Crash Goes on a Cruise--Part II

Tap, tap.

Is this thing still on?

Ahem.

Crash attempts to awaken the two people sitting in the audience. She is only halfway through with her travelogue.

She clears her throat:


SORRENTO

Saturday. Once again the family hires a private tour guide. Tonio is excellent at letting them know what time they will reach each destination and teaching them important Italian catch phrases such as Babaloo, which he uses to refer to idiot drivers and Germans, and Bunga Bunga, which he uses to . . .  make McKenzie and Brody plug their ears and cry, “children on board!” 

The tour bus crawls along the steep shoreline of the Amalfi coast. Think narrow, winding roads with stunning views. (Windows seats cost extra.) 

At the end of the coast is a classy cool town called Positano. Under the Tuscan Sun filmed in this town. John Steinbeck wrote a short story about this town. It’s that kind of classy cool. 

The family receives threatening instructions from their bus driver to be back in one hour. They must obey. Lingering along the lovely narrow streets is not an option. But the view of the sophisticated sea resort from the beach is worth the rush. It's postcard pretty. Orange trees. Lemons trees. Palm trees. Rows of beach chairs and umbrellas in delicate pastel colors.  Alan and Paul are captivated and begin ripping off their shirts. They dive recklessly into the ocean while the rest of the group runs along to buy pretty gifts in pretty shops before the clock strikes twelve.

Next the family makes their way to Sorrento, where locals eat nothing but charm for breakfast. They sign their names in blood and promise to be back on board within the hour. They manage a buy some lemon drops and peak over the edge of town at the sweeping vista ocean resort view below.

Now they are at Frantoio Gargiulo--a family operated shop on the outskirts of town, where a variety of sweet and savory olive oils are laid out on a table for the tasting. The family easily succumbs. They dip and buy and dip and buy. 

Now they are watching a shy Italian woman make mozzarella cheese at La Sorgente in the hills above the city. The process takes five hours daily if you include milking the cow, but the family gets a made-for-TV demonstration. They are on a farm where fresh olive oil and limoncello (lemon wine) are produced. 

A lovely table of cheese, wine, antipasto, and bread is set before them. Yum, but we don’t drink wine, says the family. What? Impossible! Then we will squeeze fresh lemons into water and call it lemonade. See how they like it. This is said behind closed doors in Italian accents. The Americans don’t hear the chortling from the kitchen as they drink what life has handed them. 

There is a price to pay for snubbing limoncello in Italy.

The last stop of the day is the ruins of Pompeii, a city frozen in time for 2,000 years by volcanic ash from Mount Vesuvius. 

The clock is ticking so the tour guide needs to narrow. He chooses the red light district. This hole is where the red light was located, says the tour guide. The family is scratching their heads. This stone is not Mickey Mouse. He is pointing to the road at a rock shaped like male parts. A recurring theme in Italy. Men would bring women to this rock to communicate what they had in mind for the evening. That makes sense. 

More than one family member is wishing they had tried the limoncello. 

On their way back to the bus the tour guide hands out booklets so the family can look at pictures of the important things they missed. The rock is not among them. 

VENICE

Venice requires a story. Once upon a time the East met the West on the shores of the Adriatic Sea. They fell in love and made a baby. Venice, they named her, after her Roman baby daddy. But she was more Byzantine Empire than Roman Empire. More Istanbul when it was Constantinople than Rome when it was Rome. She was unique. She was beautiful. She was . . . centrally located. In an extremely powerful way. She became the Queen of the Adriatic. The most elegant, luxurious city in the world. Rumor had it music could be heard from every open window in Venice. Her navy dominated during the middle ages. The crusades were planned in her parlor. The trade route to silk and spice led to her front door. She was the original “spice” girl. 

And then Columbus discovered America. The End.

Monday. This is Venice. This floating city. This jilted city, of masks and bridges and canals. The city that gave the world Casanova and Marco Polo and the “it” bag. Leather and lace. Glass with class. 

The family has been travelling for a week, yet no one is tired because even in a state of slow decay Venice fascinates. The ship slows way down for the grand entrance. A canoe could glide faster between the rows of muted creamy buildings. Cathedrals and palaces. Domes and spires. Lancet arches set in gothic designs 

So much geometric complexity!

But look closer. Something is off. Where is the light in her eyes? The walls can talk. I’m pooped, they say. The only thing alive here are the 50,000 tourists who walk all over me each day. Give us some romance, the tourists say. Not tonight, she replies. I have a headache.

But whatever. This is Venice. 

The family pays $50 each to catch a ferry from the ship to St. Mark’s Square. A prostitute would charge less. 

But whatever. This is Venice. 

Dixie is still keeping up. Even in the rain she makes her way through the city in her Audrey Hepburn hat with a certain je ne sais quoi. She sits with perfect posture on bridges while the family buys silk ties, leather bags and Murano glass bracelets. They drop 240 Euros for three gondolas and then glide along canals and under bridges cuddling and kissing for the camera. Paul and Jen’s gondolier serenades them with gusto. It rocks Paul’s world. 

The youngers in the family want some authentic Italian pizza. Plus, they have to go to the bathroom. They find a hip spot called Bar Nova. Bathrooms are free, but the waitress gets hostile when they order only two pizzas. What?? No wine?? No cookies?? She charges them $10 for sitting at the table. 

But whatever. This is Venice.

As the sun sinks into the sea, St. Mark’s square begins emptying its streets of tourists. Marianne, Brody and McKenzie grab a gelato and linger. Venice no longer has a headache. Strings of lights twinkle to life along the outdoor cafés where musicians gather and fill the air with sounds. Brody’s thoughts turn to Courtney. McKenzie’s thoughts turn to Andrew. Marianne’s thoughts turn to . . . her favorite wedding planner.

