Ferret Inspiration

Today I received  inspiration to write again.

Here's what my awakenings look like:

Since I'm ridiculously gifted in parking(both in the front seat and back), it wasn't placed on my vehicle. When this little gem caught my attention, I meddled my way to the car in front of me.

Should I take it? Leave it? Was the parking worth the card?

The car was positively guilty, so I left it with slight hesitation.

What if this card was somebody's final straw? I know my breaking points are far less circumstantial.

I sporadically muse over that odd phenomenon; why I can keep my cool through shattered glass(literally) and come unglued when crumbs hit the kitchen floor.

I assume it's a coping mechanism, and our brain goes into precise zombie killing mode when needs be. But other times...

The tension sneaks up on you like a crazed ferret searching for  blind- folded eyes and a feeble guard. The sly weasel then metamorphosis into an unmoving white minivan and a near freeway exit being missed.

SNAP! Your uncooperative, nonsensical brain's been invaded.

Privates are clawed and dignity seiged, when the only escape is a foolish one: like flipping the bird.

Super lame and completely cliche',

 unlike my newly formed metaphor.{wink}

If the card had looked like this, I would have taken it without hesitation.

Any sensible adult should know that
#1 you should never eat twinkies or dingdongs,
     and
#2. you can get your point across without being a total douch bag.

 I had a long, drawn out talk with my kids about the difference of being aggressive, assertive, passive aggressive, and passive. The same thing goes with drivers. there are three types of drivers:

1.The a** hole driver
2. The respectful driver
    and
3. The idiot driver

To prove that lessons can be taught with character(and they need to be taught, because how will we ever learn?) I decided to make my own parking card.

 Even though the "ferret" card delivers truth with humor, it's still a bit borderline passive aggressive- and I would rather pull out each eyelash one by one, then be in daily contacts with a confirmed passive aggressive.

There's no reason to beat around the bush in a demeaning manor.(I hate that term, but I'm forced to use it for lack of originality)

First off, I must replace the ferret with a lizard since:
 A. I do not wish to plagiarize,
      and
 B. There's a greater chance a lizard's going to be on my lap, since Dracula(my pet bearded dragon) is my homeboy, comrade, and accomplice. If I had a motorcycle side car, he'd be next to me with goggles and a helmet. If anyone's going to claw my privates, it's gonna be Dracula(or Dean, or let's be honest, all 3 of my kids who've climbed on (exposed) me in church, like I'm a freakin playground).

                                                        Enjoy, happy parking.

Lipstick

I purchased some lipstick today. I used to wear it regularly, until a comment left me thinking it was too “showy”. Apparently you’re a hooker or attention craved if you wear dark lipstick. In the 1940’s it was the classy norm, but the morals just weren’t as high as they are today.

I’m a mom over thirty who still loves to skateboard. I cruise around my neighborhood, buried behind my hair, wishing for a nighttime rock less ride, all while avoiding eye contact with anyone who’ll  think I’m being“showy”.

Maybe I should wear a mask. Like that one from the movie scream...? But I would totally fall if I couldn't see.

My daughter stood up at my son’s first grade program and started shaking her booty to the music. It was the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.  My admiration quickly turned mournful. Why? Because self-awareness and social anxiety is what she gets to look forward to. The rule book is very conclusive on appropriate ways of attention, especially here in Utah Valley.

My fuchsia streaked mom hair is not on that list……sigh…….Short and fluffy-ok, pink-no way.

It’s all good though; in about 40 years I can do it a light shade of purple. On top of that, I can wear what I want and grab who I want. Old people are erratic  and that’s okay, they’ve earned their way.

Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe I worry too much and assume false things. Maybe there is no judgment, and that teenage egocentricity “everybody’s looking at me” just never wore off. 

The truth is (I hope)…no one is looking. If they are, they’re just trying to see around my big fat tall head. I consistently pick the wrong things to fret about.

I tend to learn appropriate behavior through trial and error. After finally finding a good looking picture of myself in a swimsuit, I eagarly turned into “Jojo the idiot circus boy,” and posted it to 100+ people on Facebook.

