Believe

I have dealings with the song writer of “I saw mommy kissing Santa Claus.” Depending on my level of cynicism, I might shake his hand, or slap his face. While listening to this song, I experienced a pinnacle moment in regards to my free agency. I was free to choose what I wanted to believe in.

Up to that point, I had no reason to doubt anything I was told. Why would my parents make stuff up? If they told me an eight foot bunny hopped in our house and filled up a basket of candy, I didn’t wonder how a monstrous bunny came to exist, or how he got in my house and left chocolate poops on my floor; I was just grateful anything brought me candy.

And edible poop? How pleasant.

The same thing goes with elves, and Santa Claus. Mom says it’s true, so it is.  After all, she heard Santa’s reindeer walking on the roof. One thing I did know for sure, I wasn’t going to let any elf catch me doing something naughty. No one wants a lump of coal. 

Recently, I saw my nine year old son actually close the curtains before deliberately punching his brother. He knows, just as I, and all the BYU football players know; there’s always a loophole in getting away with abominable behavior.

So, come December 1988, I enraptured myself with the magical spell of Christmas. Lights aglow, leaped and swirled, reflecting off every hanging bauble. It was bedazzling, dreamy,... surreal.

I have these moments, even now as an adult. Brief enchanting moments, were I step outside myself, and view my life as a artist views his work. It's a discovery of something I didn't know was missing. Happiness. In those moments, I want to declare aloud "I am happy."

I am. I'm a happy person, but those moments are seldom. It's as if the world feels threatened and yanks you back to reality. It was a song about kissing that reeled me in that night. The smooching involved my mother, and Santa Claus.

 My ten year old brain did some serious business in deductive reasoning. I far as belief went, I had three choices. If this song confirmed true, it meant:

A.      Santa’s a pervert

B.      My mom kisses other men when dad’s away.

C.      Santa is my dad…and I’m not talking about the jolly red fat man from the North Pole (even though that would be crazy-awesome and slightly disturbing).

Something clicked in my brain that year, and the wheels began spinning. If Santa’s not real, then what other outlandish things did I need debriefing from? Oh my gosh…Noah’s ark?! I love that story! I experienced that same uneasy feeling that happens when something I love disappears.

I had some serious thinking to do.

Ponder, pray, pursuit and believe is the cycle I’ve created throughout my life.  It comes down to choice. I choose to believe in things not seen, in things greater than myself, in miracles and a higher power. It’s uncomplicated, much like a seed growing into a tree. It’s faith.

I really do believe those animals entered the ark without killing each other and Noah. I wonder, however, if it was difficult getting the giraffes to bend their lanky necks while herding them inside. I can sympathize with their projective height.  Like a tall man washing in an Asian size shower, they fumbled and positioned themselves next to the talking donkey.

Donkeys’ talk you know, it says so in the Bible.

I have a few missions to accomplish after I die.  I’m going to find Noah; and discuss how all that went down. I intend to haunt my neighbor, James Morris, because he doesn’t believe in ghosts, and lastly, I have to pull out the water sprayer from the kitchen sink, and leave it hanging from its cord. Dean hates it when I do that. I interjected his fussing with the truth; those are the things he’d miss if I died.

Then I delivered to him a promise: my ghost would leave the sink sprayer in disarray as a sign of my eternal love, presence, and dedication.

In addition to my ghostly  hanky-panky, I've also planned out my demise. I’m to be charmed and bitten by a vampire.

 I have a feeling my blood will taste quite savory, even at a ripe old age. The execution can be done by the vampire two streets down from me, or any other vampire, I’m really not picky. It will be a most delightful death concluding a phenomenal faithful life.

hot zones

I’ve been married long enough to pinpoint the hot zones.  I’m not talking about anything erogenous (sorry to disappoint, maybe another time), actually I’m speaking about arousal of tempers. I guess it can be sexy, depending on how you fight, what the fight's about, what you’re wearing, location, etc…

Dean and I don’t argue very often.  It’s not that we agree with everything each other says, it’s because experience has pinpointed our hot zones, and we’ve become masters at tiptoeing around them. We’ve become domesticated; like a puppy wearing a shock collar, which consequently avoids peeing in the house.  We avoid the peeing by selecting our battles. Then, once selected, we electrocute the hell out of each other.  It’s a bit like the “alive” scene from “Frankenstein.” We switch off playing Doctor Frankenstein, the monster, and Igor(he’s my favorite).

We enter hot zone territory the minute we share a kayak. We’ve seen the monstrosity that rowing together creates.  In fact, the emotional and physical damage it inflicts has inspired me to start a couple’s therapy business.  We’ll work together paddling from point A to B, then discuss the results afterward.  Don’t judge until you’ve tried it, seriously.  It leaves scars to the soul if not the body.

We don’t row kindly, or in unison. We just can’t do it all.

Other hot zone topics

1. Driving advice

2. Music opinions

3. House cleaning tips

4. Critique in every form, let’s be honest.  Constructive criticism doesn’t exist.

 Sometimes it’s hard being a team player, but we’re learning to fight fair. It’s an art form we occasionally succeed at.  Our recent match took place in the car, like many other matches begin. I’m on one corner, fists and lips clenched; we’ll call me stubborn number one. Stubborn number two is in on the other corner gearing up for the fight.

 Stubborn number one loves to road trip with giant sodas and sunflower seeds.

 Stubborn number two likes efficiency, which means limited stopping.

 Stubborn number one buys a 32oz big gulp with seeds and a smile.

