Speaking of Jesus . . .

Remember in the 70's and 80's when it was super popular to ask, "What would Jesus do?"


Well, while everyone was trying to figure out what Jesus would do, I was pondering the deeper mysteries about Jesus, like what he would eat. And what I would feed him if he was as hungry as me.


Mostly I would ponder these questions during trips to Mt. Carmel while sitting around the grave sites of my dead relatives, listening to my living relatives cry and testify of the truthfulness of the plan of salvation. Not that I had anything against the plan, but just once I would have liked to hear them testify of the truthfulness of roast beef and gravy. Or mashed potatoes and gravy. Or corn on the cob and gravy.


But why feed the bellies of the living when you could be mourning the souls of the dead? That's what they always say.


That's behind me now and I haven't thought about what Jesus would eat in a long, long time.


Until a few days ago. When I invited some of our old friends from Hawaii over for dinner--namely my son's best friend, and my children's third grade teacher, and their families, and of course, Martha's boy.


It felt like Jesus was actually coming to dinner, that's how excited I got. I wanted to prepare a feast for the multitudes. On these plates.

Which I spent $12 on because when I saw them at Costco I thought, YES! No. YES! No. What would Jesus do?

YES!


(Father forgive me!)


I was going to keep the whole dinner party simple, but with plates like these, I had to buy food to match, right? So I spent the entire day shopping and chopping. I kid not. I nearly put myself into a coma, that's how much energy I expended. Instead I put my oven into a coma, so the baked beans were still a little crunchy by the time our guests arrived. Oh, and I forgot to hit the ON button on my rice cooker, so the rice was a little crunchy too. And I forgot to stir the lemonade. And salt the pasta salad.


But the hot dogs and Yoshida chicken were deeeeevine. (Thank you honey bunches of oats!) And the Nilla Wafer salad was deeeeelish!


Besides the menu malfuntions, the night went off without a hitch.

Luckily I had enough energy and foresight left over from the meal preparations to go through and mess up my house a little bit before my Hawaii peeps arrived--just enough so they wouldn't notice how close I have become to being translated now that I live in Utah.

There's a moral here. There's a definite moral here. If there's one thing I've learned about myself since I moved to Utah it's that I love making new friends, and I love seeing old friends, but mostly I love seeing my friends shoes . . .

On my welcome mat.


Peeps, your shoes are always welcome here! You know that, right?

And now for the photographic evidence. Drumroll, please:


This is my son's best friend, Kameron . . .


and my children's third grade teacher, Mrs. Ah Sue . . .


and their families . . .

mingled with my family.

Amen!

Jesus take the wheel

Everything can change in a New York minute. That's what Don Henley always says. And boy is he right.

Johnny Carson defines a New York minute as the interval between a Manhattan traffic light turning green and the guy behind you honking his horn.

In other words, an instant.

A split second.

A lickety split second.

A fraction of a hair of a lickety split second.

If I were an Olympic silver medalist in swimming I would describe it as a fingernail.

One stinkin' fingernail! That's all it would take to go from being a Boho Momo shabby chic soccer mom and purposeful giver of life to becoming an accidental taker of life.

Did you just feel shivers run down your spine?

Me too!

Thankfully, it's my oldest son's birthday today so the Universe gave me a pass on tragedy, graciously preventing me from accidentally taking a life on my 15th anniversary of purposefully giving a life.

THANK YOU, UNIVERSE!

But now I am sitting in the dark, sucking my thumb and rocking back and forth.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

Replaying over and over in my head what could. have. been. if I had been going a split second faster or a split second slower on my way down Center Street in Provo, to drop my kids and their friends off at Seven Peaks.

A car was parked on the side of the street. A mom was balancing a piece of luggage on the trunk, trying to keep it from falling. She had opened the back seat car door towards the road and small toddler jumped from the car and suddenly raced towards oncoming traffic--namely me, since I was first in line.