RAVENNA

Wednesday. The family takes it easy in this lovely, restful town where barred windows are more of a fashion statement than a safety precaution. Bikes are all the rage in Ravenna. Nuns carry Bibles on bikes. Old men carry flowers on bikes. Young boys wear Speedy Gonzalaz hats on bikes. 

In the morning the family dodges bikes and eats pastry. In the afternoon the family dodges bikes and eats gelato. 

They peek into churches and museums, searching for well-known mosaics.

Dante is buried in this town. Divine Comedy Dante! Dante’s Inferno Dante! Father of the Italian language and poet second only to Shakespeare Dante! Paul helps Debbie find his tomb so she has something to talk about at school. 

A few churches and a doll museum later, the family is gathered around tables eating gelato in front of Sorbetteria degli Esarchi. It might possibly be the best gelateria in the world. Or it might be the 7th in Ravenna. With flavors like frutte di bocca, tiramisu, and bocio what does it matter? Under Debbie’s powerful influence, Mark orders one after another.

KOTOR

Thursday. Paul negotiates a private boat tour on the spot and the family is sailing through the deep green bay of Kotor. They are in love with each other. They are in love with the world. They are in love with Montenegro. It is not the barren wasteland they imagined during the Cosovo war. It sparkles dramatically. Bright mission rooftops between the shoreline and the mountains. 

Now the family is doing a photo shoot at the church on The Lady of the Rocks, a man-made islet. Literally. For hundreds of years local residents threw rocks into the sea until it grew wide enough to hold a church. Stranger things have happened. 

Now it’s off to Perest for Gelato and a stretch. Alan, Susan, and Mckenzie buy local art for $25. 

Now they are sailing back to the picturesque landscape of Kotor. The family wanders captivated through the maze of medieval houses inside the old walled town. They totally get it now. Why this city is called the city of cats. 

Under Debbie’s powerful influence, Susan is seduced by owls on scarves, and Jen is seduced by pastries in the town square. 

With great power comes great responsibility. 

Now the the family is bidding farewell to this historic relic by the sea. And also to the sea itself. Within hours they will be rolling luggage down the gangplank and blowing kisses at each other into the wind. 

Cheers to getting a jump start on forever. 

 

Crash Goes on a Cruise--Part I

Hello?

Hello?

Is this thing on?

Crash taps the mic, winces at the audio feedback, and squints into the bright lights shining in her eyes.

Is there anybody out there?

(So Pink Floyd, right?)

See Crash. How she doesn't use quotation marks with her dialogue. (So Hemingway, right?) And how she now speaks in 3rd person about her life experiences. (So J Peterman, right?)

She is going through a phase.

Last year her greatest wish was to please her relatives with her potato salad. This year her greatest wish is to please them with her words. She gets it now, that if you give a man your potato salad you feed him for a day, but if you give him your words, you feed him for a lifetime.

Were Crash still using quotation marks with her dialogue and speaking in 1st person, she would say, "I'd like to dedicate the following words to my mother-in-law who has always given me so much to write about. This year she gave me a cruise through Italy. No words have ever given me more joy to write. Here's to you, Dixie Darling."

The following stories are all exactly true. Any similarities to works of exciting, romantic fiction are purely coincidental.

Part I: THE ADVENTURE BEGINS in BARCELONA

Sunday morning. Royal Caribbean’s, Brilliance of the Sea will soon set sail through the French Riviera and Italy. Final destination: Montenegro. 

Half the family meets in Barcelona a few days before departure and attacks the thriving urban metropolis as if it is a Queen song. Statistics are inconclusive, but suggest they  walked nine miles upon arrival. 

Dixie keeps up, although she is later found wandering the halls of the hotel in her underwear.

Tuesday afternoon. Bon Voyage. The family boards the ship, looks at each other and thinks, “Let’s get this party started.” 

For the next 12 days, at 6 p.m. sharp, you can find them at table 309 and 310, where their servers, Ali and Dandy, spread napkins across their laps and begin killing them softly with cosmopolitan soups and salads. The entrées are written in cursive on the menu. 

Enough said. 

After dinner, with Dixie looped through one child’s arm or another, there are photos to be shot and stairs to be mounted before bedtime. Some slip down to the Jacuzzi in the midnight hour to listen to classic rock and drink watery juice together. It works. 

On sea days they meet in the dining room at 9 a.m. to have a laugh together over various fancy egg combinations. They hoard deck chairs in the Solarium to watch family videos made by Dave. They walk laps. They catch rays. They play shuffle board. They do the electric slide and the cupid shuffle. Somehow Bruce becomes a legend before he even takes the dance floor. Strangers call out his name while doing the hustle and the wobble. When Alan and Paul finish dancing, old people are quoted as saying, “I would almost pay to see that again.” 

In the Colony Club they learn the merengue and the jive. Susan has to partner with a girl, but pulls it off. 

During the lazy afternoons a gathering begins. Card games in the Schooner Bar, where Dixie pretends she doesn’t understand how to play Shanghai and then wins glamorously. An age-old strategy. 

In the evenings there is music. On 70’s night the family dominates the dance floor and gets featured on the cruise channel doing the YMCA. On Karaoke night Paul dominates the stage with an electrifying rendition of “Taking Care of Business.” The dance floor should not be empty, so the family moves to fill it. Susan is leading the way, sauntering. She’s got groove. She’s got game. She’s got . . . no one picking up the rear. The family lets her have the spotlight as they point and laugh. She pulls it off once again.

