We Don't Pee in Cups!

This delightful little memory is not actually mine, but I received permission from my sister Kristy to post it. I am recounting this as I remember you telling it to me, Kristy, so feel free to make any corrections or additions.

Kristy was scheduled to go to the doctor for a maternity checkup, and she had to take her two 3-year-old twins along with her. As part of her visit she was instructed to urinate in a cup, and she had no choice but to take her busy little twins into the bathroom with her. The boy twin was fairly oblivious to what was going on around him and was content to just play. The girl twin was much more aware of what was going on, and she watched in disapproval as her mother sat down on the toilet and began to do something very naughty: pee in a cup!

With a stern look on her face, she said "mommy, we don't pee in cups!"

Kristy put the "pee cup" on the counter while trying not to giggle, and her daughter's eyes grew even wider. She became more stern and adamant as she exclaimed "Mommy, we don't drink our pee!".

It is pretty hard to explain to a 3-year-old why it is ok for mommy to pee in a cup, but not ok for them to do the same thing. It is also pretty hard to explain why you would go through all of the effort to put your pee nicely in a cup without drinking it afterward. Thankfully, neither twin ever tried to follow their mom's bad example after that occasion (as far as I know) :D

Standing for Something

The other day, a couple of my sisters and I were quoting funny lines from a hilarious TV show that we like to watch. It has some humor in it that is "off-color" and inappropriate, but I love it anyway. I'm not writing this to make myself or anyone else feel guilty for watching it, because it makes me laugh when I really need to laugh the most. And I'm not talking about a cute little "hehe" laugh. I'm talking about the loud kind of laugh that makes me sound like a demented elf. I love the show so much that I am willing to "overlook" its inappropriateness. :)

However, something happened a couple of weeks ago that really made me think about what it means to stand for something. While my sisters and I were quoting funny lines from this particular show in a group text message, one of my sisters asked what show the line was from. Another sister told her the name of the show, then quickly followed it up by saying: "you wouldn't like it". It wasn't meant as a jab in any way. It was just a statement of fact. We all knew that this particular sister would not appreciate the humor in that television show. It was as sure to us as her very existence.

As time passed, I quickly forgot our texting conversation, but one statement stayed with me for days afterward: "you wouldn't like it". It was such a simple statement, but to me it was profoundly rich in meaning. To live one's life in such a way that everyone knows without a doubt what you stand for is such a rare feat in today's world. I have a sister who lives this way. Though she is far from perfect just like the rest of us, she is a rare beacon of light in today's lost and wandering world. While modern society is flooded with moral relativism and constantly wavering standards, my sister (and those like her), are like lighthouses in a harbor - steadfast and constant.

Thank you, sweet
sister (whom I will not name in case you will be embarrassed :), for living in such a way that no one ever has to wonder what you stand for.

Dude, You're Peeing on My Tire

I am starting to realize that some of my funniest and most random memories took place in the parking lot of the Springville Allen's. This one is no exception. Once again, I was a teenager and had driven to Allen's to pick up Alicia from work. I was waiting for her in the parking lot with my windows cracked and my seat leaned way back. It was a warm day and I was enjoying the cool breeze that blew through the windows.

I had just started to doze off in the warmth of the afternoon sun, when I was slowly brought back to wakefulness by the sound of sprinkling rain. But there was just one problem... it wasn't raining. After listening for a moment longer, it almost sounded like someone was peeing just outside my window, but that would be ridiculous. I slowly raised my seat to investigate, and to my surprise, my eyes were met with the disturbing scene of an old man peeing on my tire. I was completely horrified and disgusted, so naturally, I honked my horn. The poor guy jumped higher than I have ever seen anyone jump, but he couldn't seem to stop "the flow", and his pants were soon soiled in the front.

Now, I would normally feel really bad for making someone urinate all over themselves, but the guy really wasn't THAT old, and he seemed to be aware enough of his actions to be extremely embarrassed by them. He also seemed to be in good control of his physical movements (except maybe his bladder), so it wasn't as if he couldn't have walked into the store to pee in... oh, I don't know... an actual bathroom maybe? Also, as soon as he realized that there was someone in the vehicle that he was peeing on, he scurried into the backseat of his own car, which was parked DIRECTLY in front of my van, facing me. So he could have peed on his own tire if he really had to go that bad.

The most awkward part of the entire experience was sitting in my van while he sat in his car and we tried to avoid looking at each other. Every once in a while my eyes would dart to his face (I couldn't help it), and I would see that his eyes had just darted to my face too. Then we would both look awkwardly away. I am not sure why I didn't just walk into the store at that point. Maybe I was afraid my van would be assaulted again with old man urine. His only option was to stay in his car, thanks to the big wet spot on the front of his pants.

Before long, two cute little old ladies walked out of the store and got into the driver's seat and passenger seat of the car that the ninja urinator was in. I can only imagine how awkward that smelly ride home must have been. Meanwhile, I had to deal with the disturbing thoughts of old man pee splashing up on the undercarriage of my van with every wheel revolution as I drove Alicia home.

If anyone else has a similar experience, please share in the comments section. I am really curious to know if anyone else regularly has random things like this happen to them. ;)

True Love Is Forgiving Your Spouse for Accusing You of Pooping the Bed

I debated about putting this funny memory on my blog, because it is still fairly embarrassing to me (even though it has been a few years since it happened). However, it is just too hilarious to not share, so here it goes...