Everyone else in the car saw the little girl rushing towards us, causing a collective inhalation that could have sucked the air out of George W. Bush.

But I didn't see her.

Thank goodness I didn't see her.

If I had seen her I would have slammed on my brakes and run right over her.

If I had been driving a fraction of a second slower I would have plowed right into her. If I had been driving a fraction of a second faster she would have plowed right into me.

If she had been a few feet taller, my side view mirror would have given her a nasty concussion.

That's. how. close. we. came.

Shudder shudder shudder!

But because I didn't see her I continued onward at the exact, perfect, precise speed to breeze past her by a fraction of a hair. And she continued onward at the exact perfect precise speed to breeze past me by a fraction of a hair.

They say timing is everything, and they've never been more right. Just as I passed in front of the little girl, she passed behind me, nearly simultaneously, as if we had been practicing the timing all of our life.

And then her mother snatched her up out of the road and that was that.

How did I not see her?

Did I already say THANK YOU UNIVERSE!!!!!? For letting me stay the same ole Boho Momo I was yesterday. At least for today. Almost makes me want to be best Boho Momo I can possibly be. At least for today.

Fer reals, I owe you one, Universe, and I pinky promise to pay you back in full. Plus interest.

Plus a piece of birthday cake.

LY everyone!

People

Last night I awoke to the sound of merriment. I glanced at the clock. It was after 11 p.m. and my daughter and four of her old friends from Hawaii were in the living room capital LOL-ing.

It's weird how some sounds can be so familiar, you know. So vaguely familiar that over time you forget you haven't heard them in a while.

By familiar I mean, familiar--like straight, pure laughter that only people who went to the same elementary school can share. People who understand what's it's like to dance May Day together on the PCC stage and the Christmas program at the Cannon Center. People who know what it's like to run without shoes and to study without textbooks. Who understand the causes and effects of No Child Left Behind and SFA and History Day and PAL basketball and cockroaches and head lice and SPAM and humidity and racial tension and Principal Voorhies.

People who were all lulled to sleep each night by the same ocean, over and over and over again until it became part of the rhythm of their life.

What a treat to be reminded, by the simple sound of laughter, that you have people. People that you once shared a culture and history with!

One of those people was our next door neighbor for 10 years. I know this kid like the back of my hand. I heard every word he ever said. And every word that his mom ever yelled at him. That's how close we were.

Yes, it's Martha's boy!

Yet guess what! I don't really know him at all. I didn't know he could dunk the basketball, or that he likes fish, or that he can do a double French twisted love knot on the tramp

Or that he can spin a ball on one finger while doing the Laie Boyz shaka.

(Okay, these pictures don't show the full extent of his talent, so use your imagination.)

For the record, he isn't really this short. And my boy isn't really this serious.

But yes, my girl really is this beautiful.

Martha, I've got your boy'z back now! Backatcha for all the times you had my kid'z backs.

P.S. Oh and Martha, you'll be proud to know that your boy wasn't able to conquer the Macey's famous Kong Kone.

Unfortunately all of my children were up to the task, with one of them downing it in 10 minutes.

Not something I would ever admit publicly.

Btw, though I wish I could say this is one of my children in shock and awe, it's just a photo I stole off the internet.

SO SUE ME!

Never say never

Just returned from Youth Conference in Manti where I learned a few surprising truths:

• I can only take so much Michael Buble' while driving through Southern Utah. And yet, I prefer him to The Beatles. Weird, I know, but I think the Beatles must have been smokin' something when they wrote all those songs about strawberries.
  

• Pillows and bath towels are the spice of life. Unless you forget to bring them to Youth Conference. In which case duffel bags and clean, dry undershirts are a nice substitute spice of life.

• The Manti Pageant has one (or two) too many pioneer scenes. Just sayin'

• Creeper is the new stalker when it comes to word of choice among modern American teenagers in Utah (MATU).

• My daughter is from Venus and I am from Mars.

• My daughter rolls her eyes at Martians. Even the ones who suffer extreme agony for 18 hours in order to hatch her.

