Unsolved Mysteries (Sknnnnnnnx!)

Would you like to know which google search words hit my blog the most? 

How do you spell a snore?  

There are hundreds of people out there who want to know how to spell a stinkin' snore and they google it everyday.  

Whodathought?

Wikipedia attempts to answer the question by plagiarizing Dagwood Bumstead.  

When he snores it sounds like this:

 "Sknnnnnx!" (Don't forget the exclamation point - it's an important part!) If it's a really loooooong snore, simply add more n's.

Is it just me, or is anyone else not fully satisfied with this spelling? I mean, when you read my title, did you think of an old man snoring or did you think of a skinny mynx? 

Or maybe you thought I was going to jinx your skin?

I personally think this will forever remain one of life's unsolved mysteries, but I'm going to pose the question again by sharing my famous how-do-you-spell-a-snore post from way back in the day before I was discovered.   

.............................................................................................................

first published on August 22, 2008: 

HOW DO YOU SPELL A SNORE?

If a peaceful dozing sleep is spelled Zzzzzzz, then how do you spell a snore?

I only ask because I've been laying in bed, wide-eyed, for the past 30 minutes trying to figure it out and I got nothin'. I know how it sounds, and I now know how it feels. Or should I say I now know you don't just hear a snore, you feeeeeeel it too. 

It's hard to believe after 20 years of marriage I'm just now realizing this. Other people who have stayed with us, or by us, or near us have mentioned the volume of my husband's snoring, but I've always shrugged it off with a "hmmm, I never noticed." 

I'm gifted. When I drop off to sleep you could run a mac truck over my face and I wouldn't stir.

But tonight I noticed!

I realize there are many of you out there right now saying, "I told you so!" and to you I concede that I understand now. I understand that snoring is much more than a sound--it's an experience. It's a ride that you can't get off once it begins. And you feeeeeel it begin. First in your nose as a tingle that builds into a steady vibration up through your nasal passages before it spreads across your cheeks and crescendos in your brain, making it twitch. 

I kid you not, my brain literally twitched. It was tweaking out. It could have been the poster child for This is Your Brain on Drugs!

But how do you spell that?

I'm in a Jack Johnson State of Mind.

If you've seen this photo once, you've seen it a thousand times.


But you haven't seen this photo:


I found it yesterday while looking for pics of my New Zealand sea shells. It's my lucky duck daughter standing with Jack Johnson when he came to teach her third grade class how to reduce, reuse and recycle.

She has a talent for running into famous people.

She once got in an elevator in San Antonio with Kobe Bryant.

And Pau Gasol.

It was just the three of them, (but she didn't have a freakin' pen). 

BTW, I blame that encounter with Pau for her flamingo-esque basketball shot.


On another occasion she hopped in a jacuzzi with Sugar Ray.

He told her he liked her freckles. She told him she liked his tattoos. The rest is history.


And then there's Jack . . .



Dontcha think there's something irresistible about a man who knows Curious George personally?

And who got to sing with the Black Eyed Peas?

ME TOO!

I myself go a little paparazzi whenever he's around--took 89 photos of him on the day he showed my daughter that you can recycle and be sexy at the same time.

Are you ready for the exclusive, never-before-seen photographic evidence? K then, turn up your volume, cuz this is a package post.

(And if anyone asks, you saw it here first!)

Miss you, Jack Johnson!

Our Aloha Tree

Yesterday I pulled a Scarlet O'Hara and proclaimed that I couldn't think about my aloha Christmas tree today and that I would think about it tomorrow.

Well, today is tomorrow . . . so I guess I should make good on my word and think about it. 

But, GOSH DARNIT, thinking about it makes me sweat like a Kalua pig. Especially around the eyeball area. Nevertheless, I will tell you about my aloha tree. Today.

sniff

This past Christmas was our very first one away from our island home so we wanted our tree to be special, (in that sweet-spirit, nice-personality sorta way).

I was pretty much in LUB with Christmas in Hawaii. It was the most delightful time of year, jam-packed with research papers and grading deadlines, not to mention my annual elementary school Christmas program slide shows assignment. 