Anyone who knows me well knows that I have a sleepwalking and sleep talking problem. The condition is definitely linked to stress, because anytime I get overwhelmed, my "incidents" increase substantially. My amazing husband puts up with my crazy alternate sleep-walking self incredibly well (except for last night when he woke me up from sleep talking by rudely sleep arguing with me. Apparently my persistent and annoying subconscious habit has awakened some sleep talking tendencies in him too).

We had only been married for about 4 years, and one night I had a dream that he got up out of bed, walked into the bathroom, and came back into the bedroom carrying a towel. He laid the towel down on his side of the bed, and that is when my nostrils were accosted with a very foul odor. I asked him what he was doing, and he casually said "Oh, I just had a little accident", as he laid the towel over the soiled spot on the sheet and climbed back in bed. I reacted the same way I would have if I were not dreaming - by looking at him in disgust, grabbing my pillow and a blanket, and stomping to the living room where I laid down on the couch to sleep.

Although this whole thing was a dream, it seemed very real. Even down to the smell of the poop. In fact, it was so realistic that I had actually gotten up and sleep-walked to the living room where I laid down on the couch and stayed there the rest of the night. 

The next morning, I woke up to Kevin walking into the living room with a very confused look on his face. He asked me why I was sleeping on the couch, and I said accusingly, "Because you crapped the bed!". As soon as I saw the look on his face after I made that statement, I realized that I had dreamed it all up. I was relieved that he didn't actually have a bowel movement in our bed, but I was also incredibly embarrassed that I thought it had really happened. I wish I had a snapshot of his expression, which was a strange mixture of surprise, amusement, and irritation. It takes talent to pull off that kind of expression. I could tell he was insulted (wouldn't you be?), and I tried to pretend that I was still asleep so that I wouldn't have to admit to him that I had thought my crazy dream was real. My act didn't work though, because I couldn't hold back my embarrassed giggles for very long. Thankfully, Kevin also has a sense of humor and quickly forgave me for insulting him.

Thanks for putting up with me and all of my sleepwalking weirdness, Kevin! True love is forgiving your spouse for accusing you of pooping the bed :)

The White Roller Coaster

I promised to write a sequel to last week's "Cannibal" memory, and here it is.

Not long after the first traumatizing experience on The Magic Carpet Ride with Alicia, she and I went with my older sisters to Lagoon. I tried to warn everyone that it might not work out well for Alicia to go on any of the rides, but she really wanted to come along so of course we couldn't leave her behind.

When we arrived at Lagoon, we decided we wanted to go on the White Roller Coaster ride (which is actually a very scary ride because it is so old and rickety), and my sisters told me that I would be riding next to Alicia. They couldn't have freaked me out more if they had told me I was going to be put on the next rocket to the moon. I begged and pleaded to ride with someone else, and I admit I was not very grown-up about it. I didn't even think about poor Alicia's feelings because I couldn't get the picture of her biting my arm out of my head. If she did that to me on a dinky little carnival ride, what would she do to me on a BIG roller coaster ride?!

Finally, my sister Julie decided to be a good sport and ride with Alicia. I rode with Summer, a family friend, and we were directly behind Alicia and Julie. Surprisingly, Alicia seemed fine, even after she got in her seat and the bar came down to hold her in place. I began to wonder if my other sisters were starting to think I made up the whole arm-biting experience...

But then, the ride started, and the roller coaster made its way up its first incline at an agonizingly slow pace. As the roller coaster ascended, I noticed Alicia's shoulders starting to ascend right along with it. I could see her body physically tensing up right in front of me, and I wondered if Julie noticed it.

The roller coaster slowly rounded the top of the first big hump, and as it started to descend, Alicia's tense shoulders suddenly slackened and her entire body went limp. Julie noticed at that point, and hurried to grab Alicia's wobbling head and hold it next to her own shoulder while we were tossed around the humps and turns of the extremely rough and rickety roller coaster ride. I have to hand it to Julie, because she somehow held Alicia's upper body relatively still throughout the entire ride. Once the ride came to a stop, Alicia finally woke up (apparently she had fainted) and stepped off the ride just as shakily as she had stepped off The Magic Carpet Ride. I was very glad that Julie agreed to ride with her that time.

Although it is fun to tease Alicia about these experiences, I actually have a lot of admiration for her because she continued to go on rides until she overcame her fear. I don't know a lot of people who would do that, and I really respect her for it. You're awesome Alicia (and beautiful)!

Scents and Memories

Isn’t it funny how the faintest scent can send you back in time to a singularly beautiful, long-forgotten moment?  Once such a moment is brought to your recollection, it is hard to let it go…

I had just stepped out the door to take Shiloh for an evening walk. The air was crisp and as clean as a looking glass. We walked about a block before we could see stubbly hills, which we love to explore whenever possible, looming in front of us. Suddenly, my nostrils welcomed a faint ribbon of smoky scent and I was instantly reminded of the snowy winter mornings of my childhood. The closer I came to the rolling sage-brush hills, the stronger the scent became. I looked around for the tell-tale stream of curling smoke rising towards the sky, but there was no sign of smoke or haze anywhere. The air was as clear as a polished button in every direction. Still, the mysterious scent grew stronger and more potent as I walked.