• Martians are people too.

• MATU boys dig Justin Bieber as much as girls. Only they call him JB when they bust a move to his pimped out songs. (Not paraphrasing here.)

• JB was right. You should never say never. You don't know when you might run into a kid from your old hood in Hawaii at Youth Conference, who may or may not have participated in a game of kissing tag with your daughter when she was 7 years old, and who was perpetually and consistently a head shorter than she.
  

But look who's towering over her now!




SaaaWeeeeet!

p.s. Here's a riddle for you: What's the difference between a Martian and a Venusian? A Martian would never roll her eyes at her mother for publicly mentioning a game of early childhood kissing tag.

p.s. Speaking of kissing tag, I'm still waiting for my Adrien Brody kiss.

xo xoxo xo xoxo

I've been thinking a lot about kissing lately. As I sometimes do. Periodically. Just to bug my hub.

Joshing! I never do anything to bug my hub.



But seriously, I'm trying to write a kissing scene--ewwwww--for a love story--ewwww--and it's a lot harder than I thought it would be! Especially since I've never written anything romantic before. Shocking, I know! See, romance makes me itchy. And kissing is just so . . . superflous and . . . extraneous and . . . impertinent and . . . yucky. (I bet I'm bugging my hub now. (mwuahaha!))



Oh, who am I kidding? Truth is, I got my black belt in kissing when I was in high school. True story. Just ask my hub. (So much for trying to set a good example for all the young'ns round here.)

But now that I'm older, and wiser, and trying to write my first kissing scene, I'm leaning towards the philosophical more than the romantical. There's nothing better than a kiss that makes you think, right? A kiss that probes your intellectual capacities? Maybe something along the lines of when F. Scott Fitzgerald finally let Gatsby kiss Daisy in The Great Gatsby:


He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God. So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the tuning-fork that had been struck upon a star. Then he kissed her. At his lips' touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the incarnation was complete.


Or maybe I'll just stop thinking so much and model my first kissing scene after my favorite kiss of all time.

Any guesses what that kiss would be?

If you say The Princess Bride




or Breakfast at Tiffany's

or Titantic

or Spiderman

or Twilight

or Gone with the Wind




or the time when Elvis kissed his mother




you'd be wrong, because all of those kisses were staged.


My favorite kiss of all time is a the real deal--a moment of straight, pure, spontaneous combustion.

It's the moment Adrien Brody won Best Actor for his role in The Pianist.

You MUST see it for yourself.







Next time any of you out there plan to kiss me, could you please, please, pretty please do it Adrien Brody style. (hint hint hub-a-dub-dub.)

(p.s. If my hub comes home today, wraps his arms around me twice and palms my face, I'll know his little blog? what blog? yawwwwwn, I don't read your blog, ho-hum, Zzzzzzzzzzzz act is a farce. )

Fingers crossed.

xo

Raise your hand if you want to poke Bentley's eyeballs out!

Okay, I'm just going to say it. I'm addicted to The Bachelorette! AAAAAAAHHH! I pinky promise I've never watched any of the other seasons. I've thumbed my nose at all of them like a good little hoity toity snobbity snob snob!

But now I'm hooked, lined, and sinkered because Ashley is so dang dumb!!!!

Bentley??? Are you serious?????

COME ON, Ashley!! Don't be a ding dong!

Avon's calling, Ashley! That's alls I'm sayin'.

But Bentley's not the only one playing poor Ashley. Why don't the producers just show her all the footage of Bentley saying that he's just not that into her? That he can't wait to make her cry. And that he hopes his hair looks okay while he's bringing her to tears.

SHOW HER THE FOOTAGE!!!!

Grrrrrrrrrrrr . . .

It's the same feeling I get when I'm watching those Feed The Children in Africa commercials.

"Don't just stand there filming all the starving children!" I shake my fists at the t.v. "Give them some freakin' food!"

Am I right, or am I right?

