A Hina Matsuri Day Challenge

I think I figured out why Utah ranks highest in the depression polls.

No Jamba Juice.

I haven't seen a single Jamba Juice since I moved here (unless Jamba Juice has changed it's name to Maggie Moo).

So today, in honor of Hina Matsuri (aka, Girls Day), I decided to find a Jamba Juice and get myself a Peenya Kowlada ASAP!

(Peenya Kowlada is Japanese, right?)

In ancient Japan people made dolls out of paper on March 3rd. In the process of making them they transferred their ill fortunes or sickness to the dolls. They would then cast their dolls, bearing all evils, into the ocean to rid themselves of bad karma.

I lub the idea that you can cast off all your ills each March, but did they ever think about where those ills were going? Pacific Ocean, anyone? For years they have been sending their bad karma straight to Hawaii.

I just couldn't do that to all my friends, so I decided instead of casting off bad karma I'm going to summon good karma. And I'm going to do it during the entire month of March. It will be like a whole new spin on March Madness--meaning every day I will do something crazy that makes me feeeeel goooood, but that I normally wouldn't do--like shaving my legs or eat flaming hot Cheetos before I exercise or getting a shaka tattoo.

Double dog dare you to do it too! 

(Wouldn't it be cool if we all had a shaka tattoo!)

This is what I've done so far this week: 1. Spent an afternoon eating Pork Salad and drinking guava Jarritos with my sis and my ma. 2. Bought myself a bouquet of fresh spring flowers. 3. Cooked steak for dinner then served Ding Dongs for dessert.  

AND, AND, AND, best of all, scored myself a local library card.  And I made a HUGE decision about what to do with it.  

I checked out a book.  A very special book.  A book that everyone on the face of this earth has already read.  Everyone but me. 

Anyone wanna take a guess at which book I'm about to read? 

Maybe you'll recognize this opening line?

My mother drove me to the airport with the windows rolled down.

I'll send a package of dried seaweed to the first person who guesses correctly.

(Mom, you're not eligible!)

Give you a hint--This is the book my daughter decided to burn after reading.

And she's not speaking to me anymore.

Beware the Ides of March

So they say. And I tend to believe everything they say.

At least I used to when I was growing up. Somehow, as a child, I got it stuck in my mind that the ides were some mysterious evil force that tried to mess with your mojo during the month of March.

When my dad died on March 28th of a drug overdose, I held the ides partially responsible and I mourned the fact that he couldn't hold on for three more days until April. After that it seemed like most of the family tragedies occurred in March, further confirming my suspicions that the ides were a force to be reckoned with.

"It's the hardest time of year," my mom always said. And so it was.

And yet it doesn't have to be, does it? Am I right? Or am I right?

In actuality "ides" simply means "the middle" or "to divide," so we only have to beware of the middle of March.

March 15th, to be exact.

Good thing I got married on March 16th. Dodged a bullet there, eh?

I didn't want to get married in March. I fought it tooth 'n nail. I fought it with every fiber of my being. I pouted and skulked and scowled about it. (That was back when pouting and skulking was still attractive on me.)

As it turned out, because my hub was playing college basketball, we could only get married in March or June, so I relented. But I relented like a lamb to the slaughter.

My MIL couldn't understand why it was such an issue for me.

"March is bad luck," I told her. "If we get married in March, we will be cursed forever and ever and ever. We will have a black cloud floating over our heads every day throughout time and all eternity."

"And ANYWAY!" I continued with my arms folded tightly across my chest, "If God had wanted us to get married in march, we would have been born in March."

She laughed and said "Oh my goodness!" twice. And then she said "Oh Gad!" twice. And then she said "Honest to Pete! March isn't bad luck. I was born in March."


"And your point is?" I said.


So she sat me down and gave me a Kellie Pickler pep talk. "Get married in March and change your luck!" She told me. "Make something good happen. Give yourself something to look forward to!"

Such a Polyanna! But you know what? She's right as Sprite.

It took me a while to change my mindset, because death anniversaries stink, but good golly, miss molly, I ain't afraid a no ghosts!

(I hope the ghosts didn't hear me say that!)