I inhaled more deeply with each breath, and long-lost memories were suddenly flirting with the corners of my recollection. By the time my feet left the blacktop and stepped onto the crunchy dirt path, I could see my childhood bedroom in my mind. I welcomed the memory like a refreshing burst of mountain air and allowed the scent to sweep me back to the home I loved so much.

It was a cold winter morning. It had taken me a few minutes to work up enough courage to throw the mountain of covers off of my gangly body and touch my bare feet to the chilly carpet. The wood-burning stove was located on the very opposite end of the house, which meant that the bedroom I shared with my five sisters was icebox cold every winter morning.  Mother made sure we had plenty of blankets to keep us well-insulated during the night, and because we had to sleep two-per-bed, we always had another person’s body heat to help keep us warm as we slept.

We never had the courage to leave our cocoons of warmth until we could hear dad in the living room, tossing slices of wood into the fire and crumpling up old pieces of newspaper to use as kindling. Sometimes we could hear him encouraging the tiny flames with warm breath from his lungs, and other times we could hear the whooshing of the hand-held bellows as he pumped its contents into the glowing pile of smoldering paper and wood. Within moments, we could hear the deep hum of the fire as it lit up the stove’s belly and radiated its impressive heat into the room. It was only when we heard these unmistakable signals of warmth that we would courageously dart from our beds to the living room while our nightgowns or silky pajamas flapped against our thin, cold-pricked legs. Of course, we had to make it past the freezing linoleum-floored kitchen first, but as soon as our feet hit the carpet of the hallway we knew we were moments away from blissful, bone-warming heat.

I never thought about the steel-gripped cold that dad had to face every morning in order to warm the house for the rest of us. It wasn’t until later that I realized he was showing us how much he loved us by carefully nursing that tiny fire to health day after day. 

As our shivering bodies soaked up the heat that leaked from the smooth black surface of the stove, we could almost feel tendrils of smoke weaving through our tangled hair and filling up the cold emptiness of the room. I miss everything about those mornings: the sweet, smoky fragrance of burning wood, the way my nightgown felt warm against my legs, and the feeling of togetherness we all shared as we huddled in the warmth of the fire and each others’ love. All the while, the snow lay in silent, soft bundles outside our living room window and marveled at the simple joy radiating from that tiny home.

The Cannibal

I was somewhere between the sensitive ages of 12 and 14 and I had never been to a carnival without my parents or an older sibling before. Going to the Springville carnival with just my little sister was very exciting to me, and I couldn't wait to get on the first exhilarating ride.

We walked around the fairgrounds for a while, trying to decide which ride to try out first. Because she was the youngest and most timid, it was up to Alicia to approve of any ride we were going to try. We stopped in front of the Magic Carpet ride, and Alicia agreed to give it a go.

If you are not familiar with this particular ride, let me try and explain how it works. There is a long row of seats that are connected to a high-backed platform. The seats have padded harness bars that come down on both shoulders and hold you in place while also giving you something to hold onto. The ride rotates clockwise, then switches to counter-clockwise at a rate that is fast enough to give your stomach butterflies.

We sat in two adjacent seats, and as soon as the harness bars started to come down, Alicia began to panic and plead "I don't want to do this! I don't want to do this!". I thought she would be ok. I expected her to recover quickly and to enjoy the ride as soon as it started. What I didn't expect was to look over at her as the ride began to rotate and see the nightmare-inducing image of a pale ghost-like head flopping around like a rag doll. To say the sight was disturbing would be an understatement.

I let go of the harness bar, reached my hand towards her, and in a panic asked "are you ok Alicia????" She didn't answer. Instead, she leaned her head down towards my arm, and the next thing I knew she was biting my forearm with alarming intensity. I think she may have started to shake from the effort (although that part could have been my imagination since the ride was shaking us all over the place anyway).

At this point I started to scream and wave the one arm that wasn't being gnawed on by my terrified sister. The ride operator looked at me for just a moment with a quizzical expression, but must have decided that I was enjoying the ride because he just looked away. Everyone on the ride was screaming and waving their arms, so what I was doing wasn't out of the ordinary.

I continued to scream and Alicia continued to bite my arm until we finally got the ride operator's attention again. He must have noticed Alicia's awkward head angle, because his face turned to horror and he quickly shut the ride down. The other people on the ride started to boo because they didn't know why the ride was cut short. Alicia released her hold on my arm and we both stepped off the ride. We were white-faced and wobbly-legged from leftover adrenaline and terror, and the boos were soon directed at us as people realized we were the reason why the ride had stopped early.

We didn't ride any more carnival rides that day. In fact, we never went to a carnival together again, because some experiences are simply not worth reliving. Don't hate me for sharing this one Alicia. :)


P.S. Alicia is no longer afraid of rides. However, I do have a sequel to this story that I will have to add next week (The White Roller Coaster ride at Lagoon).

Water Weenie Woes

Water weenies are fantastic little inventions that can turn an otherwise boring lake trip into an exciting and somewhat dangerous adventure. Back when I was in the Springville Singles Ward (it has been over 9 years since then, which makes me feel incredibly old), my sister Tiffany and I went to a young single adult activity at Starvation Reservoir.

We had a couple of boats, lots of young adults, and a single water weenie that sloshed around and gave us plenty of bruises and possibly minor concussions as it bucked us into each other and sent us careening into the boat-manufactured waves.