Throw a dog a bone! That's what I always say! Especially if that dog is in love with the biggest meanie bo beanie in the entire state of Utah! Besides that kid who barked at me in 7th grade.

See this is why I NEVER watch The Bachelorette.

P.S. I'm rooting for Ben F., how 'bout you? Huh? Huh? Huh?

Camp ROCKS!

My ex-door neighbor Martha guessed that I found 45 pens in the catch-all between the two front seats of my car. She lived next door to me for 10 years so who would know me better personally, right? I mean, Martha really KNOWS me. Personally.

Ann Allred, AKA The Mom, guessed that I found 47 pens. She just happens to be married to an English professor at BYU-Hawaii whose office was right next door to mine for years, so who would know me better professionally, right?

Well, they were both wrong. Impressively wrong. But just barely. I found 46 pens in the catch-all between the two front seats of my car.

46 pens!?!?

This can only mean one of two things--either I'm 46 times mightier than the sword, or I'm certifiably insane.

Before I get hauled away in a straight jacket, I want to tell you about girls camp, okay.

But not today. Today I just really need a long winter's nap. And I do mean winter's nap, being as I suffered through freezy cold temps (literally) last night in Lava Hot Springs. And I do mean SUFFERED. Can't tell you how many times that "S" word shivered through my head between 3:45 and 5:30 a.m.

Remember last summer when I said I wanted to be a pioneer, so. frickin. bad?

Can I take that back?

Unless of course pioneers got to stay in KOA Kampgrounds with bathrooms that make you feel like you're walking into a spa.

If any of you have been to Lava Hot Springs you know what I'm talking about.

GIRLS CAMP ROCKS!!!!

Is the pen really mightier than the sword?

I sure hope so, because I just cleaned out my car, and you would not believe how many pens I found in the catch-all between the front seats. No really, you would NOT believe it.

Take a guess, I dare you.

I double dog dare you!

If you guess correctly, I'll send you a free pen.

Hows about a free pen to every person who guesses correctly. One that I've used to write important things, like checks, and to-do lists, and anonymous letters to the proper authorities.

These pens may be worth money someday. A LOT of money! Because there are A LOT of pens.

I cleaned out my hubs car too and he only had four pens in his catch-all. FOUR stinkin' pens! HA! It's official. I'm mightier than my hub.

But how much mightier is for me to know and you to find out.

I'll give you three days to find out, (since I'll be at girls camp anyway) but I expect a answer when I get back.

TTFN! LY, everyone!

Man cannot repent by bread alone . . .

Just when you think you know it all . . . bam, you don't.

One thing I didn't know that I didn't know is that in our ward the Young Men take turns bringing bread for the sacrament each week.

I also didn't know that today was my son's turn to bring the bread for the sacrament.

Until moments before the sacrament began.

Imagine my chagrin.

Chagrin actually feels a lot like a panic attack when all you have is hot dog buns in your bread box.

I didn't even have enough time to break the sabbath in order to secure a loaf of sacrament bread. In other words, buying it and stealing it were out of the question. I had to stoop to begging and borrowing. With moments to spare, I put in an emergency 911 call to my next door neighbor. Her bread was frozen.

"But I have a lot of hot dog buns!" she offered.

Is it bad to repent of all of your sins with hot dog buns?

Just curious?

Mr. Hustle, my bustle!!!!

What if I told you that basketball camp is over? And then I showed you what a Mr. Hustle of the WHOLE entire week award looks like?

Would you get excited and say "SEE, Life is fair after all, toldya so! Toldya toldya toldya so! Things always have a way of working out happily ever after in the end."

"YEAH, if you live at Disneyland!!!!" That's what I would say.

That gol dern, cotton pickin' award went to my oldest son. Baby A's big brother. Baby A came home empty handed at the end of the week. AGAIN! Not a single accolade to his name.