I ain't afraid a no ides of March neither.

(I  hope the ides didn't hear me say that either!)

So, here it is, my first March in Utah in 20 odd years. I can't help but wonder if there will be demons to face, but, I'm predicting NO.

A very confident NO.

I can feel the momentum of spring coming. Little green buds are already poking through the ground and the sun is getting up earlier and spending more time with us and I'm cleaning my bathrooms more regularly.

I'm going to send a boom-a-rang of positive vibes out into the universe and keep my fingers crossed that I will ease on down the road into April. And while I'm easing on down the road, I'll be extra careful not to step on any cracks. And I'll steer clear of black cats. And I won't steal any lava rock or walk underneath any coconut trees or break any mirrors or open my umbrella indoors.

And if I accidentally do do any of those things, I'll simply knock on wood and throw a pinch of salt over my shoulder.

Monty Python and the Moley Grail

Okay, enough already.  No more making mountains out of molehills! (Get it, molehills. Ah, sometimes I crack myself up.)

And that goes both ways. 

And vice versa. 

Anyways, maybe it wasn't even a mole that ratted me out to the proper authorities.  For alls I know it was just a poor, defenseless ferret.

Alas, I'll never know, but no worries! My Sponge Bob lips are sealed.  

I, CTD, heretofore pinky promise to keep my trap shut. From this day forward.  

Mums, the word.  Now, and forever more.

la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la



But can I just say one more (teensy weensy) little thing first? For the record?

There are no, I REPEAT, NO, wild Thornberries in my ward. 

But if there were any wild Thornberries, (hypothetically speaking) they would be on my list of people (in theory) to hang out with (if I wasn't so DELUSIONAL).

As Uncle Kracker would say, they make me smile.

I take that back, they make me LOL! I lub it when they come home teaching.  And sometimes, in between visits, I even drop by their house and make them home teach me again. 

And again.

And again. 

I would say Bro Thornberry (if there was such a man) is almost as good as my hub at the whole Chris Farley thing--except he's just pretending. He's an actor.  

My hub really does live in a van down by the river.  (But please, please, please don't turn him in to the proper authorities.)  

The Thornberries (If there were such a family) tell the bestest stories. I like the one about their chicken who just made my daughter's soccer team.  

"Now that's something to blog about," I told them. And they agreed. Then they laughed and compared themselves to . . . the wild Thornberries. 

That's right! I plagiarized the comparison. 

But I did it because not only can I relate to it, I can trump it. I can take their measly chickens and iguanas and raise them a bunch of snakes and rats. 

Who's the Thornberry now?  Huh?  Huh?  Huh?

When I was growing up my next door neighbors, Ruth and Red, built a huge fence between our properties and boarded up their windows facing our side of the house.  

 

I'm here to tell you that good fences don't make good neighbors.  And neither do large sheets of plywood. 

Ruth and Red said they only boarded up their windows because we had pet snakes and rats, but I think they just didn't like us.   

Looking back I can see now that we were freaks, but during the 70's I thought it was perfectly normal to reach into the dryer and pull out a garter snake, or to reach into the hall closet for a towel and grab a python.  

My dad's favorite snake was a boa constrictor named Strider and his favorite pet rat was named kitty, but he should have named them Harry and Houdini because they were both escape artists. 

Strider would usually curl up in our heating vents and under our couch cushions and I have many fond memories of blood curdling screams cutting like a knife through the entire neighborhood as strider slithered out of nowhere into my Gigi's lap. 

I remember one particular occasion trying to keep a straight face after suddenly noticing him winding his way around the curtain rod behind the couch where my mom's visiting teachers were giving a lesson.  

It wasn't one of our finest moments.   

Imagine being 11 years old.  You wake up one morning and stumble to the bathroom to do your bizness.  Just as you get settled, you glance over into the bathtub.  

NO!  

Yessssss!  

Noooooooo!  It couldn't be!  

But it was! Filled with baby King Cobras!  

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!  (can't believe I just told you that.)

Long, true story short, I had to make my own t-shirt that said, "My dad went to India and alls I got was this lousy king cobra." 

Case in point?  There are three people on this blog who understand the Wild Thornberries. 