Unbeknownst to me at the time, I entered myself into the “I’m too sexy” club. You know, those gals who post pictures of themselves trying to look hot. The thing is, they are hot, we freaking know you’re hot since like 200 pictures ago. 

Uh well, you live and learn,

and try to love yourself while remaining modest.

I believe in the practice of modest modesty. I think of modesty as a steak or suntan. It can be underdone or overdone.  Finding the perfect level of “showy” can be perplexing, but when it’s discovered…

Its harmonized loveliness…pull it off the grill. 

I’ve learned a thing or two in my thirty-three contemplative years. Here'a the way it works living behind the zion curtain:

This is bad showy

This is good showy

                                                                   But what is this?

                                                                            Pull it off the grill.

caution to the wind

How do I know that optimism thrives on this planet? Because somewhere out there a person thought to make wind chimes. They took the most pestering form of nature and turned it into something pleasant. Tinkling hollow tubes  hang freely to inform us every time Mother Nature is pms-ing.

I think she’s resentful of fun and happiness, because it’s the picnics, parties and weddings where she turns the most sour and cranky. Anytime joy and celebration show up, she’s right beside them, fervently trying to maintain a wicked balance.

Is it a bit dramatic to say I hate wind? Can one really use such a fanatical word to describe a natural element? Perhaps this very instant someone is cursing the sun.

 Just like the sun can turn the walking dead to an impotent pile of ash, wind can furiously destroy a city … simple as that.

She might pleasantly deceive you a bit, but don’t underestimate her presumptuous power.  It starts with a cool breeze in triple digit temperature, then ends with dreadlocked hair in strangling form. Paper plates turn into Skynet frizbees, and napkins go all Alfred Hitchcock “The Birds” style.  She waits for chaos to turn frantic before she perversely swirls and twirls up your skirt, impregnating you with unexpected embarrassment/anger. It’s a great look for Marilyn Monroe, but how many pictures are just punctuated fabrications?

Here’s the bright side:  we’re opportunists. We buy diamonds from enslaved child soldiers, and combat wind into windmills, sailboats and kites. The bright side of a disaster is business…disaster relief. Someone is always making it big from unfortunate situations, and so it goes…

Optimism.

You’ll have to forgive my rant.  I’m still dealing with last weekend’s molestations.  It started like any other horror flick; a tap tap tapping on the window and a husband opening the door despite his wife’s earnest warning. I’ve heard the story “Thump Drag” enough times to know you don’t open the door unless you want to drag around bloody stumps.

He still opened it and surprise….nothing.  That nothing emerged to our shocking dismay the following morning.

What the hell???!!!

Not only do I feel violated, I feel like should go door to door collecting money for cleaning up every flippin tumbleweed in a ten mile radius.

Dean blames himself for the neglected Christmas tree he left in the corner. The weeds started fooling around with it, and one thing led to another… I tried to make him feel better by telling him it was only half a Christmas tree. I was slowly hacking it up and disposing it with every garbage day.

My choice in wording didn’t comfort, it only added fear to his guilt. For a disaster like this to end up on our lawn!?! Let me elaborate. You know those people who have lawn so lush and green and manicured to unnatural perfection; the type of lawn you want to pee on cause it bugs so bad? That’s typically our lawn.

Needless to say, he wasn’t too excited about me sharing this photo. He mumbled something about white trash blah blah blah, my wanting an above ground swimming pool and firepit blah blah. Scrap wood nailed together looks trashy, blah, blah, blah.

It comes down to this: Dream catchers block out nightmares, rabbit feet bring good luck, and I don’t choose to live in Utah to be surrounded by “The Hamptons”.  Fence regulations, tree house restrictions, and people who make 100 g but act like they make double  turn me way off.

My estate resale value adds up to free choice, which I redeem priceless. It’s an additional bonus if the neighbors aren’t child molesters. Hell, toss in some chickens and beehives and you’ll fit right in here.

If only I could do something about this recent bloody wind.

My picture above serves dual purpose. It sacrifices image for the price of humor, and inadvertently recruits a support group. A shout out to my friend Randy who was blown into the curbside trash can and courageously rolled down his steep driveway; to the Reary’s who purchased a new bb-q only to have it blown and smashed to bits; to everyone who’s trampoline dangerously took flight, and to all the unlucky, who have a Bermuda Triangle trash receptacle like me.