My hub says it's good for him. To feel hurt. And angry. And overlooked. Stokes the fire, and all that crapola, but my daughter wouldn't have it. She went right out and bought a ginormous Gatorade and made Baby A his very own Mr. Hustle award.

Because that's what we girls do, ain't it? We comfort the tired, the poor, the huddled masses yearning to breathe free . . . free at last . . . of the oppression . . . of . . . of . . . of . . . going unnoticed at . . . basketball camp . . .

. . . I guess there are worse things he could be free of, huh? . . . gulp.

Never mind.

Carry on.

I hope Jackie Robinson isn't reading this from heaven.

Imagining (For Robin)

NO, Baby A did NOT get the Mr. Hustle Award today! AGAIN!

Hmmph!

Grrrrrrrrr!

Arrrrrrgh!!!

Did I already say GRRRRRRRRR!?

But being the nurturer that I am, I consoled him with words of kindness and comfort, telling him that he has other gifts and talents besides hustling his bustle.

"For instance," I said, "not everyone can pull off the backwards t-shirt under their dance festival t-shirt look."

"But YOU can!" I told him.

"So there!"

"Wait! What?" he said. A little horrified. "My t-shirt was on backwards?"

Oops. I thought he did that on purpose.

Okay, so OMGOSH!!!!!! Who saw America's Got Talent last night? HOLY COW!!! Did you see the dance troupe from Denver called The Silhouettes do the song Imagining? It was SO fresh and beee-U-tiful and A. MAZE. ING and inspiring. I've watched it at least a dozen times since. You HAVE to see it. You just HAVE to!

Watch it here. Hurry. Click and watch it. NOW!

I said NOW!!!!

What are you waiting for anyhow? Look to it, peeps!

Now go watch it again. This time for Robin.

And then can you come back in here for a group hug. Robin really needs one. She is one of three dear blog friends I've met who have had a foster child taken back. Or should I say, ripped out their arms kicking and screaming. But for Robin, this is happening tomorrow. (Or today if you're reading this tomorrow.) (Which would be yesterday for me.)

Did I not just say that life is unfair! Even when you share!

Motherless children and childless mothers just make me want to poke my eyes out! And The Man's eyes too. (Not The Big Man, though. I would never want to poke his eyes out.)

Can you all joint me in my comment box for a huge group ({hug}) for Robin. Pretty please!

LY Robin.

C'est la vie

It's time for one of my little life lessons, brought to you straight from the dummy's mouth.

This particular lesson stars Baby A and Baby B, because that's what you call twins when you're growing 'em from scratch.

So baby A was born with the eye of a tiger and the heart of a lion. It's a regular jungle in there, you know.

Baby B . . . he's more cruiser than bruiser. His heart is pieced together with down pillows and Beanie Babies.

Baby A and Baby B were taught in their youth to share everything.

And I do mean everything.

But they've had to learn that life's not fair. Even when you share. In fact, sometimes life is just plain messy.

Even when you're a cutie patootie.

Okay, ready for the lesson?

This week Baby A and Baby B get to go to basketball camp. Baby A has one desire--to win the MR. HUSTLE AWARD.

He gets up early every day to warm up, stretch, and shoot around before camp. He repeats his routine again every evening.

Baby B doesn't. He just wants to get through camp so he can come home and eat cereal.

Every day Baby A comes home from basketball camp with empty hands and a frowny face, shaking his head and gritting his teeth,"ARGH!" he says, "I didn't win Mr. Hustle. As Gad as my witness, tomorrow I WILL win Mr. Hustle!!!!!!!!"

But he doesn't.

On the other hand, everyday Baby B comes home from basketball camp and pours himself a bowl of cereal.

"Did you win Mr. Hustle?" I ask.

"Yep" he shrugs.

Now ain't that just like life!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?

(Two more days left of camp. Will someone please petition the Universe on Baby A's behalf?)

Today is next door neighbor day!

Today I want to give a shout out to my next door neighbor(s). In both Hawaii AND Utah.

