Thursday, July 28, 2011

Wish you were here!

It's the most wonderful time of the year. That time of the year when we pack up and drive to Island Park, Ideeho for a whole week at the lake. With the In-laws.

All the in-laws.

I'm not saying that tongue-in-cheek either. Even with all my in-laws it's my favorite week of the year. Nothing can bother me at Island Park. Except my in-laws. And even they can't really bother me.

Does that make sense?

I got to drive here with my daughter. Just the two of us. At first we tried to listen to Wuthering Heights, but books on tape always give my daughter a royal headache. Especially books on tape written with an English accent, using all the GRE vocabulary I downloaded onto her iPod whilst I was studying.

During chapter two my daughter started telling me all of her flower shop stories and we got to giggling something fierce. Flower shop customers make the funniest stories. Also Personal Progress stories. Actually any stories told by daughter, in order to avoid listening to Wuthering Heights, are the funniest stories.

Except for my MIL's stories. Her stories are right up there with my daughter's stories. She is one of a kind, I tell ya. A real original. When Gad made her, he broke the mold. There isn't an actress alive who could portray her accurately when they make a movie about my life. I just hope she doesn't kick the bucket before they can cast her in the role.

So while my daughter was telling me all of her stories, I forgot to turn on I-20 towards Rexburg. Actually I didn't even know I was supposed to turn on I-20. I thought you just stayed on I-15 forever. I thought I-15 was like the Iron Rod.

I also thought the sign that said 15 miles to Roberts said 15 miles to Rexburg.

My daughter has eagle eyes, however, so she disagreed vehemently.

"Listen, girlfriend!" I told her, "If I've been on the road to Rexburg once, I've been on it a hundred thousand times! I know the road to Rexburg when I see it."

I wasn't just saying that either, as an adult who likes to exercise power and authority over her children, I went to school in Rexberg for a year. My best friend lived in Shelley. I've been around the block a time or two and I know without a shadow of a doubt there is no town in Ideeho called Roberts.

At yet there is. A town in Ideeho. Called Roberts. 632 people live there. And they are the nicest people you'll ever meet. Especially when you need directions to Rexburg.

But before we got directions, and after we realized we were on the wrong road, we got on The Truman Show for a few minutes. About 15 minutes actually. So I guess you can say we've had our 15 minutes of fame.

See the speed limit on the wrong road is 45 mph. And you know how you always have to go to the bathroom while traveling on the wrong road? Well, the producers of the Truman Show thought it would be funny to cue the slow car with the Fisher Price people in it to turn in front of us for about 10 miles.

They didn't break the speed limit once. NOT ONCE! Fisher Price people don't do things like that. They do what the producers tell them to do. Drive their little Fisher Price car the speed limit, without moving a muscle. Seriously. Even when you're right on their butt, peer pressuring them to pick up the pace so you can pee, Fisher Price people don't fold. They just stare straight ahead. All three of them--the mom, the dad, and little johnny, perfectly centered in the back seat.

By the time we got to Roberts to ask directions to Rexburg we'd already pee'd our pants from LOLing so hard. (Figuratively speaking, of course.)

I bet the audience at home had a good laugh on our account.

When we finally got back on the right road, it was dusk and the sunset was in full bloom and the silhouettes in Ideeho are to die for when the sunset is in full bloom! All the jutting pines and the silos and the amber waves of grain! The only thing busy at dusk in Ideeho are the cows eating the amber waves of grain.

It's such a breath of fresh air, driving through Ideeho. A deep breath of fresh air.

There's a moral here. There's a definite moral here. Sometimes getting lost or delayed ain't such a bad thing. As long as you eventually get to where you're going.

Especially if where you're going is the same place all of your in-laws are going.


And there you have it, peeps, the most exciting part of the most wonderful time of year. Immediately upon arrival at Island Park it turned into a real snooze fest. Literally. We don't do anything here but sleep. And eat. And forget to pick up after ourselves.