For us, Christmas meant rain and flooding and soccer finals and Jack Johnson and Tennis tournaments and History Day competitions. 

It was that special time of year when I got to sabotage the neighborhood cookie exchange and passively resist my x-door neighbor, Martha's peer pressure to put up the Christmas lights before the neighborhood potluck. 

And of course there was always the annual baptism by soft scrub ritual on my house to prepare for 45 days of in-laws.

It honestly was the most wonderful time of the year so we knew we needed to put up a meaningful tree to pay homage--a tree with purpose. I usually don't care about meaning or purpose but when you live with one foot here and one foot there, (and the pacific ocean in between), the most seemingly insignificant things--like tiny grains of leftover sand on your folding soccer chairs--are like chicken soup for the soul.

Moving makes you weird that way because you had this life--this full, rich, bee-U-tiful life. And you live this life over and over, again and again, day in and out and in and out, year after year after year after year. Then one day you up and move on and start another full, rich, bee-U-tiful life and pretty soon you begin to suspect that your first life may have been just a full, rich, bee-U-tiful dream.

That makes you all kinds of crazy.

You get me?

I mean, to just stand there and watch your children's childhood slip away like water through a net . . . 

and there ain't nothin' you can do about it . . .

 except log onto Facebook and chat with their best friends . . . 

it's beyond all descriptive adverbs and adjectives.

Needless to say, our aloha tree was the proof we needed to remind us that we really did exist on an island far, far away, not so long, long ago.

We began by tying all of our aloha oe' leis together and wrapping them around the tree like a great big garland hug.

These leis were given to us with much love and aloha on our last Sunday in Hawaii by our dear, dear ward members and friends.

Next we filled glass balls with sand from our aquarium--Pupukea beach sand, which was our therapy beach because the sand magically sucks all he tension out of your body through your feet.

Then we hung all the shells I collected over the years from Melekahana beach during our early morning walks. 

Plus some of the incredible shells I found on a beach in New Zealand between Rotorua and Aukland while traveling with the History Dept. at BYU-H.

It was all very sweet and sentimental. But then one morning, we heard a crash.

As if to say, "this life is over, deal with it!" our tree came tumbling down and all of our memories were smashed and scattered across the floor.

sniff 

Wait! Don't feel sorry for me yet, peeps.  It didn't happen just once.  It happened TWICE! 

I stomped my feet and shook my fists at the tree-tipping gods, but then I went to work putting our memories back together and restoring them to their proper place on our aloha tree. 

TWICE!

(And, for the record, I would have done it again and again because those memories are MINE and no one, not even those Murphy lawyers or those gravity lawyers can take them from me!)

But that was yesterday . . . 

And I can't think that today. 

You can lead a horse to Theraflu, but you cannot make him drink.

 (Or make her drink, as is the case with my horse.) 

(Or, if I'm being completely precise, as is the case with my daughter.)

My daughter hates Theraflu with as much passion as I hate cleaning bathrooms. She won't even let the vile substance enter her holy temple of a body, even if she's coughing like a maniac. 

But no matter, Theraflu only works on that sissy flu bug anyway. If your lungs start flirting with those nasty pneumonia viruses or infectious bronchial bacteria, it's pointless, even hypocritical, to drink Theraflu. And don't bother rubbing Vicks on your feet either (no matter how emphatically I bear my testimony of it's truthfulness). Cough drops, hot baths, humidifiers and inhalers don't have a chance against those bad boys either. And forget about drinking Q-tussin, or herbal tea or saimin soup or home-made banana smoothies laced with orange honey.

Even if you pull out the big guns, Promethazine with Codeine, and threaten to blow your daughter's hacker assailant into the next century, it will do you little good.

(Unless you have a Zpac to back it up.) 

It's just so much better not to let your lungs hang out with the wrong crowd in the first place.

That's what I always say.

I told my daughter, "If your lungs had just remembered who they are and what they stand for none of this ever would have happened!"

That being said, I'm a tad bit melancholy now that her lungs have gone through the repentance process and she's back in school. 