 Stubborn number two gives the evil eye and a no stop warning.  

 Stubborn number one has to pee.

 Stubborn number two gives the “I told you so look” and refuses to stop.

 Stubborn number one threatens an in car showdown with the promise of traumatized children.

 Stubborn number two pulls over angrily.

 Stubborn number one begins to discreetly do her business.

 Stubborn number two slowly backs the car away exposing stubborn number one’s bareness to the world driving by.

 Stubborn number one, unable to restrain, teaches her children cuss words.

 Who won the match? We both did, and I’ll tell you why. Stubborn number two does a little research and shopping, then stubborn number one opens a peculiar “present” while she happens to be in front of the whole extended family.

 What stubborn number one finds makes her blush with bewilderment.

She can’t decide whether to say thank you, or check if it vibrates. What is this thing, and why is stubborn number two laughing?

 Here’s how it goes now. Stubborn number one is afraid to use the device. She’s trying to figure out what’s more frightening;  A nasty fight with the husband, an exposed bum on the freeway, or a woman peeing while standing.

yin and yang

My life is pretty smooth right now. It’s currently a delightful sail. It makes me nervous. No one goes through life too long without bumps. It’s been a while now, and I’m scared because I actually had the nerve to write out that disclosure. I just knocked on wood (for real, that wasn’t just an idiom.) Life is bumpy. It has to be that way to stay balanced.

Remember being young, and wanting to look like everybody else? When you're young, anything that makes you stand out is  a bad thing. Being drastically tall with a starving Ethiopian body frame, I was a walking bad thing.

Even to this day, any thoughts of anonymous streaking are tossed out the window. You can’t be a six foot/ size four woman and stand a chance in a police line-up.

Memories ago, everyone around me used to wear these name brand jeans called Girbaud. Don't ask, it's a weird Utah pastime. How does a stupid label makes you instantly cool? There’s no logic to it. It just does. The irrational game of acceptance starts early in life, and tends to get worse before getting better. I still don’t get it, so really, don’t ask.

You take overpriced jeans, combine them with a common sense mother, and you get a missed opportunity for "coolness." But wait...add in my spoiled neighbors, and their hand-me-down clothes, and we're back in business. The business of popularity; mine about to plummet and explode with a distressing combination of  oil and water, or in other words, a normal pair of pants with an abnormal body. This was a daily dilemma solved with elementary brain power.  All it took was extreme sagging plus belt wrapping. YES! It worked, and I looked ridiculous, but I was wearing Girbauds!  I had no rear end, and the jeans barely hit my ankles, but again, I problem solved. I tight rolled them.

I rock.

After a few years of monotony, we decide those "fitting in" days are over, and we enter a new quest. It’s time to stand out and be different. All sorts of weird things start happening, aside from puberty. I can’t even say that word without feeling gross and gangly. I remember a girl coming to school with a piece of toast strung around her neck, like jewelry. I also recall an enormous amount of exposed naked skin. What a strange, insecure time of independence seeking.  I could write a whole story about the awkwardness that comes with breasts and the catastrophe of not having them. Everything about this phase is egocentric.

The world is a strange place in the eyes of children. My kids are constantly asking me why that person “has their earlobes stretched out” or “rings in their lips”. They’ll ask directly in front of the perpetrator why he/she is smoking. It’s a reasonable question, but still, embarrassing for me. I wish I knew all the whys. A psychology degree later, and I’m still asking.

 “It’s about attention,” I tell my kids. “They’ll grow out of it.”  Then I grab my designer purse, jump in my flashy car,  blast my music out the window, and head to the beauty salon.

 As an adult, I don’t care about blending in, and I don’t really wish to stand out. I want to contribute  to something bigger than myself. I want to know that I am leaving an impression in this world. I want to matter, be acknowledged. I want to make a difference.  I do not want the highlight of my day to be something that happened on “Oprah.” I do not want to write a story that sounds like it should be read aloud on Oprah… but crap,…it is what it is.

There's a friend and foe to every stage of life. It gives the universe balance. What goes around-comes around, what goes up- must come down, for every good-there is a bad. Food, religion, activity  and love all need balance. I obsess over this theory. Sometimes to the point of neurotic, which then take pills to void my nervousness. Run your brain over that paradox.  Here's to healing, yoga, faith and family(but not in that order.)

I never want to forget what's important. We speak about these things at funerals. It takes the dead to give direction to the living, and guide our priorities. I need a permanent post-it note reminder, and that is the reason for the giant tattooed yin on one butt cheek and yang on the other.

P.S  Don't believe everything you read, it puts you out of balance with reality.
P.P.S I'm not showing you my tattoo







        

Footloose

          Almost any place has its claim to fame. I live where the original movie "Footloose" was filmed. It's a bit more city than country now, but the roller mills still exist and I salute and sanctify them as a holy place. Miraculous dancing graced those mills in 1984. Ren McCormack (played by Kevin Bacon) finds himself in multiple moral dilemmas.  Aside from his rebellious literature reading and wild games of vehicular "chicken", his character loved to dance. Problem number one: dancing in this conservative town is unbecoming and unallowed.

        This is where the title "Footloose" comes about. Kevin Bacon picks up a cigarette and a bottle of booze and...you know what happens next. Imagine what it would feel like to live your entire life wrapped  like an Egyptian mummy, to finally become unraveled. What do you do next?.................. You know exactly what... you dance.