Wish you were here!

Wish you were all here.

Saturday, July 23, 2011

Those darn Brits. And that darn James Joyce.

I accidentally, at random, just so happened to catch an episode of The British Office yesterday. That is to say the British version of The Office.

Eeeee-Gad! It's naughty! And I mean that in a nasty sort of way.

And I thought The Benny Hill Show was dirty. When I used to sneak out of bed to watch it as a teen.

I even had to be selective when choosing photographic evidence to post, because sometimes they are even crude in their still shots. "My hub was like, EWWW, you can't post that one! Or that one! Or that one . . ."

But you know what's weird? We Americans totally plagiarized the British Office. Characters, plotlines, conflicts, everything.

Fer reals! We copied all of it!

Except the British Jim (named Tim) is a lot . . . grosser. And the British Pam is a lot more . . . seductive.

And the British Dwight is just plain creepier.

And the British Michael Scott is not even half as heelarious. (And to think, my IL's think the American Michael Scott is stupid!)

Other than that we definitely stole the whole show.

Or maybe we just borrowed it so we could clean it up a bit. Improve upon it, you know. Turn the smut down a notch and the humor up a notch.

We got humor, yes we do, we got humor how' bout you!? Shouted with a hurkie kick in Britain's face.

But fer reals, our Office is WAY funnier than their Office.

That's what she said.

(Okay, that didn't work, but at least it was squeaky clean.)

P.S. So my daughter finished Catcher in the Rye. She said it was fine, but she was hoping something hopeful would happen at the end. (Poor thing doesn't have her finger on the pulse of reality.)

She started Wuthering Heights and is having trouble getting into it so guess what? I went to the library and got the book on tape so we can listen to it all the way up to Island Park today.

(Yes, it's that Island Park time of year. WOOOHOOOOO!)

She also made me check out James Joyce's Ulysses. That's next on her reading list. HA HA ha ha he he heee heee. See what I mean about her grasp on reality? James Joyce!!! Ahhhh, that's a gooood one. She'll think Wuthering Heights is a piece of pie before this week is over. Mark. My. Words.

(Okay, I've never actually read Ulysses, but I've HEARD!)

Thursday, July 21, 2011

Edumacated people.

So yesterday I passed the YW torch, along with the YW mantle, along with all the other junk that goes along with YW, to the new YW Prez.

Then I went to my last YW activity.

Then, as I was walking out the church doors, I suddenly had the most irresistible urge to so something wild and crazy, like clean my laundry room, or write a best-selling novel, or clip my boys fingernails.

Or finishing unpacking from the move.

It was a breathtaking, edge-of-your-seat sensation that I can't even describe. You had to be there. You just had to be there.

Instead I went home and watched Love in the Wild and thought about Holden Caulfield. I'm kinda in love with the kid ever since I read Catcher in the Rye. And now my daughter is reading it and she's kinda in love with the kid too.

(I would like to know if her hoity toity English teacher from Hawaii is in love with the kid also. Mariko, do tell.)

My daughter is a little bit more edumacated than I was at her age.

I mean I was more edumacated in certain areas, like in the art of disrupting Sunday school, and the art of wallpapering my bedroom with Scott Baio, and the art of sucking face. She doesn't know the first thing about any of that stuff. But she's more edumacated when it comes to things like the art of passing the AP calculus test, and the art of getting a 4.0 GPA, and the art of reading classic literature all summer. So far she's hauled through Les Miserables, Jane Eyre and Pride and Prejudice. And now, Catcher in the Rye. Next she's going to read Wuthering Heights.

By raise of hands, who thinks she's going to love it? Who thinks she's going to hate it?

I'm putting money on the hate it side. If she wanted to smack Edward and Bella, she's going to want to Kung Fu Panda kick Healthcliff and Catherine.

Am I right? Or am I right?

My daughter is also more edumacated than me in the art of floral design. But for such a smart girl, she's kinda . . . dumb, if you know what I mean, just sayin', not to be rude.