I usually chose to sit next to people I knew well on the water weenie, and I always wanted to be smack dab in the middle. But there was a moment when the water weenie needed one more person, and I didn't know most of the people who were on it very well. The empty spot was right at the back of the water weenie, which was the most dreaded location because whoever sat there got flung around like a rag doll and was typically the first to fall off.

I finally succumbed to peer pressure and swam to the back of the water weenie. Every time I tried to get on, it dipped down towards the water and I slid off the back end. After repeatedly trying and failing to get onto the back of the slippery little bugger, the guy who would unfortunately sit in front of me (and unknowingly become victim to my clutziness), helped to pull me up. Finally, I was in place. I grabbed the black handle and held on securely, knowing I was in for an unforgettable ride. 

The boat's motor thrummed to life, then started to pick up speed at an impressive rate. I noticed with alarm that I was already starting to slip backwards towards the tail end of the water weenie. My handle was stretching! The handles weren't supposed to stretch! And yet, mine was, and it was sending me towards a painful and watery crash-landing. I looked down to investigate the problem, and I found myself staring right into the unexpected crevice of someone's... uh... derriere. Instead of grabbing the black handle, I had accidentally grabbed the black shorts of the guy in front of me! As the boat picked up speed, the shorts stretched out more and more and I slid further and further backwards.

It only took me a moment to realize what I had to do. I let go of the shorts and crashed into the waves. I don't know which hurt worse: my high-speed impact with the water or the sting of the shorts as they slapped back against his skin. I guess I will never know.

Everyone was pelting me with surprised questions as they circled around to pick me back up. "What happened?," "Why did you fall off so quickly?," "Are you ok?" I answered the questions without revealing what I had done. I was too embarrassed to tell anyone what had happened, and I was certainly too embarrassed to get back on the water weenie behind the guy whom I had seen way too much of. I don't even remember his name or what he looked like. I am sure I blocked it out. But I can guarantee you that if I ever get back on a water weenie again, I will be much more careful to make sure I know what I am grabbing onto before we take off.

Recharging

Being a mother is the most beautiful and rewarding experience I have ever been privileged to enjoy. But it is also the most challenging, maddening, aggravating, and absolutely draining responsibility I have ever had. The difference between motherhood and every other job that I have had is that I never get to take off my "mom" hat. My most important and constant responsibility is to take care of the adorable little monster who calls me "mama" and wipes her boogies on my shirt.

Most days I am ok with that, but some days I feel like there is nothing left of me to give. Today was one of those days. It was a day that I think was meant to test my patience, and I failed miserably. Due to a succession of sleep-deprived nights and an aggravating sore throat, I was already feeling less energetic than usual. I woke up late, had to quickly put Nicole in the tub because she greeted me with a morning blow-out, and barely had time to throw my hair up in a messy ponytail (not the cute, stylish kind of messy), then throw some food in a bag for lunch before rushing out the door with the realization that I was going to be late for work... again.

I returned home to a disastrous, smelly house that I had plans of taming while Nicole took her afternoon nap. But she had other plans. She decided today was not a day that she wanted to nap because she would rather cling to my pant legs and whine than sleep. Here is a snapshot of my day after returning home from work:

I give Nicole a snack and a drink, which will entertain her for a grand total of 10 minutes.

I frantically pull up a recipe on my computer for peach chicken while Nicole sips her water and watches Disney's Twice Upon a Christmas. I know, it's too early for Christmas. But she loves it.

Nicole pulls on my legs. Chicken juice covers my hands. I can't make it to the sink to wash my hands because she won't let go of my legs. She cries. I try to entertain her with nursery rhymes while I waddle to the sink dragging my angry cargo. Rinse, lather, rinse, then pick her up with dripping wet hands. She stops crying.

I try to put the rest of the ingredients together while holding a squirming child. I spill soy sauce on the counter and peach preserves on my toes. I mutter under my breath a few words that I am not proud of, then bend over to clean preserves off of toes. I accidentally bump Nicole's head on a kitchen drawer. She cries. I start to sing "Mooh Brothers' Farm" to her. She stops crying.

I give her two animal cookies (she prefers to have one in each hand), then gingerly set her down on the deck with the door propped open and slowly back away when she doesn't cry. I finish putting ingredients together and finally get chicken cooking on the stove. It is so blissfully quiet. Too quiet. I don't want to investigate because I'm enjoying the silence, but I know I must. Dark potting soil is scattered across the deck and part of the kitchen floor. Nicole is squatting next to it with brown fingers, brown feet, and a brown mouth. I sigh.

I clean her up, sweep up the mess, and let her play with the broom until she hits herself on the head with the handle. She cries. I pick her up and play "flying baby". She stops crying.

I remember the chicken. Frantically, I put her down, lift the lid on the stove, and gingerly prod the chicken with a fork. Tough as nails. Nicole pulls a pot lid out of the cupboard and it lands on her foot. She cries. I cry too.

Kevin gets home and I escape like an animal that has been caged for years and can't wait to be free. I desperately need to recharge. Computers, iPads, and cameras need recharging, and it turns out that moms do too.

I take Shiloh for a  walk in the rolling hills behind my house. You see the rounded hill poking out between that clump of trees? That is the destination I am aiming for. Night is creeping in, but I am determined to make it, as if reaching that destination will somehow help me erase all of my failures today.