ME! MYSELF! and I! 

Hey, btw, it ain't that bad wearing a muzzle while you blog.  

I always knew I could post with my eyes closed, but now I know I can do it with my mouth closed too! 

YAY ME!

To say, or not to say (what I need to say). That is the question.

Sometimes I feel like a fatherless child. 

And sometimes I feel like I have a scarlet letter L on my forehead. 

And sometimes I feel like John Mayer is the only one who wants me to say what I need to say. 

Before I moved to Utah my dear friend, Elaine, who sent me $14.5o worth of Temple Beach, told me that in order to be happy anywhere you have to take people case by case.  Don't generalize. Don't judge. 

"There are cool people everywhere and you will find them," she told me.  

She was right.  

I have found so many interesting people--all with their charms and quirks--who don't take themselves and their "stuff" too seriously.  

But then there's always that one church lady in the crowd. Somewhere. Scowling at me. Wagging her finger. Wrinkling her nose. 

I think I might have finger wagging, nose wrinkling issues. 

Take last week for instance, I was at my Stake YW President's lovely house sitting around her lovely dinner table eating lovely Zuppa Toscana soup with all the other lovely YW Presidents in the stake. 

It was all very lovely, but I kept thinking to myself, "One of these dummies is not like the others." 

And then I realized that dummy was . . . GULP! . . . me. 

I'm pretty sure it was me anyway.  At least that's what I thought when I asked a question and one of the other presidents said, "you'll find that answer on page 85 in the handbook." 

People don't just read the handbook around here . . . they memorize it, AND cross reference it. 

But most of all, they follow it.  

We talked about Personal Progress, and Sister Handbook told us how successfully she was converting the other auxiliaries.  The primary leaders were on board and the Relief Society sisters were too.  Even some of the Elders were asking if they could earn their YW medallion. Apparently the whole ward was on fire.  

"I gave away at least twenty Personal Progress books last Sunday alone," she said.  

Me, I can't even convert my young women to Personal Progress. 

When we talked about girls camp, Sister Handbook told us that all of their activities will be compared to the life of Christ. Horse back riding--Christ entering Jerusalem on his donkey. Water skiing--Christ walking on water. 

When it was my turn, I was like, "um . . . we're going to the Tuacahn . . . to see . . .  Tarzan." 

If you want to silence a room full of YW presidents, tell them you're taking your girls to see Tarzan for camp.  

I'm new at this gig, but didn't Tarzan live in the wilderness?  

Maybe we'll swing from some vines and compare it to the vine-yard of the Lord.

When we talked about Trek, Sister Handbook pulled out charts and graphs which would help her youth prepare. 

I was just going to tell them to wear sunscreen.  

To add injury to insult, today wasn't the best day ever at church. 

I didn't sing this song during opening exercises as I usually do because I was too busy feeling like it wasn't the best day ever. 

It all started when I learned that there is a mole among us.  Moles aren't rats so they can't rat you out, so to speak, but a mole has moled me out to the proper authorities in the Sponge Bob ward and I have been issued a gag order. 

That's right, I have been asked nicely to stop divulging our scripts and story lines. 

I guess cartoons need privacy too. 

As do moles.  My mole opted to remain anonymous and let the proper authorities silence me like a lamb. 

On the bright side, I'm sure my mole moled me out with love.  Or maybe she just hates my guts. I'll never know. I'll be forever left to wander around the halls at church thinking "Are you the mole? aRe you the mole? arE. YOU. the. MOLE?"  

But don't cry for me, Argentina.  I got down on my hands and knees and begged the proper authorities to please, please, please allow me the freedom of speech to say what I need to say. 

Then, since I was already down on one knee, I asked them to marry me. 

They said no.  But yes. 

As long as I stop dropping names.  

I agreed and we're now living happily ever after once again.  

Soooo . . . for the record, Russell and the Thornberries don't really live in my ward.  And neither does Sponge Bob.  

I'M DELUSIONAL PEEPS!

(But . . . psst . . . I still believe that deep down everyone has a cartoon character waiting to get out.)

(They'll never get me to deny that.) 

(But you didn't hear it from me.)