Is it bad that I enjoyed pretending we were the Gilmore girls--just the two of us watching the America's Next Top Model cycle 12 marathon and 27 Dresses and making magic soup and eating mint chocolate chip ice cream by the fire? 

I hope you don't get the wrong idea. It wasn't all fun and games. I did accomplish a few things while my daughter's lungs were receiving redemption. I took down the Christmas tree. 

Which means Christmas is officially over. 

In other words, the long and dreary winter has officially begun. 

In other words, the winter of my discontent starts NOW.

Bring on the discontent and depression, Mr. Universe! 

I double dog dare you!

(Probly shouldn't be tempting fate like that, huh?)

Anyways, I can't believe I never showed you my Hawaiian Christmas tree before I took it down!!! 

But I really can't think about that today.  I'll think about that tomorrow.  

After all, tomorrow is another day . . .

Be careful what you ask for. (And how many times you ask for it!)

I didn't sleep on Friday night because I was super busy texting the universe.

I can't stand texting (ever since I dropped my qwerty keyboard in the toilet at my daughter's soccer game) but I did it anyway because I was so worried about my three sons freezing to death at the Klondike Derby, which is another name for slumber party in the snow for scouts.

I only had one teensy request of the universe: PLEASE KEEP MY BOYS WARM! But I had to keep pushing RESEND because the universe never texted back--probably doesn't have a qwerty keyboard either--I totally get that, but still . . . when snowflakes the size of nickels are dropping like that great slot machine in the sky just hit the jackpot, and your three sons are NOT snug as a bug in a rug under your wing, you get a little trigger happy.

Particularly if your world looks like this:

However, I think I may have inadvertently, kinda sorta . . . how should I say this . . . irritated the universe.

Ticked it off, so to speak.

When my boys arrived home I said, "Didya stay warm? Didya? Didya? Didya?

That's when my 13 year old showed me his hands.


And his legs.




Not only had he stayed warm, he had been cooked. literally! Slow cooked, like a Kalua pig in an underground Imu.

He'd been smoked.

The scouts had done the ole' rock/tinfoil/heater trick--the one where you warm a rock up in the fire, then wrap it in tinfoil, then wrap it again in a towel and VIOLA, it's a home-made heater.

All the other scout's homemade heaters worked like a charm because their mothers refrained from texting the universe over and over and over, but my boy's homemade heater just kept getting hotter and hotter and hotter and hotter.

It burned through the towel, two sleeping bags and the ground cover.

It burned his little buns too, but I'm not at liberty to post photographic evidence of his cherry cheeks, so you'll have to take my word for it.

When we got my boy home he immediately jumped in the tub and started scrubbing.

But his fingers still looked like smoked sausages.

On the upside, he now smells just like a luau.

On the downside, I keep wanting to roll him in sea salt and smother him in poi.

Anyways, there's a lesson here. There's a definite lesson here:

We really need to get the universe a qwerty keyboard.

The sCRAPbook of my soul

But first, an update on "the book" situation?

It's 10:48 p.m. and Percy Jackson just got turned into a guinea pig on page 179, therefore twin #1 is not quite ready to GET TO BED!

Twin #2 is not quite ready to GET TO BED either because on page 228 a monster is trying to eat a boy.

We're on pins and needles around here, peeps!

Especially me, as I'm on the verge of turning into a monster myself and eating a couple of boys if they don't GET TO BED!

That wasn't very convincing, was it?

I should have said GET TO BED! (Without the giddy grin.)

It's just that I've waited 11 years to see my boys crack open a book of their own free will and choice.

Free will and choice is the most bee-U-tiful thing in the history of the world (when people actually choose what YOU want them to choose).

My son is quoting me his favorite line over and over like a stand-up comic:

"Anna Beth slipped. Fortunately, something caught her fall. Unfortunately, it was my face."

Oh, he's cracking himself up.

Are you getting bored with my book talk, yet? 

Let's talk about music then. 

Last Saturday was my mom's 66th birthday--Go, mom--and guess what my sis and I gave her?

