WHATEVAH

I finally did it. Boiled Utah County down to one word--a feat I've been working on for the past two plus years since I moved here from Hawaii.

I got the idea from Eat, Pray, Love. Elizabeth Gilbert is sitting in an outdoor cafe in Rome with a guy named Giulio. He asks her how she likes the city, and she tells him she likes it fine, but she can tell she doesn't belong. When she explains why he says, "Maybe you and Rome just have different words."

According to Giulio, every city has a different word that defines it and identifies most of the people living there. Says he, "If you could read people's thoughts as they were passing you on the streets of any given place, you would discover that most of them are thinking the same thought." Whatever the majority thinks is the word of the city.

New York's word is ACHIEVE, Los Angeles is SUCCEED, Stockholm is CONFORM, and Naples is FIGHT.

Now cover your ears because Rome's word is SEX. Every person in Rome is thinking about sex, all day, every day (except at the Vatican where the word is POWER). This is why Gilbert doesn't feel comfortable there, because sex is not her word. If your own personal word does not match the word of the city, then you don't really belong there.

When Gilbert tries to define herself with one word, she realizes that our personal words shift and change as we shift and change.

I think she might be on to something. When I was a poor black child growing up in the ghettos of Provo, where we had to walk to school uphill, both ways, in the snow, my word was POWERLESS. I couldn't control my father's drug addiction or his endless battle with Hemophilia, or the fact that I got dropped off at school every day in a station wagon held together with duct tape. But then I went away and growed up and now I am back in Utah after 20 years with a different word. I would like to say that word is EMPOWERED, but life don't shake down that tidy. And anyway, my word is one step beyond EMPOWERED.

My word is WHATEVAH.

This is probably why I felt so at home in Hawaii. You might think everyone in Hawaii is walking around thinking ALOHA, but actually they're thinking WHATEVAH.

This is also probably why, although I love living in Utah, and I know this is the place, I don't feel like this is my place. Maybe because we have different words. The collective word for Utah County is IMPROVE. Everyone is walking around thinking IMPROVE, IMPROVE, IMPROVE, and not just their shining moments, if you get my drift.

Some of you might have thought the word would be STRESS since Utah got voted the most stressed state in the union last year. It makes sense if you think about it because it's stressful to constantly IMPROVE, especially when you are trying to IMPROVE faster than your neighbor. You try topping yourself every year, not to mention everybody else around you. In Utah last years good, better and best is this years gooder, betterer and bester.

If you think about it, the word STRESS is a natural by-product of the word IMPROVE. You get me?

And the people aren't the only ones thinking about improvement. Right now the word on the streets is UNDER-CONSTRUCTION, which is another natural by-product of IMPROVE. Nearly every street and freeway in Utah County is getting a face lift. It's like all of Utah County is a character in a Judy Blume book. The whole county is thinking, "We must, we must, we must increase our bust. And our trust. But not our lust. Or our dust. We must decrease our lust and our dust."

Once again, if you think about it, the desire to increase your bust and your trust, and decrease your lust and your dust is also a natural by-product of IMPROVE.

I have to admit that after hearing that church lady tell my former young woman that her voice wasn't appropriate for church I was tempted to change the collective word to CENSOR. Maybe everyone is walking around thinking CENSOR, CENSOR, CENSOR. If so, it's working. When that girl opened her mouth again, she was suddenly restrained and contained, as if she was trying to stay within the lines of her chalk body outline.

But then if you think about it, the word CENSOR is also a by-product of the word IMPROVE . .

But whatevah.

Voice Lessons

Okay, I finally broke down and bought a bag of Halloween candy. At 50% off. You know why? Because a candyless house after Halloween is a FREAKY place to be. Especially when one member of the household has a secret candy stash that everyone else wants to sink their teeth into.

Twilight's got nothing on us.

As Gad as my witness, I will never be a Halloween humbug again.

So I need to make a correction to my last post. My daughter and her friends did not make and deliver Valentines on Halloween at all. They made and delivered creepy stalker notes, which fit the spirit of the holiday better. So they say. Apparently it was just a spooky prank. So they say. And I believe them.

Although just as there is a little bit of truth in every joke, I bet there is also a little bit of love in every creepy stalker note. A little bit of Valentines in every Halloween, so to speak.

But that's just one dummy's opinion, and the thing I love about being a dummy is that if your opinion offends, you can always just blink and shrug and say, "huh?"

Plus I love just sitting down at the computer without a thought in my head and letting my fingers do the talking for me--stream of conscience style. I'm amazed at the utter nonsense that comes out when I'm not planning or preparing or pondering. A cleansing breath after doing massive amounts of serious writing, which is what I've been up to for the past few months. We writers call it working on our craft.

I've been working on my craft, peeps! And guess what! I'm in a writer's critique group now. So I can work on my craft.

I. love. it.

What writer's critique groups do is they support and encourage each other as they work on their craft. And also they critique each other. Which means they help each other get literary.

Bet you can't guess what the #1 critique writers who are working on their craft give each other.

Too bloggy.

Bloggy is an adjective now. It means too much punch. And in my case, too much spiked punch, if you get my drift.