This post is for you xoxo

Interview with an angel # 2(words of wisdom)

(It all starts with rock climbing. While free solo climbing the Yosemite half dome…my angel

appears and  scares me half to death, literally)

Me  Could you pick a more inconvenient time to materialize?

Angel  This could very well be the most ludicrous thing you’ve ever done, rock climbing at three thousand feet without a rope.

Me (wrestles rock with deep, breathless concentration) The decision’s already  been made. Your opinion might have been useful when my feet were grounded (lifts straining muscles two feet higher). What is it with heaven and bad timing, seriously?

Angel (floating parallel) What is it with humans and bad decisions? We lead and guide you for what, senseless, erratic behavior? We even give you the Word of Wisdom.  It’s a shame we’re going to have to add common sense next to drug and alcohol abstinence

Me  (grooaan) Can we further discuss this on the thank God ledge?

Angel  That’s a bit irreverent don’t you think?

Me  No, it’s the name of the ledge; but it’s more than a simple title. There’s never been a better time and place to thank God. He put this majestic rock here for our benefit. He then created us with arms and legs, and opposable thumbs. There’s absolutely no way he didn’t expect us to partake of this delicious beauty.

Angel  But you’re playing Russian roulette with your life. I’m so tired of humans taking good things and turning them bad. Two kids start playing with a toy, then one kid gets selfish, and both end up crying and damaged. The parent is then forced to remove the toy and command that no one touches it. I’ve seen it a million times. Your kind will always be children.

Angel  It comes down to this… we can tell you, we can beg you…use ropes! The question is whether or not you follow direction. C’mon, is it really that bad to use a rope? Something to catch you if you fall, a little life insurance? It might even delay you from the two unstoppable grim reapers: heart attack and cancer. On top of that, we deliver absolute assurance: Follow the word of wisdom and you become (surprise) wise! You will run and not be weary, walk and not faint…I promise. It’s completely celesto.

Me Celesto?

Angel It’s just a word we use in heaven. Kind of like cool, but not so prosaic.

Me  (cracks open a Redbull upon ledge’s arrival) O.k you’re right, I’m in, how do I do better?

Angel  (eyes my hand) You know…caffeine is one of the most addictive drugs don’t you?

Me (pause),(double pause)Tell me you’re joking! But it gives me wings! It comes back to the opposable thumb thing again; they climb mountains and hold enticing beverages (raise thumbs).  Here’s for energy in a bottle! It might be the determining thing that gets me up this mountain. Energy like this can only come from something divine.

Angel  I want you to think about that word, enticing. Now think of the word smitten. Nothing good will entice, then smite.

Me (not listening) Furthermore angel- whose name we need to discuss, Is perfection possible? Who always goes to sleep and arises early? Who always eats meat sparingly when there’s a Rodizio grill nearby? And moderation on the Mcdonalds dollar menu? It’s a dollar!! The whole family is fed for like $6.49!

Angel  The spiritually strong , that’s who. Anyone who says “I control my body and not vice versa.” That guy below you in the red hat ( points downward), his Word of Wisdom chart has perfect marks. You saw him drive in the park; you know, the guy with the white minivan that has those stick figurines in the back window that show off his rich posterity. (Beaming) He’s so delightful, Gary and his six children. His wife Debbie stays home and cooks those lovely casseroles from those homegrown chicken eggs. And their little boy Charlie, (chuckle, chuckle) that little rascal tried to bring the hose in the house yesterday…

Angel  (recovers) What I’m trying to say is… you may not believe me that there’s a rattle snake nesting ten feet above you, but believe me when I tell you this… You will be blessed beyond imagine, and have no regrets with following the Word of Wisdom.

Me  I do believe you, you’re an angel, how can I not?(sigh) First thing’s first, no more of this bodily contamination. (chucks can over the ledge)

The Redbull spirals downward, landing right on top of Gary’s head. It splits open his red hat and skull with one fatal blow.

I ignorantly keep climbing.

