The Panic Button

Have you ever wondered what would happen if your car alarm went off and the panic button on your key chain remote didn't work? No matter how many times you pressed it? Over and over and over again in the parking lot of South Town Expo during the Big Mountain Jam?

Me neither, but I have some answers for you anyway.

First of all, it's really loud. And obnoxious. And loud.

Did I mention loud?

And it doesn't help to jump in the car and put your keys in the ignition. The alarm will not recognize it's rightful owner and will continue to blare. Over and over! LOUDLY!

Starting your car and zooming away won't help either. When you're tooting your own horn you will never be able to get far enough away from yourself or from all the cool dude basketball players strutting around in the parking lot.

On the upside, you will feel kinda like a super model. Never in your life will you turn so many heads. Every cool dude in the parking lot will be staring right at you. And smiling.

Only they won't be smiling with you, they'll be smiling at you.

Think about it. When was the last time you've seen a car screaming for help with it's rightful owner at the wheel?

Don't call your hub at work, because he can't help. And neither can the security guard who chases you through the parking lot screaming to hit the panic button. Like you hadn't already thought of that.

Alls you can do is wait it out, peeps. Car alarms actually stop on their own after a good five minutes of public humiliation. And I should know because it happened to me three times today

I KID NOT!

(For the record, the public humiliation is more intense when your twins and their teammates are in the car.)

Speaking of Jesus . . .

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


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


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


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


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


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


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

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

YES!


(Father forgive me!)


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


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


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

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

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

On my welcome mat.


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

And now for the photographic evidence. Drumroll, please:


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


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


and their families . . .

mingled with my family.

Amen!

Jesus take the wheel

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

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

In other words, an instant.

A split second.

A lickety split second.

A fraction of a hair of a lickety split second.

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

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

Did you just feel shivers run down your spine?

Me too!

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

THANK YOU, UNIVERSE!

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

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

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

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

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

But I didn't see her.

Thank goodness I didn't see her.

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

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

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

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

Shudder shudder shudder!

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

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

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

How did I not see her?

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

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

Plus a piece of birthday cake.

LY everyone!

People

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, it's Martha's boy!

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

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

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

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

But yes, my girl really is this beautiful.

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

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

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

Not something I would ever admit publicly.

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

SO SUE ME!