Tickets to see Muse in concert.

Is that amusing, or what?

We gave her Muse tickets because sometimes when we call her she's out of breath and we say, "why are you huffing and puffing? Are you blowing that little pig's house down again?" And she says "No, I'm just dancing to Muse."

Even more amusing, right?

My mom doesn't actually know Muse all that well. She's just using their Super Massive Black Hole to get into the Twilight Zone.

Hopefully you get that allusion and that wordplay because I'm not in the mood to explain. Explanations are a pet peeve of mine.

Okay, I'll explain. Listen carefully . . .

If you're on Team Edward (like my mom) and you're a fan of vampire baseball (like my mom) you should be totally getting my allusions (and my mom's illusions) right now.

You follow?

Me neither.

So me and my sis are going to the concert too. As chaperones, of course. We need to be there to make sure my mom isn't dancing circles around all the other 66-year-old groupies at the concert. (And to get photographic evidence, in case she gets pulled up on stage.)

So I just added a few Muse songs to my playlist. And some Joshua Radin too, at Iwa's suggestion. He's got a cooool-cat vibe. 

I'm totally open for more suggestions, peeps--I'm in a playlist state of mind, so bring. it. on.

You wanna know what the Old Boat Guy said about my playlist when he took me out to lunch? He said that the only thing he doesn't like about my blog is my playlist. (I took that to mean he wouldn't be interested in accompanying us girlz to the Muse concert.)

Of course I poked him in the eye because that's blasphemous. 

For the record, if you don't like my playlist, you don't like ME. And if you're not listening to my playlist, you're not listening to ME.

(At least that's what I tell my hub.)

I listen to my playlist every. single. darn. day. It's the soundtrack of my life.  It's my spokesmodel. It underscores my life philosophy and expresses my world view even more precisely than my word verifier. 

It says what I need to say. 

(Plus it's the sCRAPbook of my soul.)

Take that, Old Boat Guy!  Hmmph! 

 

On that note, have a good weekend everyone!!!!!!!!!  

LY

"The book" (and the Frog/Princess Academy)

Things are starting to calm down around here since we have now secured three copies of the 2nd Percy Jackson book, The Sea of Monsters. 

For a while there our household was pretty contentious--there was a lot of blame and shame over the withholding of "the book" and the hiding of "the book," not to mention the seeking and the sneaking of "the book."  Suspicion hung heavy in the air for days on end.  

Is it bad to say that I lubbed it? 

What if I said I LUBBED it, lubbed IT, LUBBED IT!?  

My boys have bickered over many things, but never over a book, so BRING IT ON, boys! 

It almost makes me giddy just thinking that my boys are bickering over books!!! And to think that they are going to bed late and to school late . . . all because of "the book." Last night we couldn't even get them to kneel for family prayer because they weren't quite finished with their page. 

I told them to just keep on a readin'. Reading trumps prayer any ole' day.  As does writing . . . 

OUCH!  

HEY!! Who just zapped me with that bolt of lightening?

That SMARTS!

Okay, so last night was New Beginnings.  If you've ever served in Young Women's you know that New Beginnings can be a headache because it's your job to convince each teenage girl in your ward that the Personal Progress Program is just secret code for "Princess Academy."

But truthfully, New Beginnings ain't half bad when you're serving in the Sponge Bob ward. Guess which episode we filmed last night?  

The one where the Bishop makes up his own acronym during his closing remarks:

Fully 

Rely

On 

Gad

Vertically that spells F.R.O.G.

FROG.  

It stands to reason that the Bishop of the Sponge Bob ward would go out and buy a bazillion little green plastic frogs and give them out to all the young women to help them remember who they are and what they stand for.

Can you make the fairy tale connection?

We've grooming a room full of princesses and the Bishop is handing them their frogs.  

How. Cute. Is. That?  

I lub Disney endings. 

Ribbit! 

Hey, before I sign out, thank you for helping me with Project Dummy yesterdee.  It really is a project and I have a hard time finishing projects, but you guys seriously made me feel like the little engine that could.  