        You dance like you're freeing every bit of caution, indignation, sadness, and frustration that's been locked inside and fuming. It's the powerful anger dance that turns the key and releases all opposition and aggression. It's an emotional expression that proclaims "I no longer fear."  Hopefully everyone has seen the "Footloose" scene I'm talking about, and marveled at its intensity. Also, I challenge you to watch it without laughing...or crying...or both.

       Metaphorically speaking, we all want to dance. By definition of the verb, I mean breaking through a wall that's holding you back. Everyone has walls, some thinner than others, but ideally we want to bust through them. And when we do...

       Ren McCormack and I  know the feeling.  Elation,...freedom.

       I will never tell my kids they're shy. Why? Because it's a euphemism. It's a nice way of saying "you're awkward".  As a woman who used to be a painfully shy girl, I'll tell you right now, it sucks. I bet money other shy people would agree. It's a feeling of wanting to break free and interact, but you can't, you're scared. A thick barrier is wrapped around you and taking you hostage. Everyone seems alive in the world, except you. That barrier is a label that sounds like this: "This is Emily, she's really shy." It's a mindless, trite label. You couldn't have replaced "shy" with thoughtful or observant? Think of what I would be now if my introduction was "this is Emily, she's incredibly awesome!"

         People laugh when I disclose this past life; my life as a social prisoner. It's the opposite of what I am now. Our weaknesses can become our strengths, which then lead to our next weakness. And now, I'm that uninhibited old person who talks openly to strangers. Balance is good, and so is a comfort zone. I'm overeager to invade yours.

         The new me overspills. I vomit out comments that are sometimes a bit shocking. You know, the ones people think but don't say. Reason being: It's my way to distance myself from that overcrowded airless elevator otherwise known as shyness. I'm done with those suffocating years; I refuse to return to that awkwardness. The irony now, is I've created a new kind of awkwardness, but now it's me in control- not you. How do you like them apples?
  
Liberation.

       When I say what I feel,  I'm free. Every time I write, I gain a new feather for flying. When we stop labeling each other, we're limitless. We'll fly to the freakin moon and back, or never never land.

I've always wanted to see a mermaid.  I hate that there's no such thing... a world without labels.

      Moral of this story: Find a wall to break through.  Be careful though, don't go all Incredible Hulk on me, some walls are healthy. There are certain things inside of us that should always remain restrained, no matter what Sigmund Freud says.

     You just can't lose all control, or you end up with the hippies, living in a nudist colony, doing all sorts of drugged out kinky shenanigans.

       

            

 

Saying I Love You Without Roses

     There are so many boring ways to say "I love you". You can declare it on Facebook because it's really fun for us to read about, or you can send roses, which are totally cliché' and incredibly lame. Roses remind me of grandmas, high school, and heavy metal butt rock, but not love. My hubby gets it. He speaks my language, or I should say our language.

             He said “I love you” just the other day when he hung Ryan Reynolds on our bathroom mirror.

                                                  

         Come to find out, Mr. RR eye candy serves three purposes. He's full of daily  suggestions. His suggestions are slightly different, depending on who he's talking to.

1. To me- When I look at him he says "I want you." Then I  think "that's flattering Ryan, but Dean is still numero uno. It does feel good, however,  to be doubly wanted by two different men.

2. To Dean- He says "you can have this body if you really want it."  We do Ryan, we both really do, except my husband already looks like a Michelangelo sculpture. I don't know why he's aiming to look like you.

     What does a married man do with a body like this? I want Dean to stay Dean and Ryan to stay Ryan, there's no need for my two loves to combine themselves.

3. To us- He stirs up humor. I ask Dean if he's jealous about the way Mr. Reynolds looks at me. Dean replies "you're delusional, he's looking at me."

      Divine intervention brought Dean and I together. Seriously, we have a significant love story that started with a Hawaiian dalliance, that leaped, twisted and turned for 12 years to this domestic, traditional home of three kids, a white fence, and a now incontinent dog named Kolohe. Poor puppy, he gets weaker as our marriage gets stronger.

     When Jesus was born, a star was put in the sky as a sign and directory. I'm thinking a star was placed specifically for Dean and I to solidify our love. How's that for sappy? Seriously, I'm encouraging anyone to outdo that statement.

     There's just not enough time in our mortal lives for half-ass marriages. I fear dormancy more than drama. I'm trying to decide what's worse: a dead marriage, or a dangerously alive marriage that ends up on the t.v show "Cops." If we ever stop connecting and laughing, I'm 
insisting therapy. It will instantly reconnect us, because I'm betting therapy is funny. We love each other through laughs...it's just our way.

     I'm hoping for some interactive role playing. I want to play him, while he plays me.

    The results: him realizing how crazy he is.

      I adore the good crazy Dean; the playful uninhibited crazy, where he answers the phone as "my uncle Leroy from Louisiana."  I'm still trying to figure out where he learned how to speak like a southern black man who eats chitlins and collard greens with his hominy and grits.

      But the bad crazy Dean? My "uncle Leroy" turns excessively efficient, giving everything a two step process. I forget to turn off the lights and leave open doors and all kinds of hell break lose. That will be the crazy that televises our faces on "Cops."

     Here's how it all adds up: Me+Dean+3 kids= a mental house, but an upscale one...you know... the kind you take a crackpot to and convince him it's a resort.