The cruise is fun and games, but it's not all fun and games. Two grandchildren are born back at home while the family is at sea. Tears are shed. Prayers are said. The show must go on. 

THE FRENCH RIVIERA

Wednesday. A colorful, coastal maritime harbor. Clear air. Soft light. Sexy charm. The family arrives wide-eyed in Villefrance, but public transportation proves to be a group effort that provides more patience than convenience, and isn’t as sexy or charming as backpackers make it seem. The bus stop is tricky to find. A old man carrying a loaf of French bread recognizes the group’s fresh-off-the-boat faces and leads them to the top of a long and winding road where they board a crowded bus and head to Monaco. They stand, packed together for the duration. They get bumped around. By the time they reach the grand Casino of Monte Carlo Susan is $200 lighter. 

Welcome to France. 

Here bus drivers have little patience for Americans who think that families who pay together, stay together. 

One bus driver grumbles, another explodes. Paul keeps calm and carries on, making sure all fares are square. Except when they hop on and off between the casino and the palace. Oops. Some might say they are rebels without a cause, unless you count trying to find a bathroom as a cause.

The family spends too much time at the palace buying expensive chocolate to get change for the bathroom. In between looking for bathrooms, looking at maps, and looking for buses, they fully engage in looking at this slinky resort town where rulers and racers seek entertainment, and movie stars, high rollers, and royalty live it up by the sea.

After missing the changing of the guard the family sets off for Nice to check out the Promenade des Anglais along the Mediterranean. Cheers to the wealthy British for coercing poor immigrants to build this walkway so the privileged didn’t have to slog through pebbles as they strolled the coastline. What was an inconvenience to the Brits is a disappointment to Dixie. This coastline is famous. But it’s lined with little rocks. Where is the romance in little rocks??? (Direct quote.) 

The family meanders along this sparkling blue sea watching the locals play volleyball, sunbathe and make out. Something is different about this place, they notice. Children are at play, they notice. And adults are on scooters. 

Nice is too much to appreciate in an afternoon, and on an empty stomach, but the family is able to grab some gelato and snap a photo of Bruce with a nude statue. Oh wait! It's not a nude statute, it's  a replica of the David. 

FLORENCE 

Thursday. The family goes in separate directions today. Half of them catch a ferry to Cinque Terra—a group of rugged coastal villages, where award winning hiking could take place. There are no roads that lead to Cinque Terra. Only paths. Paths that connect terraces built along steep cliffs where houses hang on for dear life. But they hang on in style. And in bright shades of yellow, orange and peach. Apparently the men in Cinque Terra had two and a half tasks to complete each day. They ate fish, they sold fish, and they kept an eye on their houses while they caught fish. Just to make sure their wives were doing their wifely duties (and not someone else’s wifely duties). This required color in order to tell one house from another. The results are stunning. 

Meanwhile, the rest of the family catches a train to Florence. Paul and Jen strike up a conversation on the train with a cute Italian woman named Simona. Surprise, surprise, they become fast friends. 

Dixie hypnotizes Simona by stroking her arm as she shares her family history. (You are getting sleeping. You are getting very sleepy.) Under Dixie’s spell, Simona guides the family from the train to the historic center of Florence where the Piazza del Duomo boasts its main cathedral. 

Marble panels in fifty shades of green and pink Gothic façade. It makes an impact.

After adding Paul and Jen on Facebook, Simona hugs the family goodbye, and sends them off to take in the beauty of Florence from the top of the Duomo--worth all 413 narrow steps that wrap around and around and around the largest brick tower in the world. (Did I mention largest?) 

A moment of silence is required, and not just because they can't breathe, but also because of the panoramic Tuscan eye-candy of this city. And because of the pivotal artists, philosophers, scientists, and fashionistas this city pumped out during the renaissance. 

Thank you Florence, for giving the world so much to talk about and think about and wear.

After catching their breath, the family jumps the line at the Academia with fast passes obtained by David and Keri. Psychology 101. Marveling at larger than life, must-see statues made by Michelangelo is more enjoyable from the front of the line. 

The David. Check. 

Next they eat pasta in the Pasticceria Robiglio—Debbie orders spaghetti and smiles. Portions are small. Presentation is simple. Flavor is delightfully light and satisfying. 

Others in the group add their observations: “where’s the beef?" 

In an unexpected plot twist, the family grabs gelato. They then make their way to the Plaza del Signoria, which like the rest of the city, is grand and elegant and filled with dozens of disrobed statutes as far as the head can turn (but who’s counting?) 

Look up as you exit the plaza. Statutes strike poses. Don’t try them at home. They won’t spice up your marriage. Alan. 

Take ten steps forward to the Arno River. Turn to the left. To the right now. Take it back now. One hop this time. Slide to the left. Criss cross. You just did the Cha Cha Shuffle. And also beheld the 2^nd oldest bridge in the world. Ponte Vecchio. The only bridge in Florence spared during the bombings of the World War II. 

ROME 

Yes. ROME should always be said in all caps. 

The family hires their own tour bus and guide for ROME. Mouro. He takes them first to the Vatican, which is astonishing--or should I say ASTONISHING! They trek down a long hall of paintings and tapestries (all probably very important and meaningful) to where the most famous chapel in the world awaits their attention. The Sistene Chapel. 

THEE Sistene chapel. 

On cue, and along with all 15,000 other tourists in the room, they drop their mouths and crane their necks to take in every inch of it. 