While I am walking, I notice that the terrain is so varied. Some spots are smooth and the dirt creates puffs of powder beneath my tromping flip-flops, while other spots are littered with stones that threaten to twist my ankle and make me lose my footing. Kind of like life. Kind of like today. But that solid hill looms steadfastly in the distance, never wavering.

 

Finally, I get there. I have stubbed the same toe several times and Shiloh is dragging behind me in exhaustion instead of running in front of me, but we make it. I realize that I am still strong, even though I have felt weak and defeated all day. I can still do hard things.

I make a wish on the sliver of moon, then head back home - ready to be the type of mom I want to be. I just needed to escape for an hour and forget I am a mom, wife, employee, homemaker, and horrible cook. I just needed to become a tiny speck on a hillside and let myself recharge.

Sunday Musings: The Power of Music

Music is a glorious medium of communication that can be understood much easier than the spoken or written word. It has a way of entering the heart and soothingly convincing even the most calloused souls to embrace it and to feel something change inside of them.

I feel extraordinarily blessed that music has been an integral part of my life for as long as I can remember, thanks to my musical parents and siblings who have been blessed with incredible talent. Primary songs, Raffi, nursery rhymes, and oldies such as "Moon River" and "You Are My Sunshine" created a mosaic of music that touched my childhood heart and will forever have a special place in my old, weathered treasure chest of memories. Later on, my brother's beautiful hymnal arrangements would weave themselves into my life and my being as my sisters and I sang them together for sacrament meetings, firesides, and around the intimate setting of our childhood piano. Music has continuously enriched, enlivened, and empowered my life, and I am forever grateful to everyone who helped infuse a love of this incredible art form into my young and impressionable mind.

A few Sundays ago, I sang one of my favorite versions of "I Stand all Amazed" (by Michael R. Hicks) in Sacrament Meeting. I had practiced meticulously for weeks, until I felt that my voice was strong and clear even on the "high notes" (which would not be high for the average singer, but I am undeniably an alto and quite incapable of singing moderately high musical pieces). I wanted to execute the song perfectly so that I could effectively convey the message and hopefully touch someone's heart.

But even the most well-intentioned musical plans can be completely destroyed when you throw emotion into the mix. You know the "ugly cry" face that happens when you completely lose your composure? Well, there is also an "ugly cry" voice. Emotion can make the voice crack, shudder, and squeak on high notes. And once you lose your composure as a singer, you can forget about getting it back (except for one woman I know who defies this rule. Her name is Heidi, and she has always had the superhuman ability to sing like an angel, even when tears are literally pouring down her face). I had only begun to sing the second verse when I felt the dreaded "ugly cry" voice coming on.

I tried with all my might to block the emotion, but my voice started to wobble as I sang the words:
"I marvel that He would descend from His throne divine
To rescue a soul so rebellious and proud as mine".
Memories of past mistakes and the absolutely indescribable feeling of being swallowed up in the Savior's merciful forgiveness came to mind. How could I sing such beautiful words without feeling them in my soul?

And then, these words from the last verse put me over the edge:
"I think of His hands, pierced and bleeding to pay the debt.
Such mercy, such love and devotion can I forget?"

With a trembling voice, I barely sang the notes on-key. I started to feel panic as I realized that I was no longer in control of my vocal chords. Somehow I managed to regain some semblance of composure as I sang the last few lines with conviction: 

"No, no, I will praise and adore at the mercy seat
Until at the glorified throne I kneel at His feet.

Oh, it is wonderful that He should care for me enough to die for me!
Oh, it is wonderful, wonderful to me".

As I sat back down on the bench, I felt defeated. I felt like I had not been able to convey the message of the song because I did not sing it perfectly. Kevin was very sweet and told me that I had done a good job, but I was not convinced, and I was disappointed in myself. I had failed.

But the next day, Kevin told me that a neighbor had said that the song was "moving". I have never heard more beautiful words. I realized at that moment that although my performance was greatly flawed, the spirit had been there to cover up my mistakes and carry the pure meaning of the song into the hearts of those who were listening. I cried over that simple compliment, and I thanked God for music. Because even though imperfect vessels are used to play it or sing it, when the spirit is there, the message of the music is perfect.

So, if you tend to beat yourself up over an imperfect performance like I do, do not underestimate the ability of the spirit to cover up all mistakes when you sing with your heart. Music is powerful like that, which is one reason why I love it.

You Get a Massage WHERE????

My older sister Kristy is an avid cyclist. Not only does she love the feeling of competing with herself and others, but she gets completely swallowed up by the rush of pure freedom that she experiences while riding. Although I am not nearly as good at it as she is, a small amount of her excitement and passion for the sport have rubbed off on me and we have both entered cycling races together. These races have proven to be some of the most challenging, painful, and rewarding experiences I have ever had.

One of the races we signed up for a few years ago was a relay race for women called "Pamperfest". Touted as a fun and challenging race with some pampering and relaxation thrown in the mix, it was greatly anticipated by female cyclists across Utah and beyond. Cyclists looked forward to receiving a massage or relaxing with their friends as soon as their portion of the race was over.