Sometimes smart people do things a little backwards if you ask me. For instance, last Saturday my daughter did four weddings and a funeral. (I know, right. Her life is like a movie.) And for one of the weddings she makes these centerpieces out of crystal skull heads. And as if that isn't weird enough, she gives the skull heads a mohawk. Fer reals! Out of ROSES!

A roses mohawk!

Fer reals!

Wouldn't a mohawk skullhead be more fitting for the funeral!?

That's edumacated people for ya! Full of irony, every last one of 'em.

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

The Catchers

Do you ever get the feeling that people are watching you? Watching and waiting? For you to step out of line? So they can alert the proper authorities? And talk behind your back?

Do you ever wonder if they derive secret pleasure from your pain? Secret happiness from your sadness? Secret success from your failures?

Me neither, just wondering if you ever did.

So you wanna know the first thing you do when you get released as YW Prez, besides take a long hot bath and cry your eyes out? You throw yourself across your bed and read The Catcher in the Rye, because that Holden Caulfield can really pinch a nerve when you're feeling edgy.

And because you're ashamed you've never read it before, being that you spent 16 years of your life pretending to be a literature major slash literature teacher.

And because your daughter checked it out from the library so she could read it.

If there is one thing we moms CANNOT tolerate, it's letting our daughters read Catcher in the Rye before us!

(Too late for you, mom. Sorry. I waited as long as socially acceptably possible.)

Speaking of my mom, and The Catcher in the Rye, yesterday I went to pick her up from the opthalmologist and I pulled out Holden to read while I waited for her eyes to dilate.

"What ya reading?" She askeed. So I showed her. "Oh, that's the book that inspires all the criminals," she told me. And then the doctor called her in.

That really started messing with my head. I mean, I'd always heard it was a controversial book and all, but I thought it was because Holden was a cusser, not a criminal. I was just so worried about him for the rest of the book. He's such a hard-core sweetie pie, and you never know what he's going to do next. I kept crossing my fingers that he wasn't going to rob a bank or kill his sister or something. He loved her so darn much that would have really busted my heavy heart in two.

And then I started fretting about suicide. I just didn't think I could handle it if he knocked himself off like Sylvia Plath did in The Bell Jar. I really got attached to the kid, you know.

Not to be a spoiler, but I am SOOO happy to report that Holden doesn't kill himself OR his sister. He does lose his marbles, but who can blame him in this mad, mad world.

I've decided I'm going to write the sequel. First I'll have Jane break Holden out of the psych ward. Then they'll get married and move to my in-laws magic cabin for some R&R. Then Holden will get his dream job as a catcher in the rye, which is to say he will get paid to stand at the edge of a cliff in a rye field and catch all the children that teeter too close to the edge.

Too bad there were no catchers around when Holden was teetering.

Then Holden and Jane, and all the children they save, will live happily ever after.

The end.

Sunday, July 17, 2011

Breaking up is hard to do . . .

I lost a lot of weight this weekend. Mostly around my shoulder area.

Best diet tip ever if you wanna lose your shoulder weight is to be released as the Young Women's Prez!

It's amazing how much lighter my shoulders feel, and yet how much heavier my heart feels. (Maybe I should put my heart on a diet.)

Why, why, why would the bishop break up with me like that? After I gave him the best two years of my life?

Do you think he was just using me? For girls camp and youth conference and trek?

"But I don't wanna break up!" I told him. "Please, please, please!" I begged.

He looked at me like he'd never seen a dummy on her hands and knees before. And then finally he spoke.

"We can still be friends."



Oh, sure, we can be friends, but not friends with benefits! Not girls camp benefits, or Youth Conference benefits, or Trek benefits.

Maybe he just didn't like my leadership approach?

Hee hee

But fer reals, alls I know is Neil Sedaka was spot on. Breaking up stinks!

I'm going to miss my YW peeps somethin' fierce!!!