They are then led down some back stairs and around some dark corners—a route that only the Pope (and the tourists) get to travel. Suddenly they are standing in front of St. Peters Basilica. Awe-struck, they turn to take in the square. 

The shape of it. 

The colossal Tuscan colonnades of it. 

Four rows deep. 

With fully robed statues lining the top. 

Oh. My. Goodness. Seriously? Seriously people? 

These are some of the phrases they want to scream across the piazza. They snap photos with the oldest Egyptian Obelisk (AKA phallic symbol) in the world, and then they cross the threshold into the basilica, rumored to be the most impressive church in the world. Once inside, it is clear the rumors are true. The words freaking and awesome can be heard whispered reverently under breath, particularly when nearing The Pieta. 

Still recovering from the shock and awe, the family crosses St. Peters Square in the rain, stopping for photos at Berloits Fountain. It is the stuff movies are made of. 

They spend too much time eating pizza at the Ris Café just outside the Vatican walls, and then ride through the city, unprepared for the element of surprise around every corner. 

The sparkling baroque marble monument honoring the first king of Italy. The Theater of Pompey where Julius Caesar is killed. The Forum. The Colosseum. Caesars palace . . .

Caesars palace (wait, isn’t that in Las Vegas?) 

It's jarring--the juxtaposition of the ancient and the modern side by side--yet oddly thrilling. Debbie reaches Nirvana and realizes that aliens do exist. To drop enormous classical ruins from the sky in the middle of the night. It seems more probable than the possibility of new cities growing up around old cities. 

Brody, who has been studying in Israel, provides convincing evidence to the contrary. He is book smart and street savvy, but Debbie watches Fox News and knows it is just a matter of time before the truth comes out.

 

Potato Salad Plagiarism

I'M BLOGGING!


And for the record, blogging is not like riding a bike. I couldn't even remember my email address to log into blogger. That's how long it's been. But after almost a year, I am excited to report that I finally thought of something to say. Or rather, something to ask.

Does anyone want any left over potato salad?

Anyone? Anyone?

Free of charge? (OBO)

Every year I receive a text from my bro-in-law asking if I will bring a potato salad to the annual 4th of July party. And every year I write back and say,"Can I bring a pasta salad instead?" And he says, "Nope."

"Baked beans, maybe?" I ask. "Cowboy Cavier? Seven-layer dip? Something I can add jalapeno to?Something that packs a little punch? Has a little edge to it? Has a little heat under it?"

"Whatever you want," he writes back. "But bring potato salad too."

I have spent a lot of time analyzing, calculating, and graphing this request. Based on the scientific method, I have come to the conclusion that everything I can do, someone else can do better. That's why I get stuck bringing potato salad.

Either that or they're trying to hide my candle under a bushel (of potatoes).

I'm not a huge potato salad eater. I don't hate it, I just can't put cilantro and lime in it, so I have no experience preparing it. Because of this I tell my brother-in-law that I will have to buy the potato salad from Costco, and that I won't even think about putting it in a bowl and pretending I made it.

You'd think he would say, "Good grief, just bring a pasta salad then," but instead he says, "Fine."

So every year I brave the Costco holiday crowd, spend $6, and plop the potato salad down on the table at the party. A teaspoon and a half gets eaten, I bring the rest home, put in the back of the fridge (just in case there is an earthquake and we run out of food storage), and throw it out around Labor Day.

But this year I got a ridiculous far-flung notion in my head. I would make the potato salad myself.

"As God as my witness," I said, shaking my fist at the sky. "I will make the best potato salad ever! And no one will ever go hungry at the party again!"

My husband shook his head. "Pride cometh before the fall," he said.

"No." I said. "This bowl will be empty when I come home. People will be going back for seconds, and begging for the recipe, and I will become a potato salad legend among your family."

He shook his head again. "Sometimes you have to take the low road,"

But I was determined, so I googled potato salad recipes and the first one that popped up had a money back guarantee to be the best potato salad in the history of the world.

Lucky, right? And on my first try.

I followed the recipe EXACTLY. Step by step. I made it just as grandma Mary Jane made it back in the day. I even bought special potatoes and Miracle Whip and celery seed and used plain yellow mustard even though I prefer Dijon, and plain white vinegar even though I prefer rice wine.

I decided to make the salad 24 hours in advance so the flavors could spend time together, get to know each other, maybe even fall deeply in love with each other.

I boiled potatoes, and I boiled eggs. Then I peeled potatoes, and I peeled eggs. Then I chopped and marinated and rested and salted and blended all of the ingredients. And I did it all with committment and devotion, as if I were a potato salad whisperer. Please help me gain the respect I crave, I whispered. And if it's not too much to ask, please bring me potato salad fame and glory.

On the Fourth of July I awoke with a flutter, and tenderly pulled the bowl of potato salad from the fridge, gently removed the tinfoil, and trembling, raised a spoonful to my mouth.

"How is it?" asked my husband.

"Well, it's not the best potato salad in the history of the world," I said, "but it tastes . . . familiar."

I couldn't put my finger on it."If I were a judge on Chopped I might say it tastes plain white and plain yellow."

"You mean it tastes buttoned up?" he said.

That's when my epiphany struck. "It tastes like . . . COSTCO!"

In other words, for the low, low price of only $5.99, I could have had the best potato salad in the history of the world. And spared the explosion in my kitchen.

No one went back for seconds at the party, or asked for the recipe. And I proved my scientific theory that everything I can do, someone else can do better. (Especially Costco.) But there's a moral here. There are several morals here, actually. Pride cometh before the fall. Sometimes it's best to take the low road. Don't trust the first best recipe on the internet. Bring a back-up dish, preferably one with a little bite to it's bark

Far and away the best moral of this story is that recipes are great. Follow them over and over. Imitate them. Understand them. But then, when you are ready, trust yourself and add your own flavors. You can't become the potato salad legacy you were meant to become by copying Grandma Mary Jane.  