     Through average, good, better and best...he's my man. My Statue of David. My Adonis. He's my little lamb and roaring lion, my sly secret agent and computer geek. He's my Rock Star...I'm his groupie. I've got my own personal Adam Sandler+brains + spirituality. Take a little Kelly Slater and add in some Brad Pitt and Kevin Bacon and you've got a taste of Dean. He tastes good, like fresh peach pie.

     It really is the little everyday things that count. Remember how I said that we show love through laughter? I pulled out a couple of our love notes to share. It is our twelve year anniversary after all. Also remember, I hate ordinary roses.

     There are no rules saying when or where to leave love notes. You might use the lunch box for an exchange, Dean used the tampon box.  I laugh every time I see this box. Again, laughs=love.

     What's funnier than five different tampon sizes leading up to the big mama super plus fit? It's my husband noticing, and further, taking the time to write it out for me. Not only do I go jumbo size to save money, but I get  the knockoff Equate brand as well. I'm cheap. 
Dean says "I don't work all day to buy Equate, and Western Family doesn't go on or in me." He's a product snob, I'm not.
  
      I never know what's coming. Then one day I look up and notice it in the mirror.  What the ....?

       I told him the truth, these were bikini cut, it says so on the label. 

       He didn't believe me. 

      I'll get him back,... I always do. He's had it coming for a long time now. I'm going to have the last laugh when he sees me in these.

     They're looking mighty comfortable these days. Nothing says "I love you" like these do.

                           Happy Anniversary Baby!

    

Media, Morals and Mayhem

           Here's the thing.....

If my children turn out to be completely bizarre and hyperactive, it's not because they have me as a mother. I was actually a very calm, gentle, soft spoken, shy child. It will be because I didn't control the television.  It starts with cartoons. 

       You might think "It's a cartoon, how strange can it be?" If you find yourself saying this, I encourage you to sit down and watch a little Cartoon Network. I watch it often, for multiple reasons. First, being it's a bonding moment with my kids. And second, well, who am I kidding, I freaking love cartoons. Saturday  morning... waking up with the sun, cuddling in front of the tube in my footsie jams. Hours of cartoons are checked off the list before mom and dad even roll out of bed. Ahhhh, good times.

       Somewhere along the way, however, "Smurfs" turned into "Total Drama Island," and He-man turned into "Almost Naked Animals." A few other titles to avoid... you might want to write this down.

Adventure Time
The Problem Solverz
Ed Edd N Eddy
Regular Show
Angry Beavers

       There is a good chance I just saved your child from ADHD and alarming weirdness.   
                                                       You're welcome.
        I can't pretend, though,  that I don't love Spongebob. I think that show's ingenious.
The guy that plays spongebob's voice probably never gets laid, but man, the character development is brilliant.  Some lame "study" suggested that Spongebob watchers have lower test scores than non-Spongebob watchers. I can't trust statistics. We don't need to run no study to show what makes them kids dumb. I can tell you right now. 

Dumb parents.

         It's not just cartoons I'm worried about. Have you noticed that every year around October, the scary movie trailers get more and more demonically demented ? Like cartoons, I love scary movies, but when did it get taken too far? Is society getting so numb that we not only seek for, but pay for these twisted movies?

          I love a good cinematic thrill, but really?  Seeing this movie would brand my name on the psychopathic spectrum. I'm not saying you're a psycho if you've seen this, I am just saying you're baby stepping that direction. As if it's not gross enough that body parts are being sawed off, it's now offered in 3D!  And if that doesn't do it for you sickos, you can rent the "uncut" version which is very misleading since everything in the script is getting cut. Gross.

         How does a mother train her child's brain to be repulsed by "explicit" images instead of enthralled by them? This is one of the many reasons I go to church. I don't want to raise a sociopath!  I need  good vs. evil, or my life is meaningless. I can't be perfect and that's o.k, but I 'm comfortable wearing these naivety goggles.  Everything around me is a pleasant shade of light gray.

        It's important to me to raise honest, hard working, morally clean children. This is why I've saved my Human Sexuality college textbook. Some images I want far away from innocent minds, but others, I plan on using to instill fear. "This is what happens when you have premarital sex...cue genital warts picture. Mary Jane wasn't born retarded, she became that way when she did the pot".

       Alright, I'm not really going to do that to my children. I just find the following

claim ridiculously  humorous: "Organized religion is used to instill fear and control." I'll tell you what O.R. is really about; It gives me structure, choice, and truth. It takes away fear, and shows me a higher level of happiness(we repeated this phrase over and over last Sunday). Truly though, the only thing I fear in life and death is regret. That, and raising children. It's enough fright to last me two lifetimes.

       If there's a God, there's also a Devil. It's the balance of nature. Every good has a bad. For everything moral, there is something immoral- and you can find it in Vegas. While wearing my naivety goggles, I had this great idea of taking the kids on a Vegas vacation. If you remember, the theme wasn't always "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas." There was a time when Vegas appealed to families.

       Here's how my decision played out. First I said "screw that" to the Vegas theme, then booked a room in the Excalibur castle. After telling my kids we were staying in a castle, I told them our plans for "seeing white tigers, humongous fish tanks, light shows, water fountain shows, rides, circus circus". They had saucer sized eyes full of astonished joy and excitement. I couldn't wait to see their first look at a casino. We see with greedy eyes while they see with video game eyes. Thrills begin early in life.

       My husband didn't share the same enthusiasm. He hates the "City of Sin".

       Regretfully, the only thing left in Vegas was my seven-year old's virgin eyes.