But yay for too much spiked punch every so often, huh!? After a hard days work, huh!?

Can I get an amen?

It may not get you into grad school or earn you respect in intellectual circles, but what the hay! That's what I always say. What the hay!

I'm writing a collection of voice lessons, and guess what lesson I learned from my own voice lessons? I learned that I love my dummy voice. Fer reals, I would marry her, cept she couldn't support me.

I've also learned that your voice is fragile. You gotsta protect it because when it doesn't blend, people will let you know. Not writer's critique people, who are trying to help you refine your voice, but proper authority people.

I'm talking about one of my ex-young women. She's still a young woman, but she's not MY young woman anymore since the bishop broke up with me. See a few nights ago I attended YW in Excellence and my ex-young woman was practicing a musical number for the program. She was singing her heart out and her voice was so fresh, so original, and so unique that it bounced off my soul in new and exciting ways.

But all of a sudden the woman accompanying her on the piano stopped, and, in her best church lady voice, gave her a voice lesson of her own.

"Maybe that type of singing is okay for a country song, but IT'S. NOT. APPROPRIATE here in the church."

You know what I have to say about that?

Because that just ain't true now, is it! Every voice is beautiful to God. Especially a voice that comes straight from the heart.

Which reminds me of a hundred stories.

Maybe I'll tell them someday.

When I'm finished working on my craft.

I mean Merry Christmas!

Fer reals, one day I'm in my t-shirt walking my dog in a world consumed by goblins and ghosts, and the next day I'm walking through a winter wonderland, listening to Justin Beiber deck the halls under the mistletoe.

(Where did Thanksgiving go?)

Seriously, JB's got an R&B Christmas album out, peeps. And he raps the Little Drummer Boy. In fact, he might even think he is the little drummer boy.

(Pa rum pum pum pum.)

Either that or the king of pop.

Check it:

Rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum
Yeah I’m on the drum yeah I’m on the snare drum
Yeah I’m on the beat cause the beat goes dumb
And I only spit heat cause I’m playing for the sun
Playing for the king, playing for the title
I’m surprised you didn’t hear this in the Bible
I’m so tight, I might go psycho
Christmas time, so here’s a recital
I’m so bad like Michael I know
I’m still young, I go, I go
Stupid, stupid, love like Cupid
I’m the drummer boy so do it, do it

See what I mean?

I'm toying with the idea of adding a rap to my Crash Test Dummy Christmas album.

I'm surprised I didn't hear this in the Bible either.

Does anyone else gotsda Bieber fever?

Yeah, me neither. Me neither. Me neither.

Fa la la. La la la. La. La. La.

Word.

Okay, that was random. I didn't come here to rap about JB, but when he mentioned stupid and cupid in the same sentence it made me think of something that happened on Halloween. My daughter made Valentines!

I knew you wouldn't believe me so I snapped some photographic evidence when she went out to deliver them:

See if I was frumpty dumpty for Halloween, she was grumpty dumpty. You get me? All because she heard that people in Utah wait by the door with their shotguns for trick-or-treaters over the legal age of 12.

This did not bode well with her. She likes candy. And she likes Halloween. And there are no shotguns in Hawaii on Halloween.

So we all stayed home and pouted, without any candy, because I didn't even buy any candy. In fact, my twins had to risk their life to go out trick or treating just to get some candy to give to our trick or treaters.

It was just a big ole' McScroogey mess. Especially after we turned the channel to Hawaii Five-O. We all just sat there crying in our candy. (Minus the candy.)

But then my daughter's friends came over and all the sudden they were making . . . valentines. For boys.

Go figure.

They got busted, of course, because cupid ain't on-duty yet, and you can't get anything past the boogeyman.

(Is that even how you spell boogeyman?)

Btw, do I sound like I've been sniffing too much candy? (Minus the candy?)

Happy Helloweeeeeeen!

Don't you think it should be called Helloween? Fer reals? All that boil, boil, toil and trouble. And all that wicked candy. And all those sordid Lady Gaga look-alikes.

HELLO! ween.

Plus doesn't Freud says you dress up like the person you would most like to be if the devil made you do it? I am dressed as a frumpty dumpty mom and my hub is dressed as a Kahuku Red Raider for life. In his PJ's. For life.

(photographic evidence not available)

My son wanted to dress up like the naked cowboy, but thanks to our next door neighbor, Grizzly Adam, he went to school fully clothed.

Love your guts, Grizzly Adam!

I think my daughter has nerd envy because she dresses like a nerd every year.

Analyze that, Mr. Freudian!

Sadly, I caught her rummaging through MY closet to put her outfit together, but all she came across were my frumpty dumpty costumes.

And then the twins. They have no deep-seeded longings. They just pop out of bed 10 minutes before school, throw on some skinny jeans, and raid the costume closet.

This twin is a Steven Tyler of sorts, who is thinking, dang, these skinny jeans are cutting off my circulation!

This twin is a Sherlock Holmes of sorts, who is thinking dang, if I had gotten out of bed five minutes earlier I could be rockin' those skinny jeans instead of this stodgy overcoat.

Anyways, party on, peeps! Happy Helloween