Next year I think I will splash the potatoes with cilantro and lime, and add a touch of jalapeno to the eggs.

No Room in the Laie Inn

I recently received this text from a good friend: "Did you really put all of your clocks in the freezer?"

I thought about writing back, "HYPERBOLE," but she is an English teacher so she knows that hyperbole means obvious or intentional exaggeration. Claiming to put all of my clocks in the freezer isn't technically exaggeration because I didn't put any of my clocks in the freezer. I didn't even think about putting any clocks in the freezer.

So I texted back, "LYPERBOLE," because technically it was a a lie. An obvious and intentional lie.

Pretty much everything I say on this blog is an obvious and intentional lie. Unless I'm telling a story about my mother-in-law. Everything I say about my mother-in-law is recorded word for word exactly as it comes out of her brain. I may have to put words in my husband's mouth and my children's mouths based on my ability to read their minds, but my mother-in-law says and does exactly what she's thinking, so there is no need for literary devices to get her point across. I can just tell it like it is.

For example, on Mother's Day she brought a Walmart bag to dinner.  I assumed it was a gift, based on the following five clues.

1. All of her gifts come wrapped in Walmart bags.
2. It was tied with pink curling ribbon.
3. I could see a box of Sees Chocolates inside
4. It was my birthday.
5. There was a card on the bag that said To Dummy. 

But even Forrest Gump could not have prepared me for what was inside that box of chocolates. Where chocolates are usually neatly stacked, I found rows of toothpaste samples. And dental floss. And a few tools that only a retired dentist would have access to.

See what I mean? No punchline needed. No fancy spin. She is the fancy spin.

For the record, she was genuinely surprised that I mistook it for a gift. To her it was nothing more than the fruits of her labor while cleaning out the storage room.

And I believe her. She has never told a lie. She really believes that she has never told a lie and I believe that she believes that. As for me, I tell lies sometimes because I think that occasionally speaking in lies can get you closer to the truth. Other times speaking the truth can get you closer to the truth.

The problem with truth is that it takes longer to tell. Sometimes you need some emotional space before you can say what you need to say.

I wrote the following post back in April and I just now have the guts to publish it.

________________________________________________________

I recently said to my husband, "I wish I cared about more things. There are so many things I should be passionate about, but I'm not."

"Like what?" he said.

"Like wearing purple," I said.

He tried to console me by listing the things I care passionately about.

"You care about socks," he said. "Mismatched socks, stinky socks, holey socks, socks on the floor, socks under the beds, socks between the couch cushions and car seats, socks in Lulu's mouth . . ."

"Socks?" I said. "That's the best you've got?"

Luckily something finally happened that I cared enough about to raise my voice--the sports programs at BYU-Hawaii were cut. I felt so angry about it that I decided to write the administration a letter.

Dear BYU-H

Please don't do this.
Please.
Please.
Pretty please.
With sugar on top.
Pleeeeeeeeeeeeease.
PALEEEEEEEASE.
Don't do this, k?
Seriously. Don't do this.
k?
And p.s. don't phase out fine arts either, k.
Or Pacific Island Studies.
please 

I don't know if you could tell, but on that last please I was doing pouty lips and puppy dog eyes.

If there's one thing I ain't too proud to do, it's beg. Especially when I'm crying on the inside like a clown, but also crying on the outside, like a clown who's Alma Mater just told her that there's no room in the Laie Inn for athletes. And that also there's no Laie Inn, so technically there's no room in the Laie Marriott for athletes.

I am bummed about this decision on so many levels. Four levels, to be exact, but I can only talk about one of them publicly. I mean, come on, peoples! Sports can shape character, teach discipline, give focus, give something to root for and be inspired by, blah, blah, blah. Sports can be a vehicle to get an education on an island far, far away, and rub shoulders with awesome people from 70 different countries, while blowing the mind wide open, expanding cultural horizons, changing the course of life, and altering destiny!


Ahem . . .generally speaking, of course.


I just feel so sad for all the future athletes and coaches and families who will never get a chance to have their minds blown wide open, or their cultural horizons expanded, or their destiny altered on an island far, far away, while rubbing shoulders with awesome people from 70 different countries.


They say it's about progress. That it's simply a way to become more efficient and effective.

Here's my question: Why does progress have to feel so cold and sterile?

I mean effective and efficient can be two different things, right? Being more effective is not always a result of being more efficient?

Think about it.

While you're thinking about it, allow me to speak in parable:

For three years I walked my dog every day in a field overwrought with wild flowers and weeds, lined with trees and bails of hay, and penned in with crooked irrigation ditches. There were crops too, of course, because that was the purpose, but it was so much more than a field full of crops. It was a place for birds to chirp, and butterflies to flit, and dogs to chase geese, and dog owners to take deep breaths and stretch out across hay bails and listen to ditches gurgle. But then the field was sold, and the owner wanted to make it more productive, so the ditch was filled in, and an enormous rolling, robotic sprinkler system was installed. The trees were cut down, and the hay was hauled away to make more space for the rows and rows of corn, that were not being grown to feed people, but as a commodity--to feed cows maybe, because cows feed people, and if we can grow them bigger and faster, they can produce more meat, which produces more money.

I continued to walk my dog in that field even though there were no more birds or butterflies or trees or gurgling brooks, but one day I was chased down by a tractor and kicked out for trespassing.