Some of my co-workers had heard me talking about my preparations for the race, and one of them decided he wanted to find out more about it during our weekly Operations Meeting. There were about 8 of us gathered in one office, giving updates on specific tasks that we had been assigned to complete for the week. During a lull in conversation, Paul asked me "So, why is the race called Pamperfest, Shelly?"

Without even thinking, I responded "Oh, it's called Pamperfest because you get a massage between the legs". Now, anyone who has ever entered a relay race before knows that each section of the race is called a "leg", but apparently that is not common knowledge among individuals who do not enter races. I noticed that the room had suddenly gone very quiet and that my co-workers were looking at me strangely, but I wasn't sure why so I continued talking. I even noticed that my boss, Fred, had broken eye contact with me and looked down at his hands with a silent, surprised expression.

After a few seconds, another one of my co-workers, Jens, bravely interrupted my continuous chatter by exclaiming with a laugh "Woah, Shelly!". I looked at him with confusion for a moment, then everything suddenly made sense - the troubled expressions, the raised eyebrows, the surprised glances flickering back and forth, the shock that plunged the room into complete silence apart from my rapid and oblivious rambling. As the realization of what they thought I had meant hit me like a brick wall, I felt smoldering lava creep up my neck and engulf my face in merciless heat.

I quickly threw my hands up and stuttered through my sheepish smile "No, no, that's not what I meant! I meant that you get a massage between each leg of the race!!"  Immediately the tension in the room shattered as everyone laughed in simultaneous relief and genuine amusement. The comical incident became a favorite good-natured jab and was brought up quite frequently for months afterward.

So, if you have ever had the burning question "why exactly is it called Pamperfest?", now you know!

Happy Friday everyone!!!!

Uh... Can I Help You?

Growing up, my siblings and I often had to perform small duties in exchange for the privilege of driving my parents' attractive minivan around. :) One of the duties that I had to perform every so often when I was a teenager was to pick my little sister Alicia up from work. She usually came right out to the van as soon as she saw me from the grocery store window, so I would pull up close to the sliding doors and wait for her.

One day I pulled up to my usual spot, and soon afterwards the passenger door opened. I looked over, and to my surprise, some strange guy who looked like he was a couple of years older than me started to get in my van. My initial reaction was panic. I was clearly being carjacked and was certain that I would soon be held at gunpoint and demanded to drive to some secluded location that would end up being the site of my demise. I contemplated jumping out of the van while I still had a chance. But then I realized how nonchalant the guy was as he got in the van and shut the door. It was obvious by his demeanor that he clearly thought I was someone else. When he realized that his driver wasn't going anywhere, he glanced over at me, then visibly jumped when he saw my face. The next few moments were a blur, but I clearly remember that he did not say a word to me. He practically jumped out of the van, slammed the door, and hurried back into the store. He was SO FAST!

I immediately realized the humor of the situation and burst into laughter. Alicia came out soon after that and told me that I would have to wait for her to bring in the rest of the carts before she could go. She asked me why I was laughing and I explained to her that I would tell her when she was done.

I knew it would take her about 10 minutes to bring in all of the carts, so I pulled into the first available parking space, rolled the windows down, and leaned my seat back so that I could relax while I waited. I kept giggling periodically at the thought of how silly that poor guy must have felt.

I had only been parked there for a few minutes when I heard a male voice say "Yes, I got in her car! I thought she was you!" then I heard another male burst into laughter. A little imp in me wanted him to know that I had heard him, so I slowly raised my seat up so that they could both see me smiling through my open window.

The young guy stopped, inhaled deeply, and whispered (quite loudly) "Oh my gosh, that's HER!". The older man who was with him (who I learned later was his father), laughed even harder at his son's embarrassment. Imagine my surprise when I realized that I had parked right in front of their van! So, of course they had to come right up close to me in order to get in their vehicle. The younger guy was beet red and he completely avoided looking at me as he climbed into the passenger side of his vehicle as quickly as he could. His dad could barely contain his composure as he came up to my window and said between chuckles "my son is too embarrassed to say so himself, but he's really sorry if he scared you". I was laughing too as I replied "It's ok, that totally made my day!".

As they drove away, the young guy finally mustered up the courage to look out his window and give me an embarrassed smile. It's funny how one person's most mortifying moment can be the best moment of an entire day for someone else.

Brown Is Beautiful

I used to despise my brown eyes. I would look in the mirror and wish they were blue or green or hazel, or basically any other color but brown.

To me,  brown was boring, bland, and barf-worthy. 

Maybe it had something to do with the fact that one of my brothers used to tell me:

"Your eyes are so brown because you're full of crap".

Yeah, I'm pretty sure that had something to do with it. Associating your eyes with feces is bound to make you a little self-conscious about them. 

Of course, it doesn't help that almost every song on the radio that even mentions eyes at all seems to obsess about blue ones (except for the song "Brown Eyed Girl" by Van Morrison, which I absolutely love).  

When I was pregnant with Nicole, I used to lay in bed with my hands on my rounded belly and imagine what the little soul who lived there would look like. I crossed my fingers and hoped that she would look a bit like me, but without my icky brown eyes. 

But then, she was born, and everything changed. Staring into her eyes was like looking into a mirror, and for the first time, I realized that brown eyes are beautiful. Her eyes inspired me to write this:

Her dark, soulful eyes are the color of a mature red oak 

and the impossibly rich and fertile brown earth of a Japanese field 

on a mist-drenched morning.