"I think I can.  I think I can." 

The only downside to Project Dummy was that ya'll made me smile, which gave my hub the wrong impression when I crawled into bed. 

Thank goodness I had a New Beginnings headache.  

(wink wink) 

Ribbit!

Help

Whoever said that laughter is the best medicine was oh so right. 

Mostly. 

But laughter has it's limitations. It can't set broken bones or clear up infections or take x-rays or perform amputations.  

If you're feeling down because reality bites, I can make you laugh.  But if your whole country just collapsed and your eight year old daughter has been suffering from an untreated broken femur for a week, I can't help you because there's nothing funny about that. In fact, I can barely stand to think on it because one of my boys broke his femur when he was six and all the jokes in the world couldn't make that severe pain go away.  

He needed medical attention.  And thank goodness, he got it right away.  

But, darnit, there are thousands of wounded Haitians who, after a week, are still waiting to get medical attention for their broken lives. I so wish I could magically ease their suffering, but I regret to say that sometimes air hugs and a bottle of Vicks just don't cut it. 

Thank goodness there are skilled people who are willing to step up and lend a hand. People like my friend's brother, Craig, who served a mission in Haiti 20 years ago and has joined a team of doctors, two of which are former mission companions, to care for the sick and afflicted in Haiti.  

He is writing letters home chronicling his experiences and they are fascinating.  I have posted them over on my Dummies are People Too site.  Click here to read. 

On a lighter note, I have an assignment for you.  A project, if you will--Project Dummy.  In other words, I need a favor.  

I need YOU, my friends, fans and followers, to help me describe the dummy.  In one word.  Or one sentence.  

Imagine if you were giving a Eulogy for the dummy, or reading the back of a book cover or writing a query letter (wink wink).  What would you say?

The only thing I can think of to say about the dummy is, "she's dumb." So my sister, who is brilliant, suggested I ask my loyal readers to do my dirty work for me.

So here I am, on my hands and knees, asking . . .

How would YOU describe ME (when I'm playing dumb)?

Mahalo in advance!

This message brought to you by the universe

The following post contains a secret that WILL change your life. (And make you go hmmmmm?)

I could charge for this post, but that's not the way I roll (unless of course you want to leave your Paypal password in my comment box).

This post, if applied correctly, will give you the secret to the key to the mystery that unlocks the power to INSTANTLY suppress the strongest, most uncontrollable, desire known to man.

The human cough.

Those of you who have been reading me for a while know that I am the keeper of many ancient Chinese secrets. But who knew that my hub had a few of his own Ancient Chinese secrets up his sleeve?

Not I. Until night before last. When my daughter couldn't sleep due to her inability to overcome her desire to cough and cough and cough and cough.

I did my best to suppress her desire with Calgon. When that didn't work, I tried Zicam, and piping hot chicken broth a la saimin noodles, and herbal tea spritzed with fresh California lemons and orange blossom honey. I even resorted to sitting at the foot of her bed and distracting her lungs by talking story about boys until 4 a.m.

Finally, and quite suddenly, my hub intervened by rolling over and calling out, "do we have any Vicks vapor rub?"

I answered in the affirmative.

"Rub it on her chest. And her feet. And then have her put on a pair of socks."

My hub is in the medical profession so I am accustomed to him uttering remedies like cold compresses and hot soaks and let's keep an eye on it, but I have never heard him utter the words Vicks vapor rub and socks in the same sentence. For this reason I was convinced he was either talking in his sleep or his body had been possessed by the ghost of Vicks vapor rub past.

"Make sure she wears socks," he called out again.

"Of course, dear," I called back as my daughter and I exchanged looks.

It wasn't Calgon, but within minutes my daughter had dropped off into a peaceful slumber, unbroken by a single cough until 11 a.m.

I KID NOT, Peeps! It is the craziest revelation a traditional medicinal man has ever received in the middle of the night.

Just in case it was a fluke I tried it the next morning on my hacking son.

It worked again! And then again before bed on the both of them!!!!!!

Ta da!

