone," I said.

Try saying that three times fast: excuding a hormone, excuding a hormone, exuding a hormone . . .

"STOP saying EXUDING a HORMONE!" My fifteen-year-old finally shouted from his position atop the table.

Not a great photo since I was understandably LMFAO (laughing my friggin' arse off) at the time I snapped it.

Lulu is in heat, btw.

Later, after we put Lulu outside and stopped laughing and finished homework and put groceries away, we all took a deep breath and settled into a comfortable silence on the couch.

"What does excuding a Hormone mean?" asked my thirteen-year-old.

P.S. I found some photographic evidence of Martha's magic earrings after the state championship celebration.


MAHALO Martha! Too bad your name wasn't in the paper for your contribution to the big win.

Oh the things you will see . . . while I watch t.v.

I was just about to pull out my Braggeddy Anne doll and tell you something about my 15-year-old son.

Something I'm really, really, really proud of . . .

Something I could Like about him on Facebook, and then Unlike again if he got embarrassed . . .

He's been doing his own laundry.

By his very own self.

Been doing it for a month now so I can have more time to sit around and watch t.v.

He's got the washing and drying part down, but he hasn't quite gotten the hang of folding yet, which means when you walk into his bedroom you get the distinct impression his dresser has just come down with a severe case of the stomach flu.

I was going to tell you all about this, but then my ex-door neighbor, Martha (remember her?) politely demanded that I talk about basketball instead. (Why does basketball always trump domestic accord? That's what I want to know.)

But when Martha wants me to talk about basketball, I talk about basketball, especially after she sent me a pair of magic earrings to wear to the state tournament last week.

Now if only I had something interesting to say about basketball . . .

Unless, of course you want to hear about the state tournament last week?

YAWN

I guess you could say it was just like every other week that we attend four basketball games in Salt Lake.

Except the price of admission was a little higher. The stakes were higher too. Oh, and the stress and adrenalin levels were through the roof!

Plus I shushed my MIL three times in the car on the way to the semi-finals for interrupting me while I was trying to yell at her son. I usually don't do that.

And my 13-year-old kept telling me I was weird. He usually doesn't do that.

Other than that it was just like every other week. Up until the championship game, when my 15-year-old son had to step in and play out of position for most of the first half because some of the starters were in foul trouble.

Oh Martha, I wish you could've seen it! He made the most gorgeous three pointer in the history of the world. Or as they say in the paper, he stuck a trey. Whatever that means.

Oh, and btw, your magic earrings worked and they won the state championship.

His papa was kinda proud:

And I think his cute "chica" was too. Look:

There was no kiss though because she's waiting until she's 16. How SaWeeeet is that?

My son's friends leaked it to me, and now I am leaking it to you, that someone (powerful) is donating $300 to her if she stays VL till her birthday. I think my son might be dangling the fruit of the tree of knowledge in front of her. For this reason I am taking up a collection with the hope of earning $301 to offer her if she will partake of the fruit before her birthday. If any of you would like to donate to this worthy cause, please leave your credit card number in my comment box.

Mahalo!

Okay, back to Martha. Look Martha, guess who my boy is buds with:

And just for fun, check this out:

Not even embellishing a teensy bit.

Here's one more shot you can buy for $6.99 if you want. (It might make a lovely Christmas gift for a friend or neighbor.)

Just sayin'.

Here's another one, but you don't have to buy it because I already cut it out of the paper.

BTW, if you feel like reading about my boy in the paper, have at it.

YAWN

But, Martha, promise me you won't lose sight of what really matters about the state tourny, and that is the fact that my boy came home after every game and washed his own uniform.

While I sat on the couch and watched t.v.

Things to Unlike about my daughter

Well my daughter went to another school dance--Winter Waltz--and I didn't even blog about it. I didn't even capture photographic evidence of it, that's how neglectful I've become.

I did, however, Like her dance photos on Facebook, which threw her into a complete tizzy.

She immediately called me from work. "WHY did you Like my FACEBOOK PHOTOS?!?" she cried!

"Uh . . . because I liked them," I said.

Apparently I had committed the most humiliating crime of the century.

"You can Like my photos on the inside, but not on the outside!" She declared, before instructing me fiercely to Unlike her photos. ASAP!

"I just want you to be liked, is that so wrong?" I cried into the receiver. But all I heard was dial tone.

And anyway, what's not to like?

Her date is tall, dark and . . .

. . . slightly deranged.

But who isn't? That's what I always say. Live and let live.

And fer reals, my daughter looks like a supermodel, even in mid air. How can I Unlike that?

(I can kinda see why my daughter threw a pie in this kid's face, can't you?)

(Fortunately that made him Unlike her enough to ask her to the dance. You have to know how to be Unliked if you want to get asked to dances? It's the way we Utards roll.)

Speaking of which, I never showed you the photographic evidence from her Preference.

This guy also Unliked like my daughter after she beat him at tennis. (See how quickly she catches on!)

Not sure if can tell, but this dress was so gorgeous it bruised her sternum.

She couldn't lift her arms higher than this. And that face . . . Let's just say she couldn't wipe that expression off her face either--not until I cut her out of this dress at midnight so she could turn back into a pumpkin.

Good thing her date wasn't funny or she may have cracked a rib.

But I digress. I actually came here to say that my daughter has a point--some things are better Liked inside, than outside. Public disclosures and displays of pride should be kept to a minimum.

Lesson learned.

I would now like to publicly Unlike everything I privately Like about my daughter--the fact that she got accepted to both BYU and BYU-H, for instance. And the fact that she's a floral designer extraordinaire, who has already worked and saved $3,000 of her own money for college. And the fact that she's a straight-A student and a medical assistant in training, who passed three AP exams with her eyes closed and her hands tied behind her back.

The only thing I don't like about my daughter is that she doesn't have a tattoo.

And that she's planning on moving out to go to college and become an independent woman.

I might pretend to Like these things about her publicly, but don't believe everything you see on Facebook.