Like the smooth, unassuming surface of a cocoa bean

and the soft, warm fur of a chocolate-colored bear lazing in the warm sun.

Like a forest floor littered with crunchy fall leaves

and muddy, sacred waters that give life to a parched African desert. 

Brown is blissful. 

Brown is brooding. 

Brown is beloved. 

Brown is beautiful. 

Happy Friday!

I have a long-standing tradition of giving and receiving funny emails and pictures on Fridays, which naturally makes it my favorite workday of the week. Now that I have a blog, I get to share some of my very favorite Friday giggles with the rest of you.

This one hits close to home because I just discovered last night that I had run out of my favorite root beer ice cream bars (a.k.a. Kevin ate them all ;).


For all my friends who have been wondering what the secret to happiness is, here is your answer...

I don't know why, but this one threw me into a giggling fit and it took me a while to recover.

Happy Friday, everyone! The rest of the day is waiting for you to make it yours.

The Monster in Our Minds

My little sister Alicia and I were inseparable growing up. At any given moment, we were either fighting violently or playing Barbies for hours (and I mean HOURS) in our room. We weren't allowed to have any boy Barbies, so we cut the hair off of some of our girl Barbies in order to turn them into makeshift boys. We were very imaginative. :)

If we weren't playing Barbies, you could typically find us outdoors, running like crazies in the yard, jumping on the trampoline, or frolicking on the mountainside where we lived. Yes, I just used the word frolicking. Deal with it. :) The world was our playground, and we took full advantage of the fact that we were fairly isolated in such a gigantic and mysterious wonderland. However, when the sun went down and the last of the evening light faded, we were more wary than usual due to the fact that mountain lions, coyotes, and other terrifying creatures lurked in the shadows of the same mountainside that we lived on.

One evening Alicia and I were outside after the sun had gone down, and we wisely decided that it was time to go inside for the night. We began making our way up a small walkway covered in rocks and pebbles that wrapped around the side of our house when we both suddenly stopped dead in our tracks. Shhh! What was that?? There was an unmistakable sound of a footstep behind us. We stared at each other in breathless silence, wondering if we had imagined it. After a moment, we heard it again, only this time it was two footsteps, and they were coming towards us!

I don't know which one of us panicked first. We may have both panicked at the same time, because in an instant we were screaming and running down the walkway towards our house like two terrified bats out of hell (it's not a swearword when used in that context, right? ;). Due to our intensely freaked out state of mind, all of our attention was on the monster that was following us rather than where we were going.

Suddenly, we were both flying unexpectedly and haphazardly through the air. We had simultaneously tripped over the beastly lawn mower that was left out on the walkway. Before we knew it, we had landed in a tangled heap of screaming, shivering terror. Scrambling like ants from a hot fire, we managed to get to our feet as dad came tearing out of the house to investigate the commotion. We blurted out that someone or something was chasing us, while tears of fear and pain clouded our eyes. Dad quickly went to investigate while we ran into the house.

Moments later, he came inside, chuckling with amusement. To our utter relief and simultaneous mortification, we found out that the bajeebies had been scared out of us by... wait for it....

a frog.


Definitely not the proudest moment for either of us.

Jesus, Wait!!!!

Don't worry, this post isn't sacrilegious. It is, however, one of my most favorite humorous memories of all time.

This story starts out in a very ordinary way, about 9 years ago when I was working at R.C. Willey as a cashier. It was a particularly busy day due to a special promotion that was going on. For every $500 spent, you received some sort of free gift, although I can't recall what the gift was during that promotion. 

On this particular day, a cute and very professional saleslady (I won't reveal her name in case she somehow ever reads this blog) was working. I heard rumors that she was one of the most successful salespeople there, and it was easy to see why. Hard-working, demure, friendly, and attractive, she had a faithful following of "Willey" regulars.

However, on this busy day she seemed to be a little flustered as she tried to take care of all her customers' needs. She brought back a Latino customer and handed me his invoice so that I could ring him up, then thanked him graciously and walked hastily away. I pulled up his account and asked him to confirm his name. It was Jesus (pronounced "hay soos"). I rang him up, handed him his invoice, and he was soon on his way towards the exit at the front of the building. 

A few moments later, the cute little saleslady ran breathlessly up to me and asked if the man had left, because she had forgotten to give him his free gift! I pointed to where he was rapidly approaching the front door, and she started to walk hastily towards him. After glancing down at his name on a copy of the invoice that she held in her hand, she looked back up, reached her arm out and yelled (in the English pronunciation) "Jesus, wait!!!!". He continued to walk towards the exit, so she started to jog while waving her arm and yelling more desperately "Jesus, WAIT!!!! WAIT, Jesus!!!!". Of course he didn't react to her at all, but she was getting plenty of reactions from the other customers in the store. People stopped dead in their tracks to watch the crazy saleslady who was clearly having some sort of hallucination and believed that Jesus was leaving her alone in this cold, cruel world. The saleslady was so stumped that her customer wasn't responding to her that she didn't even notice she had become the sole focus of everyone's attention. 

Of course, I knew what the customer's name really was, and I was sitting in the back crying with laughter as I watched the spectacle unfold before my eyes. Finally, a fellow salesman had pity on her and laughingly told her to stop yelling. He whispered something in her ear and her face turned from complete confusion to absolute embarrassment as she looked around at her unexpected audience. She took it very gracefully and laughed right along with the rest of us. Jesus never did get his free gift, but the rest of us got a memory that we'll never forget.