       He can't remember Disneyland or previous Christmas's, but he still remembers to this very day the "naked lady  on the ground". Damn pornography. It pollutes both the streets and human minds. "She had red hair" he says, he remembers every flippin detail. If he grows up and has either fears or fetishes of red heads, It will be all my fault.

      I hate pornography. It's a mother's worst nightmare. It's obvious I'm a mom. Not because I wear high waisted jeans with nine inch zippers(because I don't). I became a mother when my view of the world turned to the protection of children. It's no longer about sombody driving too fast, it's about a person who's going to run over a child. To quote my kids, it's no longer "that girl dancing on the table in her underwear." It's somebody's daughter who needs to put her clothes back on. So now my kids have seen a stripper perform in the Excalibur casino. So much for good parenting, and our castle experience. While simultaneously exiting Vegas and discussing  wrong and right with our children, I discreetly rolled down the window and gave Sin City the middle finger.

       Everyone believes differently; what a relief that is! What I think is horrible might be perfectly fine to somebody else. You can go to Vegas and become a Chip n Dale, good for you-really. Maybe your mom shows up to cheer you on, good for her. I am trying to find happiness in God and religion while you're finding it in strip clubs and horror movies. I'm not better than you, we're just different -really.

       I don't want to sound condescending, I sincerely want to meet someone who enjoys the movie Saw. If they promise not to kill me, I want to pick at their brain....but not literally.  No matter where we stand in life, everyone of us can find common ground,  something to agree on. For instance... Paris Hilton sucks, Donald Trump's hair is ugly, and reality T.V is not really....uhh....real.

      

     

        

happiness invader ( a letter to myself)

        Our frigid house woke me up early this morning. An alarm clock is more inviting and predictably loyal. My body is confused this time of year when the days are warm but the nights are cold. It's also very aggravated. No longer can it wear the bare minimum to sleep in. Every season is like a beautifully wrapped gift I'm excited to tear open. Winter, however, gets placed in the corner of the room like an overeager, neglected puppy. I prolong opening Pandora's box until Christmas, a time of giddy anticipation . I even feel sorry for tropical island residents who miss out on these seasonal gems. Winter time unwraps  like a ginormous rainbow sucker to a child. It tastes sooo good at first, but quickly turns blase'.


      While I'm decorating myself with scarves and a smile, I fail to notice this creature walk into my life.

Sandra Ronja illustration

                "Hello there, I'm depression. It's delightful to see you again."   

      

        He holds hands with the cold weather and shows his face in different forms. Right now he's packing for a visit. The image below shows his current position and residence. I'm pretty sure he's Russian. Their country makes everybody nervous. I wish he'd stay the hell in Russia.

 K-hos illustration

           Experience tells me he'll be knocking on my door by January and sleeping in my bed by February. That's what he does. He sleeps. He slothfully moves about; that is, if he can break away from paralyzing stares. He wears a robe, his day and night uniform. He'll shed his robe when the sky sheds warmth and light. A robe is one of those ambiguous items that exist on both ends of the sexy meter. He wears it at a -1 when 0 says disgusting.

     Don't feel sorry for me, I've had enough training to kick him where it counts. Lots of people experience his treachery and horror- in far worse forms than I.  I see him as more of a nuisance. A constant influenza with red nostrils and ugly skin. I can hide the melancholy, but my drab skin and hair..... is worth a fight .

     Here's the thing. I want to be a vigilante. When I saw Kate Beckinsale in the movie "Underworld", I was mesmerized. If there was only a way to become her character. She is absolutely stunning and powerful.

        In addition, she's a vampire and fictional. It doesn't change the fact that I want to wear leather capes, carry weapons, stalk the night, and hunt evil forces. The problem is, I don't want to kill people. It's very gory and unglamorous(l hear).  I want to kill werewolves. Bring it on evil flesh eaters! I want flashy adroit maneuvers and stealthiness; mother by day,stalker by night. Basically I want to become a fantasy novel. I want a wicked-awesome cause to fight for, but the cool stuff doesn't naturally exist. I'm left with a boring battle of blah... depression and anxiety. Lame.

      Tips for winter endurance and stupid happy living

                          p.s I might have to hurt feelings to get my point across

Tip 1 Control the anxiety. Depression rarely appears without anxiety first. They come in a pair. It's not only worrisome thoughts, it's that hyperactive mode your body experiences while you lay awake at night thinking "why does it feel like I just drank 3 redbulls?" Recognize this feeling and take action, or prepare to sink with despair when the jitters expire. It's easier said than done, managing stress- just do it!

Tip 2 Will power over mood power. Your mood says "I can't, I don't want to," but your will power says "I pity the fool"(or is that Mr. T?). Use that insolent will power.  Get up, get showered, and for hell sakes don't put sweat pants back on. A little make-up wouldn't hurt either. No one is vain and superficial for wearing make-up, it's the face of effort. No matter what your mama tells you, physical appearance does matter. You've got inner beauty, that's great, now grab hold of it and wrap it around your face.

         Next to do, run. Pump that heart like it's your body's v8 engine, even though you hate it. Make yourself. Getting your heart rate up takes creativity when your body has handicaps. Be creative.  Exercise your mind as well.  Just because school ended, doesn't mean your brain should retard. Read a challenging book, do a math problem(what's that?). You hate it, I know, so do I. Sometimes you have to force happiness like forcing down veggies. Find a healthy routine that works.

       Last of all, Call a friend. You don't feel like playing? Make yourself. Don't wait for friends to come to you, they might not. You create your own joy, humor, and smells- so brush before visiting. Poop smells should never come out the mouth.