Seven minutes later I avoid the rattle snake, thanks to my lucky guardian angel, but quickly I’m attacked with extreme fatigue. Near the top of the dome, my foreign drowsiness misguides my calculated judgment and I botch the final hold.

                                              Down

                                                        Down

                                                                 Down

follows my grinning angel.

Interview with an angel #1

Bright light fills room

Me: Oh my gosh, what’s happening?

Angel: I am your angel, and what is gosh?

Me:… nevermind…wow, I  have an angel…I don’t know what to say.

Angel: I’ve come for an interview; this will be an ongoing thing.

Me: For everyone?

Angel:  No, Just you. I’m appointed to you, but I can’t protect what I don’t understand.  Long story short, I got permission from the man in charge.

Me: Did I do something bad? I really want to be good, I work so hard to be charitable.

Angel: That’s part of the issue, you automatically assume you did something wrong; you probably saw my angelic light and thought condemnation came here to strike you. It didn't. I’m here to understand, not to judge.

Me: Well, you could read my blog, I over share plenty on that. People know way too much about me, it gives me a complex. For instance…anything fishy going on, a weird look, people whispering, a church leader calling to see if I still want to teach the women, I assume it’s the blog on their brain and I’m being judged for my strange little mind.

Angel: But you still do it, even though it causes distress?

Me: Funny right? I’m an anxious impulsive. The anxious tells me no and the impulsive tells me yes. Impulsive is quite vigorous, she’s a sneaky cheeky little devil. To sum it up, I’d rather jump off a cliff then stand there being worried. But I am afraid of heights, so I hope not to encounter one.

Me: Actually, scratch that, I changed my mind.  It would be awesome fun if I somehow had an assurance that my parachute would work properly, you said you were a guardian angel?

Angel: We’re talking about you here and why you’re so hard on yourself. You’re a good person, a mother of three, a giver, a tender wife. You married one of the best people I know of.

Me: I can’t argue you there, but angel, am I really good? Let’s take something small for example- like swearing. Depending on swear usage, I find bad words extremely funny, especially from the wrinkly mouths of old people.

Me: On top of that, I have such a hard time with people who compare their strengths to my weaknesses. We all have them, weaknesses and strengths. I find sharing my weaknesses very refreshing, like I’m doing the world a favor saying “it’s ok, we’re all in this together.” Vulnerability is straight up beautiful honesty. Too many people show only their perfect side, and I know there’s a human in there; I intend to find it.

Me:  If those weaknesses are addressed, they can become strong right?

Angel: It’s one thing to admit fault, it’s another thing to embrace it. You’re not going to start cursing in church now are you?

Me: Heavens no, I’m always trying to be better. Let’s make a compromise. I promise to only say words that are written in the Holy Scriptures.

Angel: I’m good with that, but there’s a difference between the way ass is used in the scripture, and the way you intend to use it.

Me: snicker ,chuckle chuckle

Angel: Oh great, it’s happening again, you did this when you read aloud in Sunday school last week; way to be real mature. 

Angel: Ass is a donkey for crying out loud.

Me: chuckle snicker snicker

Angel: You done?...

Me: It’s not just swearing, you see. It’s my husband. He’s always there, getting his way, riding my ass.

Angel:  GASP, ( look of shock)

We both glance over to my pet donkey trotting by.

Awkward silence…

Me: So about that cliff again…

weakness to strength

I’m inspired by mental retardation.  Differently abled people; they’re amazing.  I have unimaginable stories-all because I’ve worked with these angels. They really are God sent.  They’re here to teach, humble, and give us the dead honest beautiful truth. It’s gotten my "special" sister fired from her job, and put me in numerous uncomfortable situations, but I understand her well. We all want to ask polygamous people why they dress so strange and take random bites of other people’s food.

I admire the fearless. I admire the adorable Down syndrome boy at the gym, wearing headphones, and singing his bicycling heart out. I can’t even count the amount of times I’ve wanted to burst out in song while running. It would be exhilarating. Two of the most empowering phenomena’s are music and exercise. It’s like combining peanut butter and chocolate while watching the climax of a firework show. Breathtaking moments are the red diamonds of life, but don’t forget to breath; I’m told that exercise without breathing does all sorts of effed up things to your body.

