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.