Fiercer than Tyra!

LY 4 evah YW peeps!

P.S. MUCHOS mahalo to my YW peeps for the flowers and the banana bread and the cards and for saying my hair looked pretty today.


Wednesday, July 13, 2011

Blast from the Past

Well, I s'pose you all wanna know how my lunch date went with my hub's ex-girlfriend, huh? The one who drove the Trans Am and made my vida la miserabla?

Well, let's just say I was ready with squirt gun and sharpie in hand (In case she needed more facial hair, which she did.)

I mean if God didn't want her to have more facial hair, he wouldn't have invented Sharpies, right?

I was going to get hair extensions and eye lash extensions and silicone extensions before I showed my face at lunch, but I decided that would put me at an unfair advantage, you know. So instead I just decided to wear my t-shirt that says Nani Nani Boo Boo.

I probably should have gone with the extensions because even with a sharpie it was almost impossible to make my hub's ex look bad.

But where there's a will, there's a way. Am I right, or am I right? 

Seriously though, she's like a Charlies angel.

Jealous? Who me?

Nah, just trying to decide if I should do the peace sign. Behind her head. Because after all these years I think I'm finally mature enough to call a truce.

For the record, the lunch wasn't just with my hub's ex. It was with a bunch of smarty-pants girls from high school and since I'm such a dummy, this is my first invitation.

So while everyone was sharing what they have made of themselves since high school . . .

I began to sweat because I couldn't think of anything I've made of myself, so I was like, Project Manager? Me too. I'm a project manager too. And they were like oh really, do tell what kinds of projects you manage? And I was like um . . . I manage to get out of bed each morning. And I manage to get my dishes done almost every other day. And I manage to keep my oldest son from starving--now there's a HUGE project. And . . . and . . . and . . .

But that just turned the conversation to food prep. Food prep, food prep, food prep, that's all smart girls talk about. They know their food prep.

And coincidentally, the restaurant where we ate, Molly's, just so happened to be owned by my prom date, who also knows his food prep. (What a YUM-O restaurant.) (BTW, lucikly he had plenty of facial hair so I didn't need to use my Sharpie on him.)

Ironically he and I had a foods class together in high school so at least one of us was paying attention.

We also won a cake decorating contest together with our rendition of a hamburger, complete with real lettuce and tomatoes. (Hey, it was the 80's! There was no Cake Boss, or fondant, or hanging chads. It was easy to stuff a ballot box in the olden days.)

BTW, yes, I took the opportunity to apologize, after all these years, for wearing such a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad dress to his senior dinner dance.

He said he couldn't remember, but I could tell he'd been holding a grudge. 

(For the record, and just to clear the air, we never did any smooching. Mostly because he didn't like Lionel Richie, and how can anyone kiss a guy who doesn't like Lionel Richie?)

So all the smart girls asked my prom date if he would take us on a tour of his kitchen. Go figure!

But, OMGOSH, it was three times the size of Vermont. And probably three times cleaner. And the bakery walls were lined with Betty Crocker cake mixes and red velvet sheet cakes, and there were two big smokers in the back, and a bin full of hickory smoked wood, and the smart girls were like, Mmmmm I can smell the brisket, and I was like, what's a brisket?

Bottom line, if you ever go to lunch with your hub's ex, I highly recommend Molly's! Tell my prom date I sent you and I bet he'll make you a hamburger cake. On the house.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

My Quick Fix

I don't think the Universe likes reality t.v. because as soon as I said I wanted a new drug, it gave me a quick fix.

Now my life is super exciting.

~Super exciting, first of all, because I got a cool job.

~Second of all, I got to spend an entire evening chillin' and grillin' at the magic cabin with four dear-to-my-heart families from my old hood in Hawaii. (Okay, okay, it was pouring rain and I made sloppy joes, so we weren't exactly chillin' or grillin' but you get the drift.)

