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.