You all remember Martha, right? Martha, Martha, Martha!? The one who was always borrowing my hub? And pushing people around to get ahead?

Those of you who have been reading me since forevers know that Martha will always be my next door neighbor at heart, even though she is technically, in real life, now just my ex-door neighbor. (sniff).

Well today is Martha's birthday! GROUP HUG for Martha! LY Martha!!!!

Luckily my new next door neighbors are almost as cool as Martha. No, they don't make me pasta salad, or organize my children's sports calendars, or slam a tennis ball through my chest if I start kicking their trash on the court. But they do have one thing going for them. They're pirates. Every last one of them, including their dog, Pearl. Alls except for the man of the house, Adam, whom I call Grizzly Adam because he can grow a beard from here to Vermont.

However, for the record, his face is the only grizzly part of him. His soul is as smooth as a baby's booty. And his eyes could light the world on fire.

At least that's what Lenny Kravitz would say if he saw him.

The minute I laid eyes on Grizzly Adam I knew we were going to be happy in our new neighborhood, and not just because his kids say ARRRR! and Ahoy Matey! and Yer a scurvy bilge rat, ya pompous gasbag! He just reminded me of someone who would live in Hawaii.

Don't get me wrong, there are other cool cats here in my Utah hood--like the grinning lady who walks up and down the street in her pj's, and the grumpy old man who gives out pine nuts and swear words for Christmas, and the widow who bleaches her driveway with soft scrub--but Grizzly Adam is by far my favorite atypical Utard in a long beard. He's got soul, braddah.

Which means, he loves music.

Especially music with a meaningful message--like FiReWoRk or like Waka Waka or like Boom Boom Pow.

Every once in a while he slips me a few musical suggestions in the foyer at church. And he may or may not suggest that I pass his suggestions along to you all, my readers, who laugh and cry with me, because life is so stinkin' funny. In such a stinkin' hard-ish way.

His most recent suggestion is called Blessings by Laura Story, which as a title seems is so appropriate, being that it's Martha's b-day and all.

The lyrics however are more appropriate to all the emotional truth we've been batting around over the past few months, so if you've ever felt any pain or loss or grief or even any mild displeasure, go ahead and click on the link above. Or you can click on this link right here to watch the loverly video. From Grizzly Adam to you!

Group hug for Grizzly Adam and his pack of pirates! Happy Next Door Neighbor Day!

(Miss you, Martha!)

This post is for you, Sandi. (So you don't have to think so hard.)

Sandi says she's getting exhausted by how much thinking she has to do on this blog, so today I'm going to tell a joke: 

How do you know when it's FINALLY summer?

When you start mowing your boy's hair. 

Ba dum bum

Get it? Mow your boy's hair? 

That's the punch line.  But I can provide photographic evidence if you need a visual punch line too. 

Now do you get it? 

I didn't mow this son's hair. He let his friends mow it for him.

Which reminds me of an ancient Chinese proverb that goes a little somethin' somethin' like this: 

Friends don't let friends mow drunk. 

Words to live by. 

 

P.S. My daughter didn't get her hair mowed, but she did get a raise--WOOHOO! And an addiction. Family History. 

Family History? Seriously? Can't she get a normal teenage addiction? Like tattoos? Or body piercing? Why does she have to rebel by sitting at the computer finding names of ancient family members like Greenwood and Delilah Sherry from Kentucky, who need to be baptized. 

I mean, she's not hurting anyone per say. Or is she? It made me wonder when she told me she found a certain Mrs. Williams who needs to be sealed to her husband, John. 

"But John already has five other wives named Mrs. Williams," I told my daughter. "Maybe he won't miss her." 

Fer reals! What if Mrs. Williams doesn't want to be just another Mrs. Williams forever and ever? What if she's been saying nani nani boo boo to John and all the other Williams wives for the past 260 years because she wasn't duct taped to them for eternity? 

And then my daughter up and gets a cupid complex!

  

(Sandi, this post hurt your head, didn't it?)