(I also made Martha's pasta salad and for the record Martha is still the reigning queen of pasta salad. When it comes to pasta salad, it appears the only thing I do well is spend hours and hours chopping vegetables with a heart full of love.)

(My camera battery keeled over during dinner, but photographic evidence will be available soon. (Hurry up, Margaret!))

~Third of all, at the very same moment I was chillin' with my Hawaii peeps here in Utah, my ex-door neighbors, Martha and Swirl, were chillin' with my blog peeps in Hawaii.

See, one of my first and favoritest blog readers, Sandi, is there for the birth of her daughter-- Kute Kasey--'s first baby. (P.S. I knew Kute Kasey when she was still a virgin. That's how long I've been blogging.) (P.S.S. I also taught Kute Kasey's hub when he was still a virgin. That's how long I haven't been teaching.)

I was kinda gang green with envy about the whole thing, but Martha and Swirl eased the blow by giving Sandi and Kute Kasey a tour of my former postage stamp yard, and front porch as if it were Graceland. Then they asked the new owners to turn on the porch light so they could get a picture in the very spot where all the magic began.

Someday this picture might be worth more than a thousand words so I decided to autograph it for them.

You're welcome guys.

I mean, thanks guys!


~Fourth of all, I am dogsitting my niece's puppy so I get to double my pleasure for the whole week.

~Fifth of all, my oldest son, who is now in Boston playing basketball with the big boys, and who got to meet Danny Ainge, will once again be in my arms and under my thumb tomorrow night.

~And last, and yet least of all, I am having lunch tomorrow with my hub's ex-girlfriend. Don't ask, but yep, it's the same girlfriend who drove a Trans Am. Yep, same girlfriend I used to fantasize about flinging across the universe by her natural blond pony tail. Yep, same girlfriend I squirted with a water gun while she was slow dancing with my man. (Oooops-a-daisy.)

In a nutshell, it's the same girlfriend who made my senior year kinda les miserables. Kinda la vida miserabla. If you get my drift.

But I'm over it. Totally over it. 27 years later and I'm a big girl now.

Besides, I have no idea what he saw in her anyway.


Kidding, peeps! I am mature enough to admit she was bee-U-tiful.

And that not only did we fight over the same boyfriend, we also fought over the same cheer camp counselor.

I just hope and pray that time has been kind to her. But not too kind. You get me?

(pssssssst . . . do you guys want photographic evidence? Just say the word and I'll recharge my battery before lunch.)

Saturday, July 9, 2011

I Want A New Drug!

I totally get Huey Lewis right now. Mostly because I need a new addiction. Something besides my dog and my bed and my car.

Is there rehab for excessive sleeping and disproportionate amounts of driving your children around? Is there a twelve-step program for extreme smiling while walking your dog? I think I need intervention because my cheeks haven't been this sore since my wedding reception.

When I asked my daughter these questions she handed me her Personal Progress book.

"If it's rehab you need, this book will change your life," she said. "But for us normal peeps, who already walk the straight and narrow while holding to the iron rod, it's a real snooze fest."

She's a corker, that one.

Anyways, lately I've been thinking I have way too much love in my heart. For my dog. And my bed. And my kids. I need to temper that love with something . . . I don't know . . . more productive maybe? Like flossing my teeth. Or scrubbing my toilets.

Or maybe I need to do something less productive. Like go inactive. But just between me and you, I can't stomach the thought of the whole ward council discussing ways to reactive me during their meetings, so I've decided on plan B--to watch more reality t.v.

I've made a list of t.v. shows I'm pretty sure I can get hooked on if I try hard enough:

  1. The Glee Project
  2. Project Runway
  3. Celebrity Rehab
  4. Love in the Wild
  5. The Bachelorette

I'm still on the fence about Finding Bigfoot because can squatches really whistle, knock on trees, and have human conversations with each other as they tromp through the forrest?

I. think. not.

So back to my new drug of choice--reality t.v. I'm totally open. To suggestions. So please advise.