It’s our damning fear and lack of motivation that holds us back. We could become anything with fearless motivation.  Every serious rock climber will hit a moment where he/she is physically stuck. It’s a frantic moment where there’s no place to grab and your body is physically rendered useless. The average person lets go and drops, but the driven will push with everything lacking, and even scream out an unattractive grunt while somehow making their body miraculously leap. It’s that same adrenaline God-given power that runs marathons and labors natural birth; it’s pure empowerment.

It’s the kind of fight I want in my life. It’s lack of fear and motivation in its finest glory.

Why am I writing this Tony Robbins blog post? Because I’m running low on spunk.  I’m a slowly deflating balloon in an all too familiar routine.

That is…until I saw the overzealous peddling Down syndrome boy I’ve named inspiration.

I now have aim and focus; I plan to arise early in the morning and make my children pink heart shaped pancakes before they’re off to school. It will be the perfect way to start my soap opera watching/ coke zero drinking days.

I don’t really watch soaps, but I could swim in the amount of coke I drink. I might as well be labeled mentally challenged with the abundant soda I consume. In my experience with differently abled people, they are unique, but one thing remains accurately constant…a love obsession for pop.

I do love soda.  I’ve also driven away with the gas tank hose mid penetration, and bought an impulsive, no good Florida vacation from a “telemarketer”.  Nobody’s perfect. We have to look optimistically at our strengths, and we all have them.

I’m amazing at peddling a bicycle.

 My hubby and Kurt. This picture makes me smile

for so many reasons.

Force fields

In the battle of good versus evil, our living coordinates just obtained an extraordinary advantage. It all started with a bedtime prayer of a six year old. Kid’s prayers are so honest and funny, especially when they ask for a “force field around our house that keeps out bad stuff”.

Why would God say no to that? It’s not like he’s asking for a star wars cloud car.

 With our newly, God given, secured headquarter, we’ve already won half the battle.  A stable base gives us the upper hand, allowing ambush to any lurking enemies. I’m a full time homemaking mother bird. I’ll protect the nest until my eagles take flight, and then hope I’ve taught them well.  It’s quite foolish to leave a barrier of safety, and purposely walk in harm’s way, but… so are the ways and flaws of man.  We curiously play with fire/mischievously walk into danger/intentionally explode stuff… and so it goes.  For being the planet’s highest intelligence, we can be pretty stoopid(that’s stupid in its lowest level).  I’m not necessarily complaining; it’s fun to blow stuff up…then call it a holiday. But, nothing harmful enters my home. That is my mission; that is my non- paying/ all rewarding job.  A new “force field” means less room for failure. Thank you force field.

Now I need a new doormat.  It will candidly read “welcome past the force field.” That's if you make it past. It’s a multifunctional courtesy giver/evil eliminator; cut and dry, just like that.  I’ve been sleeping alone and waking up scared ever since Dean’s been traveling.  Being raped is horrendous, but being stabbed is what tends to circle my mind the most.  I sleep closest to the door, meaning:  even if he is home, I’ll be stabbed regardless. But, if he’s present, my stratagem is to take the first blow, enabling him to get to the gun and ammo (hidden in the other room), load the gun(bullet whereabouts unsure), then finally shoot the bastard( all while in the dark). Oh, and he’s a sound sleeper/possible liar whose never even heard one of our three babies cry in the night.

It was an extremely flawed plan…until the force field. My no longer concern of a homicidal bedroom intruder allowed for a peaceful night sleep with a smile. Thank you force field.

So what’s good, and what’s evil? It’s an entertaining philosophy to dwell on, especially when you live in a morally black and white community.

Let's consider monkey's, our closest human relatives.

In India it’s illegal to kill monkeys. They are considered sacred. Consequently, they roam in packs causing madness and mayhem. Attacks happen daily.  Entrepreneurs will hang around high monkey areas, bandaging up the wounded for money. They appear cute and playful, which makes anyone smile, but a smile shows teeth, which challenges the monkey. Before you know it, a wailing hairball devil with fangs is atop of you, clawing your eyes out with his soon joining pack of ruffians. 