And then my youngest son crawled into our bed in the middle of the night because he couldn't suppress his desire to cough either. Right in our faces. Over and over and over again.

So I did what any self respecting, annoyed-as-helk supermom would do--I jumped into the nearest phone booth, grabbed a pair of socks and a bottle of Vicks and stopped that hacker dead in it's tracks.

I testify that this is true and that my hub does channel the universe in his sleep.

Ah men!

Virtual Reality Bites!

The #1 thing about selling oranges, besides becoming rich and famous, and meeting interesting people, is that when you're in the check-out line at Target, your boys pull out their own wallets and pay for their own new shoes.

And when they say, "Can I buy some Tic Tacs too?" you throw your hands in the air like you just don't care.

For those of you who keep asking why in the world we are selling oranges, at first we thought it was to teach our kids how to work--they were raised in the shadow of the sand and surf and have never been taught that reality bites--but when we came across some academic research by a BYU professor who discovered that citrus smells make you behave more virtuously, we realized that not only are we teaching our children that reality bites, we are also doing our part to make the world a more virtuous place to live.

Even more recently we have realized that selling oranges promotes staying in school like babysitting promotes birth control. Three birds--one stone. 

It's a no-brainer.

So guess what I bought at Target while my boys were buying their very own shoes with their very own money? 

An ocean waves CD.

It's labeled easy listening, but it's actually hard listening (although it probably didn't help that I pumped up the volume full jam then started running for my life because I thought a Tsunami was coming).

An ocean waves CD is especially hard listening if you just spent the better part of 13 years living a few blocks from temple beach on the pristine North Shore of Oahu, but are now looking through your open blinds at London fog. 

London fog is so much more romantic when you're actually in London, btw.

I actually caught myself quoting Shakespeare: The time is out of joint--oh, cursed spite.

But the space was out of joint too--the waves jolted me back in time, but not in space.

Worst of all, the waves were out of joint. These were NOT North Shore waves. North Shore waves are accompanied by coo-ing doves, rascally trade winds and flirty palm trees.  And the reassuring sound of my x-door neighbor, Martha, yelling at her kids.

(Speaking of which, last week I yelled at my kids and NO JOKE guess what popped into my head? I hope Martha didn't hear that.)

Here's the kicker! These CD waves were accompanied by seagulls.

UHEM! THERE ARE NO SEAGULLS IN HAWAII!

It all goes to show that just virtual reality bites too. I might as well have been stretched out in a tanning bed staring at beachy wall paper. 

When my twins came up for breakfast I asked them if they noticed anything different. 

They shook their heads. Then about 10 minutes later one of them said, "what is that noise?"

"It's ocean waves," I said.

"Oh," he said. "I thought it was traffic."

Hmph. 

Maybe they've been selling oranges for too long.

Everything comes down to poo(h)

This clip was introduced to our boys by one of our best friends, who happens to be one of those a surgical dudes who loves to describe his surgical procedures over lunch.

LY surgical dude, even though you love to gross me out.

Once my boys were hooked, they were hooked, lined and sinkered. My IL's were staying with us at the time and I distinctly remember one long car trip to town (all car trips are long in Hawaii) where my boys sang the song over and over at least 100 times until my MIL's head spun around and exploded.

She really hates the "P" word.

Bless her heart.

So my kids practiced and practiced and then performed the "P" song at our family reunion.

But the real kicker to this story is that my cutie patootie MIL had, for some odd reason, unbeknownst to us, brought a whole bag of old 1950 polyester BYU P.E. uniforms to the family reunion.

I know, random, huh?

In her cutie patootie mind she had enough for the whole famdamily to wear for our family photo.

But we, as a whole famdamily, were quite opposed to the idea of wearing polyester blue P.E. uniforms for a family photo. And we let her know it.

But she did persist mightily. And we did resist mightily.

Finally we said, "we will wear them if you wear them," thinking we had her there. No 75-year-old woman in her right mind would put on a pair of blue polyester P.E. shorts from the 50's in front of her entire family, right?