P.S. Sandi, has Kute Kasey had that gosh darn baby yet?

Friday, July 8, 2011

Top Ten Things I Don't Miss About My Son

My oldest boy is in Indiana at the Hoosier Shootout. I miss him.

No, I don't miss him.

I mean, I do, but not that much.

You get me?

Allow me to illustrate:


  1. I'm HUNGRY!
  2. I need a ride. RIGHT NOW!
  3. What's for dinner?
  4. Can you pick my friends up too?
  5. My friends are hungry. What can we eat?
  6. I need FOOD! I'm STARVING!!!
  7. MMMMMOOOOOOMMMMM! Hurry up! I CAN'T be late!
  8. Can you take me and my friends to Seven Peaks?
  9. Can we stop at Harts for a drink? I'm thirsty.
  10. Can we drive through McDonalds? I neeeeeeeeed a shake!

P.S. You guys know Annette Lyon, right? Theeeeee Annette Lyon? She's in 2nd place of a photo contest. Let's help bump her to 1st. Click on this link and write "I vote for Dad and Daughter" in the comment box.

Thanks peeps! You da bomb diggity dawg.

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Keepin' it reals

Soooooo, how was your 4th of July? Mine was goooood too, thanks. Good and bad. But mostly good. Mostly good because we spent the weekend at The Magic Cabin playing tennis and listening to 8-track tapes.

Holy Cannoli that magic cabin is like tripping on a wrinkle in time. You seriously become get dazed and confused about what era you're in.

It's trippy, man. Super trippy.

And groovy too. Super groovy.

You know what else is trippy? Listening to Jethro Toll on 8-track. Especially when your hub is doing his Irish jig slash air flute.

John Denver is trippy on 8-track too, especially when your son is beat boxing to Grandma's Feather Bed. And your hub is doing his Irish Jig slash air fiddle.

The guy's got skillz, what can I say. In fact he's so skilled . . . how skilled is he? He's so skilled he can flex and point his toes all at the same time.

It's trippy, man. Real, real trippy.

I must confess that my hub's famdamily's 8-track collection is kinda fascinating.

But kinda creepy too. Creepiest 8-track tape award clearly went to My Turn on Earth.

"How did you stay members with music like this?" My daughter asked, as sincerely as humanly possible.

What a silly goose daughter. Simple. We grew up with cassette tapes. Everyone sounds like they've been smoking pakalolo on 8-track tapes, even the Mormon Youth Symphony. And Ernie Ford. And Frank Sinatra. And Peter Frampton.

(But I'm pretty sure Peter Frampton never touched pakalolo when he was making cassette tapes.)

After we listened to the family 8-track collection, we watched VHS movies on the VCR, and the 13 inch TV. Namely The Matrix and Braveheart.

Word: Nudity, Medieval warcraft and Keanu Reeves are much easier to stomach at 13 inches.

Just sayin'

After we watched VHS movies, we played Checkers and Scrabble and more tennis. And we drank picante flavored saimin from a heavy glass measuring cup. And then we got bored.

Except me, because I never get bored, so while everyone else was getting bored I was devising ingenious plans. Plotting really. To overthrow my MIL.

See there are only two things I hate, Spagetti-O's and dried flowers. Oh, and hate crimes. I hate hate crimes. But mostly I hate all the dried flowers in the whole wide world.

But my MIL LOVES them, so here's my secret, underground, evil plot: every summer one dried flower bouquet will mysteriously disappear from The Magic Cabin. Mwuaahahahaha

Starting with this one (2011):

And then this one (2012):

And so on and so on and so on.






Then I will start on the plastic flowers.


And the plastic fruit.



And the plastic cake covers precariously perched atop other plastic cake covers.


And finally the silk tulips in my front window box will mysteriously disappear too, because if there's one thing I refuse to make it's a hypocratic oath. 

That should keep me keepin' it reals for at least ten years, eh?

Ingenious, right?