My point is, if a field's purpose is to feed cows and make money, then YES, more efficient is more effective.

You get me?

But if a field's purpose is to integrate both spiritual and secular learning, and to prepare students with character and integrity who can provide leadership in their families, their communities, their chosen fields, and in building the kingdom of God then . . . well . . . 

Athletes can be great leaders too, right? Athletes can build the kingdom of God too, right?

Sports isn't just balls and bats. Sports is people. People who are part of a community, and contribute to a community. When you eliminate sports, you don't just eliminate events, you eliminate a whole population of people. From the community. People who are actually living in the community now. And people who might live there in the future. That's athletic abortion, right?

(sniff)

I just hate it when whole populations of people are eliminated, even if it seems more efficient without them.

#luckyilivedlaieB4dakinephaseout



 

The Labor Phenomenon, or Naked and Afraid, or Whatever!

I just noticed that Nevadanista left a comment on my last post. "I really wish you'd start blogging your brains out again," it said.

I really wish I would too. But I'm just too preoccupied right now. Playing solitaire. And when I'm not playing solitaire, I spend a lot of time standing with my feet firmly planted, arms outstretched, jaw tightly clenched, trying to stop this:

This is my life. It has no brakes. I can't stop it. I can't even slow it down. I try. OMG, how I try. 

Just last week, for example, I had an idea in the middle of the night and I jumped out of bed to make it happen. The next morning I woke up expecting to hear Sonny and Cher singing as my clock radio flipped to 6:00 a.m. 

But my clock radio was gone. 

"Uh . . . why are all the clocks in the freezer?" called my husband from the kitchen. 

Needless to say, I didn't get to live that day over again. Or any day since. And now I only have four days left to play solitaire before my oldest son leaves the nest and flies away. 

Far. Far. Away. 

I haven't cried about it. As much as I've wanted to. I think it's because I started drinking Mt. Dew again. It's supposed to take the edge off, but I think it puts the edge on. And I can tell you exactly how long it takes if you're consuming at a steady pace. Four hours. That's when the little men in your head pull out their mallots and begin pounding on your skull. 

I don't mind though. Laying in the dark with an ice pack on my face draws attention from the little men pounding their mallots on my stone cold heart. 

I swear they won't stop until they break it.

But whatever. Just don't do the Dew. That's my best advice. Even if freezing your clocks doesn't stop time. 

And never, under any circumstances, drink and cry. Or text and cry. And if possible, don't cry and cry. 

Have you ever noticed that you're more prone to addictions when your children start leaving the nest? Or when your brother-in-law gets cancer that starts at stage four? Or when your mom gets a new knee which requires emergency surgery and infectious disease specialists and six weeks of IV antibiotics? Or when your hemophiliac son gets a thigh bleed which requires a mattress in the living room and all nine seasons of The Office. Plus all six seasons of The Wonder Years. Plus Shark Week. And two seasons of Scooby Doo. Plus the Catfish documentary and the Sea World Documentary. And Food Inc. 

When my daughter left I got addicted to Hallmark Christmas movies. But with my son leaving I'm hooked on Naked and Afraid. It's not the nudity that draws me in, it's the fear. And the misery. There's so much fear and misery. The dangers are so immediate that being naked in front of a stranger isn't even on the Richter scale. 

It reminds me of what I call The Labor Phenomenon, which is that moment when the intensity of the baby pain makes having a needle the size of a pencil jammed into your back feel like chicken soup for the soul. 

There is something about the combination of fear and misery and nudity that brings people to their knees. All that humility man, it's breathtaking. 

All that humility makes me root for them. I want them to catch some fish with their traps, but they never do. I want them to start a fire during the monsoon so they can purify water so they don't get dehydrated, but they never do. 

But I still hope for them. I hope that they won't get yellow fever or Malaria or diarrhea. That they'll get their shelter done before dark. That the snake that just bit them will give them enough protein to create enough energy to keep their fire going after they chop off his head and roast him. 

I hope that the leeches won't suck the marrow out of their bodies. 

And that the cancer won't suck the marrow out of my brother-in-laws body.

And that the infection won't suck the marrow out of my mom's body. 

And that the bleed won't suck the basketball out of my son's body. 

And that my kids' absence won't suck the marrow out of my body. 

Okay, I take back everything I said earlier. Do the Dew! Just Dew it! There is no cry, only Dew! 

But when you're laying in bed with an ice pack over your face, make sure there's a clock in it. 

And make sure that clock says Whatever!

GUESS WHAT!? . . . nevermind . . .

Guess what!? I'm craving spaghetti, which means only one thing: I will be throwing up later tonight. I never crave spaghetti unless I'm about to get the stomach flu. It's a strong indicator.The fact that everyone else in my house has the stomach flu is also a strong indicator. And also the fact that I have a funeral to go to on Thursday. The last time I had a funeral to go to on a Thursday I also got the stomach flu. I went anyway, and made it all the way to the church, but not all the way out of the car.

I would love to explain these two deaths to you, but as soon as I start, my words get tangled up in my emotions and I think, nevermind.

I have a student who says this all the time. But first he raises his hand with astonishing enthusiasm. He raises his hand with his whole body, but as soon as he tries to gets his thoughts from his hand to his mouth, his body deflates. "Nevermind," he says.

Nevermind is the writing mantra I have had to adopt since I've become a teacher. I do try. I really, really do, every so often (four times, to be exact) try to get my thoughts from my hand to my mouth (or vice versa in my case). But halfway through the process I have to duck and cover because another set of thoughts come rushing in, demanding my attention. They come in waves. Endless waves of never ending, half finished thoughts.