Tip 3 Nothing is working? Get your butt on medication     Utah is known for Prozac and plastic surgery. Don't ask my why and don't mention it.  It's best swept under the rug like polygamy. Nothing botches the brain like neglect. Medication is the perfect jump start, and sometimes the only solution. It's very liberating, herding your emotions like cattle, taking the power back. Unfortunately, it can be very frustrating finding the right pill and dosage. Humans are not meant to act like robots. Our hearts should be warm while our brains are logical.

         Tears are precious in healthy amounts. Tears are sooo ridiculously farcical when they constantly overflow and your new name becomes "Unstable at Best". At this point there are two options, because we can't handle you. One is swallowing a happy pill, the other is calling an exorcist. One way or another that beast needs to be cast out and sent back to Russia. I just hope he doesn't take your sex drive with him. "The good news, Doctor, is my brain is fixed. Now my vagina is broken."


Happiness enemies                              Happiness Friends

Television                                     Yellow sunglasses. My world looks good, what's wrong with yours?

Twinkies                                       Music. Blast it everywhere, except Chris Isaac "Wicked Games."

Turtle necks, ewww                      Space heaters. Again....blast it.

Flesh colored panty hose,  double ewww

Did I mention sweat pants? triple ewww

The last three enemies might not depress you, but they will depress me, so don't. Just don't.

I hate advice. I hate that I'm giving advice, like I know anything. I hate that I'm in for a fight against depression and not werewolves.

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to laugh or not to laugh

           Knowing when to laugh can be very complicated . Sometimes I accidentally laugh in the middle of family prayer. Other times, I will drift off in my thoughts and laugh out loud in the grocery store checkout line. The mentally ill and I get similar looks. Really, who laughs out loud without company? Lunatics, that's who. If you are still laughing about a situation days later...you have a wonderful life and it's well worth the "crazy" label. The most notorious laughter is cracking up when a person is telling a tragic story.  I think to myself "laughing would be the worst thing you could do right now, don't freaking laugh". What naturally happens when you try not to do something?.....you do it. You become a huge insensitive ass. I laugh in uncomfortable situations because I don't know what else to do or say, it's a coping mechanism. If you fall , there is a 99.9% chance that I will laugh. It's not because you're hurt, it's the way you looked while getting hurt.

      I have a friend that roars with laughter during violent movies. It makes him creepy and me  uncomfortable. There are two situations that will never appear in my life's comic strip.
          1. Anyone being  blown away
                          and
          2. Self inflicting pain for the amusement of others.
Women agree, it's not funny. But men, don't ask me why, love to see each other act disgustingly idiotic in a painful manner(MTV Jackass). If you don't know what that is consider yourself ignorantly blessed.  Each of us have a sense of humor like our thumb print, unique. Christ taught us that imperfect people should not throw stones.You won't get a rock at your head for what I find inappropriate, but you will see me leave the theatre. I'm just too sensitive. I'll have to exchange my ticket for another flick, where zombies are blasted- not people.

      Who doesn't love to laugh? It's medicinal, it takes the edge off. You can become drunk with laughter alone. The little things make life joyful, even if they're accidental. My three year old daughter will "toot" and look directly at me because she knows I'll laugh, I always laugh. I've taught her that farts are funny, except we don't say "fart" in our house. The "f" word is not allowed. We sugarcoat unpleasant things, it's also a coping mechanism.

       "When life brings you lemons, make lemonade". I don't know who originally said this, I'm pretty sure  he or she was beaten and left for dead. Who would dare utter such phrases to a person dealing with trauma? The message remains optimistically clear however. I truly believe you can find comforting laughter in any scenario, but heed this warning- Do not repeat those words back to me if my life is unraveling...the results will be messy and frightening.

      A grandma passing away is tragic. When the cause of death is a hungry bear, it's disturbing- but it's got my attention. When grandma thinks the bears are her children, and she steps in to break up a fight, I can't ignore the humor, even though it gets the best of granny and makes me an awful person for laughing. This is a true story, I saw it on Animal Planet. It wasn't meant to be funny. The reason it's comical to me is  because I see myself in the grandma. It's like looking into a crystal ball of my future adding  years+eccentricity. Someday I will own exotic/wild animals. I have thoughts of being a falconer(seriously), but first I need to raise the children and convince the husband. Matlock and Costco are just not going to cut it. I already can't stay in the house longer than an hour. I'm apologizing right now to my children who are going to have to pry my old stubborn fingers from the car steering wheel. With my car restricted, my animals and I will begin our "walkabout". I'm going to walk directly off a cliff, straight to heaven.

      Dean and I find ourselves center stage with the kids in a lot of hilarious/ sketchy situations. When my eight year old gave himself a Dumb and Dumber haircut, I  wanted to explode with laughter just looking at him. If I did that, he would have thought his naughty actions were funny, or, he would have become extremely self conscious. It's the ultimate knockdown  when your own mother makes fun of you. So we calmly told him why we "don't cut our own hair," then, my husband and I gently shut the door and laughed our butts off at the person we had created.

     When I was in junior high, I got two words very mixed up. One word was organism. The other was the same word minus the n and i. I was telling mom about my science lesson using this wrong word and she probably wanted to laugh out loud, but she didn't. She restrained explaining, and I thank her to this very day for that. There are some things in life that are far more pleasant to find out on your own. She just said uncomfortably, "don't say that word. It's or ga nism, not asm." It took me years later to finally understand that two letters can create a significantly different meaning. I imagine my children will have many "a-ha" moments in their future.