Wrong. She was not in her right mind. And I have the photographic evidence to prove it:





Thus commenced a family fashion show the likes of which I would not dare post in this private diary.

But I do dare to post the photos of my kids performing their rendition of "Check the Poo(h)" in their BYU blue.







BTW, majority trumped seniority when it came to wearing those dastardly P.E. uniforms for the family photo.





P.S. Happy Birthday to my silly goose mom!

Raise your hand if you want proof that I'm a dummy!

Remember back in the day when Shelle over at blokthoughts hosted that Don't you hate it when contest once a week?

Well here's one, fresh off the boat:

Don't you hate it when you have a blind date at the temple and you're super nervous because it's with the Stake Young Women's President who says she'd like to get to know you spiritually before your ward conference. So you get up early to polish your halo and put on your best divine face--no make-up, no earrings--just freshly dusted 100% pure holiness. Good golly, you look positively religious when you show up for your 9:30 a.m. session.

But don't you hate it when you run into your Drivers Ed teacher on the way into the temple and he is still such a gentlemen after all these years that he lets you go first. So there you are, suddenly feeling like a teenager learning to parallel park, but acting like America's next top spiritual super-model, as you step to the front of the line in slow motion, shaking your tresses as if you're rising from the metaphorical pool of virtue.

You hand the nice temple worker your recommend and he eyeballs it. And then he eyeballs you. And then he scans it. And then he furrows his brows and says, "I'm sorry, miss, but your recommend is expired."

Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh . . . como say what???????

Como say YOUR RECOMMEND IS EXPIRED! he shouts as if you no habla ingles.

That's where the sheepishly awkward exit comes in handy.

At least it wasn't my driver's license, but yea, I just stood up my YW president. Left her at the alter. Of the temple.

I just hope she doesn't find out about my Truth or Dare plans with the Young Men/Young Women. I would hate for her to draw conclusions and make sweeping generalizations that I'm getting my inspirations crossed.




P.S. For those of you who read my recent post about the Old Boat Guy and his gold buick, please click here for photographic evidence of his buick and proof that he's as color-blind as a bat.

Can I get an AMEN here!

Not Kissing (and Telling)

I really wish American Idol hadn't ended with that pants on the ground song. That's the kind of song pre-teen boys take literally. Especially MY pre-teen boys.

That's the kinda song that gets stuck on replay. (Or as Sean Kingston would say, gets stuck on your plate.) (wink wink).

I gotta feeling it's gonna to be an embarrassing family reunion this summer. Almost as embarrassing as when my kids performed Check the Poo for talent night last year. And definitely more embarrassing than when they performed White and Nerdy at the Christmas party this year.

I think maybe we lived in Hawaii too long.

Speaking of white and nerdy, yesterday I was watching the Duggars. Oh my goodness, the Duggars are like a train wreck, aren't they? You just can't look away because it's all so oddly intriguing. You just feel so thankful you're not them, and yet somewhere deep down you wish you were them.

Ya get me?

I watched the episode where Josh Duggar gets engaged, but takes a vow of chastity on his lips and commits not to kiss his bride until his wedding day.

What the what????????????????????

It's sweet (and weird) that they are keeping their lips pure for each other, but they should be worried about their fingers. I have never seen such heated hand holding in my entire life. I almost looked away, but instead I yelled, "Get a room for your phalangies!"

Ironically, last night at Young Women's I was talking story with my Laurels and guess what beans they spilled? They're all upstanding members of the virgin lips club.

Alls except one.

What the what??????????????????????????

No wonder the depression rate is so high in Utah!

Call me Lucy goosey, but I was sealing things with a kiss when I was thirteen. (In a good way, of course.)

To their credit, my Laurels haven't taken a vow of lip chastity, they just haven't had the opportunity because boys these days are so dumb. Either that or they're too busy singing songs about poo or pants on the ground. Those kind of songs can be time consuming.

At least I've got some good ideas for my upcoming Young Women/Young Men combined activies: Truth or Dare. Spin the Bottle. Two Minutes in the Closet.

Maybe the bishop really was inspired to call me to this position.

Mwuaaahahahaha . . .