Monkey business means breaking in houses, stealing stuff, ransacking your garden, hanging your underwear in trees, and any other sort of molestation.

Am I saying monkeys are evil? No, that would make me insane. They are God’s creatures like you and I. Do I want to live amongst them as neighbors- no, that’s also insane. To allow them prosperity while they inflict damage and pain? Again, it’s insane. To regard these animals as sacred? Who are we to say? It’s insane to force belief on anyone.   A law being broken, and people blasting them at first sight?…

Super crazy insane.

I’ll tell you one thing that's not insane…

Force fields.

Relief Society Renegades

January brings about optimism and great bodies.  I’m aiming for the second title of Mother Theresa, while Dean is fighting his way to spin class. January at the gym is an absolute nightmare, but it dwindles with goal setting come March, and dies completely with next year’s holiday season. Then it renews its yearly cycle.

It’s the same with charity. Every Christmas I want to give, give, give, than slowly the homeless and fundraisers become an irksome sigh.

How tragic, the cynic I’m becoming, but here’s to new beginnings, hope, and dreams.  There will be much service and bike riding on our list of things to do as soon as the gym bicycles stop being swiped like crispy crème donuts, and people stop being so dreadfully intolerable so I can serve them.

In all seriousness, I love all different kinds of people. I thank God every day for people in all their variety, like chocolates. I love the normies, the strangies, and the uptighties. Thank you to the two minorities and handful of gentiles who moved into my neighborhood, taking a chance with us Mormon whities.

We have a women’s service program in our church called the Relief Society. It’s a phenomenal program that would change the world if it could be thoroughly distributed. I have two women who are put in charge of my well-being, and in return I get the privilege to serve two more women. It’s like the ultimate chain letter of charity.

 We are asked to look after and report on the girls each month, and if anything goes wrong…a whole entire altruistic compassion pose’ might end up on your porch cleaning your house and making you meals. We freaking love to serve. Why? Many reasons.

For starters, it fills my heart with warm fuzzies. In addition to that, my file in heaven is pulled and a golden star sticker is placed by my name. When I start gossiping or flipping the bird at other drivers, another star is placed, but it’s black, charred, and branded upside down to my chart.

 Enough of those wicked stars, and my file is passed to the dark side where the Master of Evil figures out what to do with me. I’m 99% sure it will end with taking an eternal math exam in freezing temperatures, while a baby cries in my ear and I’m forced to chew on a squeaky balloon.

And that is why I’m aiming for the golden stars.

The problem I face, is that people(especially in my community) love to appear entirely self-sufficient and flawless. We all seem to have picture perfect families, and nobody wants to admit that they could use a helping hand.

Another issue, is the dullness that comes with a task. I feel that my visit each month is a chore that my girls endure, allowing me to accomplish my duty. Yuck.  If I’m asked to do something, suddenly I no longer want to do it.

I want to fight bad guys in the night with an alternate identity, but let’s be realistic, the vigilante dream needs to stop. I don’t even carry a gun for starters- it creeps me out. I do, however, carry a knife, and I’m looking to slice and dice something- A little FYI if you happen to read blogs and rape people.

What if… I snuck around at night, but did service instead? I still want to wear a mask, but I’m unsure of a cape- it’s a bit gay. Yes I say gay, and I like homosexuals. I mean it like the adjective gay(cheery, but used in a sarcastic manner) an English word used before homosexuals stole it away and gave rules to its usage. I apologize, but I’m going to have to take your rainbow as well. How about a trade: a marriage certificate for your seven united colors of alternative lifestyle? I just want to put it on my car without assumptions, and say gay without worry of prejudice…that’s all I want, seriously, that and superhero abilities.

I want to creep around like a service elf. You’ll wake up, and your house is “magically” clean. I’m watching and waiting behind your door, vacuuming only in thunderstorms, doing your dishes, feeding your crying babies, washing your nasty clothes. With every smile in your refreshing morning,  I’m getting another gold star. It’s a double win situation and adrenaline rush; a cure for the do-good excitement junkie.  You think someone is in your house at night…don’t worry ‘bout it, we are, the RR…Relief Society Renegades.

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!