Sunday Musings

Today was a refreshing and renewing type of Sunday - the kind that prompts you to sink your feet into the cool grass and look up at the sky while tiny raindrops splatter your face. So, that is exactly what we did, until heaven unleashed its fury and the raindrops became the size of marbles. Then we scurried inside the house and continued to watch Mother Nature's impressive Sunday evening show through our windows.

But before that, I had a soul-filling day at church. It was one of those Fast Sundays that made an indelible impression on my heart and made me think of things in a new way. The recurring themes: gratitude, and changing one's life for the better. It seems like there are others who have also decided it is time to wake up and remember what is really important in life, and it was inspiring to hear their stories.

As I sat there on my comfortably padded bench, I briefly entertained the thought of going up there myself and sharing some of my feelings and beliefs. But as soon as the thought entered my mind, it whirled around and ran away with its tail between its legs. Public speaking makes me want to lose my lunch, and when I do muster up the courage to walk up to the podium, what ends up coming out of my mouth sounds a lot like somebody's lost lunch. Word vomit. Public speaking is definitely not my strong point. But that's ok, because today was a day to "fill up my bucket", rather than trying to fill up someone else's. Sometimes Sundays are like that. And those are the Sundays we tend to remember with our hearts as well as our minds.

Take That, Random Stranger!

Have you ever scared a random stranger so thoroughly that they literally appeared to be on the verge of a heart attack? I have. And I didn't even apologize. Cut me some slack though, because I was barely a teenager and I was absolutely mortified. Here's the story.

My sister had recently given birth and was still in the hospital. Mom and a few of my other siblings (I can't recall which ones) visited her one afternoon. As we were getting ready to leave, mom left before the rest of us to get in the car. We made our way to the parking lot a few minutes after she left, and I noticed our vehicle idling near the hospital entrance. Being the weird and obnoxiously energetic young teenager that I was, I ran up to the driver's side window where my mom was sitting with her head lowered, banged my hands on the window, and smashed my face against it while making some type of grotesque noise. I expected to see my startled mother looking back at me, but instead my eyes looked right into the terrified face of some random woman. Her expression was a mixture of horror and complete confusion. I could almost hear her eyes screaming "Why????". I think she may have peed herself.

Meanwhile, in my absolute mortification, I could not figure out how to react. So... I just walked away. I literally walked away with no hint of apology on my face and no outward sign of remorse even though I had just died a little bit from embarrassment. I can only imagine the stories that poor stranger had to tell about the heartless young girl who nearly gave her a heart attack in the hospital parking lot and then simply walked away with complete indifference. 

Life Is Hilarious!

My first post isn't remotely comical, but I felt it was important to write it. Life is so beautiful and hilarious and tragically glorious, but I have been missing out on all of it for a while. Sure, I was enjoying little moments of fun and experiencing happiness regularly, but I was slowly starting to lose myself to the pressures of life. Without noticing, I began to suppress the more creative and life-loving part of myself in favor of the more studious, hard-working part of myself that wants to get the debts paid off and the house clean. But I am tired of being entirely that person. I am ready for a rebirth of the person I used to be. The thought makes me giddy with excitement, and I want to share some of that excitement with the people I care about.

So, this blog is dedicated to those I love the most and who love me the most, despite my flaws and my annoying habits. This blog is for all of you who have continuously asked me to write down the funny happenings of my life so that you can laugh along with me. Heaven knows the world needs more humor, inspiration, and moments of free-spirited glee, so I am pledging to share at least one uplifting thought or smile-inducing moment every week. Let the journey begin! :)

Waking Up

I have been sleeping for a while. For years I have slowly allowed the stresses of life to overwhelm me and sedate a piece of my soul that I absolutely adore. I became so busy making a living that I forgot to live. REALLY live.

Since I have slipped into my slumber, the same sun has always risen each morning, but I haven't taken the time to appreciate and revel in its blazing and glorious beauty. The same winds have blown through my backyard trees, but I have been temporarily deafened to the way they whisper through the leaves as if revealing some precious secret that only the sincerest and simplest souls can hope to understand. The same enchanting world has surrounded me, but I have not allowed my heart to feel its calming and enlivening presence. Life has continued on, as beautiful as it ever was, but I haven't even noticed it. I have been sleeping.

But yesterday, something awakened in me. Perhaps it was the change in the weather and the crisp, pure winds that tousled my hair as I baby-stepped down a pebble-littered sidewalk with my beautiful daughter. Maybe it was the way her eyes lit up when several birds dive-bombed each other in free-spirited play before lighting on the branches of a gently swaying tree. It could have been the way the thunder clouds billowed in absolute power and enveloped the mountains that stand like sentinels over my modest home, or the scent of the falling rain as it washed away the earth's regrets and left it laying naked and pure like a newborn baby - the way my soul felt at that moment. 

I can't put my finger on it exactly, but something has slipped into my heart, pulled back the covers of indifference from my mind, and awakened a beautiful spark of who I once was. I played with my daughter without inhibitions yesterday, and I looked at my husband through grateful eyes and with renewed love. I have a long way to go still, but I am waking up. And life is beautiful.