Either that or I lose my train of thought.

In March I started writing a post called Sometimes I Don't Feel Like a Fatherless Child after I attempted to sign my son out of school early and ended up standing in the hallway with sweaty eyeballs listening to his seminary teacher compassionately explain to the class what happens to souls after they commit suicide.

Nevermind, I thought, halfway through the post.

I also started a post called, No Room in the Laie Inn, after I found out that BYU-H was getting rid of their sports programs. 

Nevermind, I thought, after working on it for hours. There ain't even room in the Laie Inn for the Laie Inn.

And what can I do about it, anyway?

Then I wrote a post called Life Before about how it felt to find out my brother-in-law has Leukemia.

butwhatcanIdoaboutitanyway?

I wrote other things too. I wrote some hilarious jokes about how many socks it takes to raise three teenage boys, and I wrote some hilarious bios for my son when he was nominated to be in a beauty pageant. He asked for funny, and I gave him funny. You know I did. But he didn't find any of it funny. Probably because it was all true. I had to explain to him that great humor is derived from not-so-great truth.

Am I right, or am I right . . .






Wait, what was I saying?

I just lost my train of thought.



Nevermind.  None of this has anything to do with what I wanted to say anyway. What I wanted to say was, GUESS WHAT!?

I have this other student who always greeted me this way. "GUESS WHAT!?" she'd say, just like that, in all caps. I always expected something extraordinary to come out of her mouth, but it never did. She just wanted to remind me that I needed to get her grade up. She was passionate about me getting her grade up. This helped me see the importance of being passionate about what you say, even if it doesn't make sense. And what I am about to say does not make sense, but GUESS WHAT!?

I think I'm in love. With being a high school teacher. I think I get it now. The appeal.

Crazy, huh?

As part of my final exam this year I asked my students to tell me the most important thing they learned this year in history and language arts. They said they learned that teachers make typos too, and I'm grateful I could be the one to teach them that. But GUESS WHAT!? They said other things too. Not the things I expected them to say, like "I learned that George Washington was a studmuffin,"  or "I learned that slavery sucks," or "I learned me some mad annotation skillz, and MLA format rulez."

But they didn't say these things. They said things like, "I learned that writing is inspirational."

"I learned how to tell a better story, and how to live a better story."

"I learned that sharing my opinion helps me, but it could also help others."

"I learned that true courage is being true to yourself," "that in order to be self reliant I have to be self reflective," "that I have the power to do anything with virtue, honor and courage," "that we all have the ability to do something amazing," "that I can help people," "that I should doubt my doubts," "that I can make decisions."

"I learned that I write good stories," "that if you want something, go and get it," "that you shouldn't do good to appear good, you should do good to be good."

"I learned to figure out where I stand on issues," "that conformity is the thief of originality."

"I learned to own my actions and thoughts."

"I learned to embrace my differences."

Some students wrote whole paragraphs, and one sweet girl went home and typed two pages about what she learned. Single spaced.

This is why I'm in love. Because what's not to be in love with, right?  What's not to be passionate about?

And GUESS WHAT!? There ain't no nevermind in passion.

(But there is passion in the stomach flu) (Just sayin') 

Best Days of My LIfe

I’m not one of those girls who cries a lot.

But lately I feeeeeel like crying—like when I'm listening to Dave Matthews, or when I’m hiking with my dog, or when I watch my sons studying.

Or when my students say “AHA!” or “Thank you,” or “This is so exciting!”

It feels like being pregnant, only without the vomit. 

Maybe I've discovered an alternative to pregnancy--something that creates a similar amount of emotional tenderness, but doesn’t include the stress over what you’re going to be able to eat next.

I think it requires reading and discussing ideas. On a daily basis. With a bunch of sassy pants teenagers.While simultaneously not getting enough sleep.

I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but sometimes during my classes, I forget to look at the clock. 

And sometimes I don’t wish I was the custodian.

And sometimes, when my students are interrupting each other to tell me what the sunshine represents in The Scarlet Letter, or why the ending is satisfying, I think to myself, “why did I want to get cancer again?”

Once in a while, I even think, “Why did I want my students to get cancer again?”

This I think, even if they call Hester Prynne a “Ho” or an “Idiot,” or Dimmesdale a Jerk.

I know, right? How did this happen?

Once I even thought, “If I were at home right now washing dishes and folding laundry I would have missed this conversation.”

But then I went home and we were out of clean dishes and clean socks, and I felt like crying all over again.

But I didn't.

I'm just not a crier.

Except in my sleep.

This morning I woke up and my pillow was wet. My face was wet too.

I had  been dreaming that my daughter was jumping around in our driveway in Hawaii with my three sons, who had little round crew-cut heads. She was 8 years old and her hair, parted in the middle, bounced off her shoulders as she spun around, singing with her signature raspy voice. As she turned toward me I caught sight of her face, dotted with familiar freckles, and I ran to her, pulled her into my arms, and hugged her tight.

I didn't let go either.

Then I burst into tears and said to my husband, "These are the best days of my life."

.

How can you tell you're in love . . .

. . . with your AP Language class?

Something about the way the students groan when the bell rings, then say, "We need to come to school earlier."

And how can you tell you're in love with your daughter?

You just know. Even before your water breaks at Kentucky Fried Chicken you know. And even after your heart breaks as she goes off to college you know.

But now she has gone off to study abroad in Paris. In other words, she's living my dream.

I would have lived my dream myself, if I hadn't decided to live my dad's dream of studying abroad in Isreal.