      For Family Night Monday, we had a lesson taken straight from the book. The title was "Love is a Doing Thing". Needless to say, the jokes began flying between Dean and I until I was laughing to the point of tears and the kids were looking at us like we've lost it. We each drew names to determine which person we get to do something "nice" for. Dean got a wink and a couple of raised eyebrows when I drew his name. Sooner or later, our children will catch on and say a-ha! A light bulb will turn on and they'll curse their new knowledge. Then they'll continue the cycle of inside jokes in front of their children.

    We roll with the punches and find ways to make living fun. Life is not all about laughing and fun, but learning, love and pain need a comic companion to make it bearable.

Debunking Dr. Evil

           Satan's army is in my backyard. I went out to pick my raspberries and every berry was overtaken by wasps, aka demons. I don't think they were eating the fruit, the raspberry was bait, their  anticipated meal is human flesh.When the earth was created, Jesus did not bring forth wasps- that I am sure of. It was his wicked brother Lucifer, and I'm not being dramatic-I am stating a fact. Those hornets retreat in shadows plotting pain and fear in this football size nest.

My tree invasion

          The month of July is when I first start seeing flies. They're pesky, but overlooked. By the beginning of August they swarm on my front porch like a dust orgy. They wait for the door to open so they can fulfill their life purpose- to get in my house. I'm a bit peeved at their invasion, but I've got every child with a fly swatter in hand. I haven't been driven to madness.....yet. I've heard the scariest thing in the world is losing your mind, but once it's lost there is nothing left to fear. By the end of August I'm losing it. Flies are on every surface and I'm seeing shadows of flies. They are taunting me with every encounter, triggering a murderous rampage. My eyes are glinting in the night, rolled magazine in hand, searching for the source of the bzzzzzzzzz. The fly and it's whole Mormon, Hispanic, extended family is now in my house by September- hitting pinatas for Family Home Evening. At this point I've thrown in the white flag with tolerant disdain while they continue beating paper mache for "candy".

            I understand flies. They are annoying as hell, but opportunists. I do NOT understand wasps. They will land on a delicate baby's hand and sting her for no reason. She wasn't touching any food, invading any hive, killing any of their young. She's sitting there being angelically sweet getting stung in innocence. That is why wasps come straight from the underworld inferno.

            To get to the source of these pesky demons, we need to look at their creator. First there is the queen wasp which breeds Satan's spawn. We'll call her Hillary Clinton or Oprah. It just makes sense. Satan wants power, America is the most powerful, Satan puts his mistresses in power to control and oppress. Hillary and Oprah command America, while he works the globe with multiple other "puppets" in all shapes and forms to achieve his ultimate mission- world domination.
            Satan is Dr. Evil. The Father of Lies. He would never show his face like this.
                  
 Who would trust that? He and his mistresses take on forms like Mariah Carey. She sings about butterflies and makes egocentric videos, but I know what's up Mariah.  I'm not a conspiracy theorist, but George Bush and I are on to something big. The Axis of Evil, the brainwashing liberal media, and that shady Islamic religion.

           There are many things I don't understand about Satan. Doesn't he grow tired of being so evil? Retaining anger is exhausting. Doesn't he grow weary in the fight against righteousness? When my kids approach the "terrible twos", they kick and scream while I easily restrain them. That is what evil is to goodness, a  nagging tantrum that will never win. There will be collateral damage, a spilt sippy cup of red punch, but goodness will prevail. I've read enough scripture and fantasy novels to be certain of  this. When my child doesn't get his way, he cries for a bit and recovers to decency. When Satan didn't get his way, he took a third of the hosts of Heaven and vowed to reign on earth with pain and terror evermore. He's the number one she-devil of evil drama queens- there I said it, and my head hasn't spun a three-sixty. 

         I understand ferocious demonic anger, but not in a constant form. The Lord of Darkness is pissed to say the least. His plan of extreme communist control and selfish glory was tossed aside, and he will never receive a body of his own. He's currently on a body snatching expedition (FYI). I would be on the lookout if I were you. Maybe playing a ouija board, or drawing an upside down five-point star on the floor is not a good idea. If you choose to wear a cross, do not...I repeat, do not wear it upside down .I've watched an exorcist done on t.v and it is not pleasant. It is, however, strangely fascinating in a demented way. I've found myself a highly useful acronym SFDW.
      There are people who've decided to worship the Adversary instead of the All Knowing. The only way I feel fit to write about them is in dialogue. I call it-