I could have lived my dream with my daughter if I hadn't decided to live my grandmother's dream of teaching high school.

Maybe someday, after I die, my granddaughter will live my dream of blogging across America in a van down by the river with my dog and my Nutribullet.


Sometimes I lay awake at night and think about how far away my daughter lives.

Instead of counting sheep I count miles. That's how I can tell I'm in love.

From God's view, I look like this, only with bigger hair.

 

Only a few days ago I could walk down the hall and down the stairs to reach my daughter.

Only a few months ago I didn't even have to get out of bed to talk with her through the closet between our rooms.

Only a few years ago, I could rub my belly and feel her reassuring kick.

But now she's in Paris.


She also got her mission call to Nashville, and she leaves one week after she returns from Paris.

.


I couldn't be happier.



At least I've got my AP Language class.

Good Morning Love

Close your eyes and inhale.

Now exhale.

That's right, let it all out.

Now go into a down dog, and feel the stretch. Slowly move into child's pose, and release all your worries into the universe.

Now try a cow stretch. A tree pose. A mountain pose. A bridge pose. Twist into an awkward chair pose . . .
Jump into a handstand. A finger stand. A nose stand . . . 

That's it. Now you're groovin'.

Now go grab a mango smoothie, and stick your toes in the sand. Lean back and let the sun have his way with you, while the waves yawn and stretch.

Now push play on this new Cubworld single "Good Morning Love" and pretend Jack Johnson is making your banana pancakes for breakfast.



Now watch this image swing back and forth as you listen to the song.

You are getting sleepy. Very sleeeeeeeepy.

When I snap my fingers you will wake up, and tell your love, good morning.


You all know I love me some Cubworld, and that his last album Speak Softly Carry a Big Stick could have been the soundtrack to my life, right?

Or was Step Lightly Create Out Loud?

Whatever.

Well Cubworld has done it again. You can take the boy's music out of the islands, but your can't take the islands out of the boy's music.

Click here to download this single for free until his new album comes out early next month.

And as if he's not talented enough, he's also the creator of COLD--Create Out Loud Designs Don't check it out unless you want to feel cool and hip.

Road Trippin'

I do other stuff besides teach high school you know. I paint stuff, and I eat stuff, and I complain about stuff. I also vacuum stuff, and worry about stuff.

And last week I packed stuff into my car--including my husband, my twins, and my dog, and we drove for hours and hours to watch my oldest son play basketball at the new 225 million dollar Matthew Knight Arena at the University of Oregon, which I'm pretty sure Nike paid for.

My daughter didn't come with us because, as she put it, she couldn't get off work, because, as she put it, someone has to work around here to pay for my study abroad to Paris in the fall!

(Raise your hand if you want to hide in her suitcase with me?) 

I have  never been to Oregon before, but as far as I can tell, it is exactly like Utah. Except  the voice inflection doesn’t have that game-show-host ring to it. 

And the air smells like a sprinkler rather than a sauna. 

And in Utah my hair looks like this:

But in Oregon my hair looks like this:  

Also, in Oregon The Department of Transportation super-sizes the speed limit signs and posts them every. single. mile along the interstate. I was able to memorize the speed limit in Oregon in less than six hours.

(What's the speed limit in Utah again? You'd think I would know it after graduating with a double major from traffic school.) 

But mostly Oregon is exactly like Utah. Except Oregon is a more "nurturing" environment, or, as my husband would say, a more “liberal,” environment.

You are not allowed to pump your own gas in Oregon. That job is outsourced to the locals, which is why Oregon was voted the state most likely to have clean windshields.

In a less “nurturing” environment, people pump their own gas and clean their own windshields. Take Utah for instance, no one is willing to pay someone to do something they can do themselves. Or can get someone to do for them for free.

Also, there are no plastic bags in Oregon, and I think the state has a restraining order on Walmart.  They are retro--still operating in the Fred Meyer time zone, which I believe is the late 80’s, early 90’s. They are also cool and hip, sporting chic little organic markets. My favorite was called Market of Choice. Like all the shopping venues in Oregon, the choice was not between paper or plastic, but between carrying your groceries to the car in your t-shirt, or paying a nickel for a paper bag.   

The hotels in Oregon also emphasize choice. That was the slogan for the hotel chain where we stayed in Pendleton. By Choice Hotels, which is a sweetened condensed way of saying, you chose this dump of your own volition, so quit your whining.  My twins were sure it was The Bates Motel disguised at a Rodeway Inn, so the slogan could also be a disclaimer: we are not responsible if you happen to get knocked off while staying here. 

My twins were so sure it was The Bates Motel they made us sleep right in front of the door--which was where the bed was located anyway, so it worked out perfectly. 

The Bates Motel in Oregon was a much better choice than The Bates Motel in Redding California. My new policy is, don't trust a hotel where the bathroom smells like a bathroom, or where the walls are spackled, but not painted, or where the tub is lower than the floor. You know it's bad when your dog paces the floor until 3 a.m., your husband passes on the free continental breakfast, and your twins are in the car with at a map at 6 a.m. 

Other slight differences between Utah and Oregon: Oregon has more video rental stores, less huge metal stars on their homes; more amber waves of grain, less purple mountains majesty; more Hall and Oats on the radio, less construction on the roads. Less liposuction, body contouring, and cellulite treatment commercials, more commercials about that purse who wants to do cartwheels but can’t because it doesn’t have the hand-eye coordination.

Other than that, I couldn't tell the two states apart. 

All in all, the road trip was a PaRtAy!  Here are the highlights: 

Meant to do that

Awwww 

 Thought you said meatballs and noodles

My first veggie burger