           The Satanist and the Psychologist because they should go hand in hand.
Psychologist-  Again, I'm trying to understand. You are not interested in a higher power that  fulfills happiness, eternal life, joy, love, empathy, generosity, kindness and charity?
Satanist-  Nope
Psychologist- You worship darkness and seek for damnation, despair, destruction, distortion, disorder and derangement?
Satanist - Yes, the six d's.
Psychologist- That's right, because six is a symbolic number representing incompleteness.  (Long sigh) Can you describe your relationship with your parents?
Satanist- (speaks with disgust) I'd rather not.
Psychologist- ( perks up) I think we're on to something.
             Parenting is very important. Certain mistakes can mean the difference between raising a Miley Cyrus or a Marilyn Manson. Don't get discouraged though; there's a good chance Marilyn Manson wipes off the make-up, takes out the freaky eyes, steps down from the platform shoes, unhooks the gothic corset, and karaokes to Air Supply. Just as evil is exhausting, so is being freaky.
              I'm not sure if I'm testing fate by mocking evil. The last thing I want to do is challenge the master of everything unholy. Satan is real, like it or not. He's miserable and desires company. It's a bit ironic that someone so evil can feel moments of happiness, but he does. He's ecstatic when we fail to recognize our godly worth. There are certain things that try our patience and annoy us(flies), but we learn to live with them and make the most of a bad situation. Other things (wasps) are worth the battle. It's you or I, but one of us is going down, and it's going to be you mofo! The trick is recognizing the two and distinguishing that "yellow jacket" howls "demon". It gets a bit gory at that point. It starts with spraying poison. Next comes chopping, flame throwing, and smashing. A perfect recipe  of disaster and Hell deliverance. My methods are a bit eccentric, but so is Dr Evil, Drama Queen of horror.

voyeurism

         When embarrassment happens, our brains naturally look for ways it could have been avoided. At church, when I said "Thank you for your talk" to the wrong black guy, my mind went a hundred miles an hour. It chewed me out "Damn it Emily, you couldn't have looked at other distinguishing features? while also trying to defend itself  "They're both really black and dressed similarly. You're not a racist bastard, it's an honest simple mistake". It wasn't simple. Issues with race never are. When they moved away I thought two things.

                 1. Crap, there goes our city's diversity.
          and 2. Emily, you are a big friggen tall blond white idiot.

        We don't need others chewing us out, because we are our own worst enemies. If only we could change the past. "If only I had done something differently" is what everyone says. It's always the simple things we wish we'd adjusted. "If only I hadn't driven that way. If only I didn't lose my keys. If only I hadn't stopped for a coke". These are all the "if onlys" somebody thought one night when they drove by our house and looked up to see my bare husbands "you know what" modeling in front of our window.

          He says I'm the crazy one. He says "Not everyone is out there waiting to snap a picture of you naked". He opens the window and jokes about the paparazzi driving by. He laughs when I drop and roll every time the blinds are tilted. "Nobody is looking, stop worrying"! This is what he mumbles as he steps from the shower, approaches the window, and releases steam with our secrets. I'm writing this story to apologize to all the fine church going people who watch my husband at the pulpit and see one vivid image in their minds- and it's not his cute dimples.

            We live in an era of voyeurism. Not the Peeping Tom Perverts who hang at my residence, I'm talking about the Facebook/Blog stalkers. You know who you are and thank you for being my reader. I'm probably looking back at you. I love secrets, I love feeling a part of something big. I love to gawk at anything out of the ordinary. So do you. I know, because I'm driving behind you when you slow to 5mph and watch what used to be an accident, but now it's just a couple people roadside chatting.

            I don't want to see a gross butt hanging out a car window, but even more, I don't want to be the group member saying "What.....what happened". It's a fear I live with.... missing out. My lists of anxieties are becoming alarmingly long. Needless to say "Peeping Tom" is on there. That includes the sick Peeping Tomcat who overdoes it and climbs in outhouse toilets. I  feel too sorry to fear him. You can watch, just please don't grab. After looking through hunting binoculars, I'm even more nervous. Those superman eyes can see the tiniest freckle from miles away. Hunting goggles + hunting neighbors + a worry-free exhibitionist husband= perfect nightmare.

            I'm a giving person...and I'm feeling generous. It's an odd gift to hand out, but how appropriate via Internet. No one sees this, so count yourself privileged.  My gift to you is a scene that makes me love being married. It's my favorite time of night with my husband. The moment the lights go out but we haven't fallen asleep yet...............and no, it's not that.
to my dearly beloved veiled voyeurs..........enjoy
Scene starts with three distinct claps
Dean- We always talk about "The Clapper", but really, it would be a good investment. We shouldn't wait until we're old.......... Sighs with disappointment.......I'll get the lights.
Me- Make sure to turn on the fan, and tilt it up, I can't sleep with it blowing in my eyes and mouth.
Dean- Can't you just sleep with your eyes and mouth shut? 
Me- No, I really like my eyes and mouth open all night long.
Dean- What if we skipped turning on a fan, it's wintertime.
Me- That's crazy talk
Dean- You would know.
Me- begins chuckling.
Dean- Did you tell yourself a joke?
Me-I don't need jokes when you're wearing a retainer.... it will always be funny. When I see or hear it, I will laugh every time. Thank you Doctor Perry.
Dean- You think it's sexy.
Me- You're not aloud to say sex when that's in your mouth.
Dean- Grabs my neck like he's strangling me
Me-  Just remember, it's you who falls asleep first.
Dean- You couldn't choke me with those bird hands if you tried.
Me- Squeezes Dean's neck with my "bird hands" as hard as I possibly can, while he flexes his Incredible Hulk neck. 
Dean- resisting laughter at my pathetic murder attempt......You're crossing the "line" to my side of the bed... a disagreement over line issues begins. It goes on a while but ends calmly with good nights and I love yous. Sleep process starts............................................................
Me- Dean.................................................................................Dean........................................
Dean- .....................................groan, What?
Me- If we found a house for an incredibly low price and we absolutely loved it , but, also found out a husband had brutally murdered his entire family there, would you still buy it?
Dean-Yes
Me- I wouldn't. I would think about it all the time.................................begins thinking and worrying.
Dean- Falls asleep peacefully in one minute.
Me- Insomnia and restless legs begin.