Once I Was A Beehive, Too...

After seeing this movie, I can’t resist sharing some of my own Girls Camp stories.

(Actual excerpts (and drawings) from my junior high journal.—Pretty sure the statute of limitations has run out so I can’t be arrested for any of these shenanigans!)



7/25
We took off early this morning for Brighton Camp. I love being in the mountains! The hike up Hernia Hill was a lot easier than I remembered last year. Someone's little sister came along this year...complete with a plastic purse.

Cherubic Little Sister

When you first get here, everybody sits up on the rock and sings songs, and hopes they get one of the coolest counselors. My cousin is a K.D. this year and said she warned the entire camp about me in advance.

Our counselor is Krispie (as in Krispie Kritters cereal). She’s fantastic. She has a steel-string guitar and can play almost anything on it. The latrines are called Skunk and Daisy.

Two of the really popular girls are in our unit. Believe it or not, the four of us have a pretty good time together. We had a little dispute over the bunks though. We settled it by taking turns and rotating who sleeps on the top bunks every night.

In the afternoon we hiked down to Silver Lake, and after a couple of other games, we played “Grunt, Piggy, Grunt.” (Everyone sits in a circle, and someone is blindfolded in the middle. The blindfolded person sits on someone’s lap and says, “Grunt, Piggy, Grunt.” The person whose lap it is says, “Oink! Oink!” and the blindfolded person has to guess who it is by the sound of her voice. )

Now that in itself is hilarious. But Patches (the other counselor in our cabin) decided to play a joke on one of the girls who was “it” (blindfolded). Every time that girl sat on someone’s lap, Patches would run and stand behind that person and say “Oink! Oink!” so no matter where she sat, she always heard the same voice oinking back at her.

At dinner we had some rangers come, and Pippin came out in a sequin gown singing, “Here comes Smokey Bear, here comes Smokey Bear. He’s got a hot date. Here comes Smokey Bear, here comes Smokey Bear. He made the rangers late.” (Sung to the tune of “Here Comes Santa Claus.”)


7/26
We went on a breakfast cookout this morning with Dusty’s unit. It was awful. The only thing worth eating was the sausage. I wouldn’t have been able to guess what the pancakes were if no one told us beforehand.

I ditched the craft house this year and brought along my sketchpad instead, to draw the mountains and the trees. Then I went out on the cabin porch and wrote in my journal for a little while.

7/27
This morning we had certification. Second Years had to light four types of fire. Marie and I stuck a couple of matches under our pine needles, so ours just flared right up while everyone else was struggling to get a flame. Mine was a regular bonfire!

After certification was First Aid. Then we had our lunch cookout. It was fantastic. Marie and I are now the designated firebuilders, so we don’t have to do any of the other chores. We had triple-layer pizza in a dutch oven, salad, garlic bread, and chocolate pudding cones. Krispie and Patches got in a chocolate pudding fight and starting smearing each other with pudding. They looked so gross afterward, everybody took pictures of them.

We were supposed to be painting rocks for our “Brighton Buddies” when we noticed some girls were burning garbage in the incinerator, so we snuck away and tossed some firecrackers in the incinerator. That was a blast! (Literally.) No one was harmed in the performing of this prank.

Then our unit challenged the other unit to a game of “Paper Charades,” where you run into the counselors' room to get a word, then run out and draw your clues instead of acting them out. (I guess this was pre-Pictionary!). Then we had our dinner cookout—Cheeseburgers. It was good, too.

Tonight we had an Indian Ceremony on Century Rock.


7/28
This morning we left on an all-day hike. To start us out, Trix read something Helen Keller had written: “If I could see…” Then we split up into partners. One was blind-folded and the other had to lead her, and describe things for her, and let her feel things, etc. I had to lead Marie first. Then we traded places and she guided me. It was great.

The hike wasn’t very hard at all. We went up past Twin Lakes to the saddle and Twin Peaks. It was really beautiful all the way up, but whoever said “the best view is from the top” knew what they were talking about. I wish everybody in the world could have the chance to see that. Notice everything and appreciate everything. That’s what the things in nature were put there for.

Since this week was “Easter Week” at camp, we all made “Easter Bonnets” and had a parade. Pippin was the commentator, and the camp directors were judges. Marie made a tin foil soldier helmet and won first place in our unit.

Most of the skits were really funny, but the only one I can remember is ours. You can tell I wrote it, just by the title—“Senior Citizens Romper Room.”  I was Great-Grandma Julie, Carolyn was Bigga Momma Stroganoff, Marie was “Mrs. Butterworth,” etc. We started out with “Sharing Time” (Show-and-Tell). Marie used Ember’s “Angry Doll” and said she used it when she was mad instead of yelling at her grandkids. Carolyn had a stuffed frog and said it was an old family pet they preserved after it died. Somebody else had a traffic sign and said they picked it up as a souvenir when they were crossing the plains.  After “Sharing Time” I said, “We’re ready, Grandma Music,” and we sang:

When upon life’s mountain you are over the hill
And you think the time has come to start your will
Count your many grandkids, name them one by one
Trying to remember them is lots of fun!

Then I announced that we were going into the kitchen for warm milk and prune juice.

After dinner and skits we had Testimony Meeting (where we share our spiritual feelings). We all went around the circle saying whatever we wanted to, and everyone started crying, and blowing their noses (except for me). I wasn’t going to say anything, because I really didn’t have anything to say that would benefit anyone, but everybody else did, so I decided I’d better. I talked about my experiences in Washington, D.C. and people I’d met there, and their view of Mormons. One of them asked if I was in the Mormon Tabernacle Choir! When I was almost finished, something came over me and I couldn’t say anything else. Not even “Amen.” That night I think I prayed more sincerely than I ever have in my whole life, and I just started to cry, and I couldn’t stop. Nothing like that has ever happened to me before.


7/29

This morning Krispie asked us to do some creative writing on our feelings here at Brighton. It took me a long time to even get started, and a lot longer to finish. I’ve had some great experiences this week.

Our cabin was the only one that didn’t get TNT (Tops and Tidy). We all had to go up and finish cleaning it after lunch. I was in charge, but I couldn’t see anything wrong with it, so we just moved all the sleeping bags off the front porch, and it passed.

At the farewell assembly, all of the counselors sang. Then Petunia bore her testimony, and Pippin told the legend of the Pine Cone. Then the counselors said goodbye and passed out the name sheets (with all of the counselors' real names—Krispie is Holly Richards. Her younger brother goes to our high school next year.) Everybody started to cry—then they sang some more and we got on the bus.

The bus driver got mad at us because we were singing two different songs at the same time at the top of our lungs. This is one of my favorite songs (the one that really made the driver mad, too):

Old Mr Jones, he had troubles of his own
He had a yellow cat that just wouldn’t leave his home
He tried and he tried to give the cat away
He gave it to a man who was going far away

Chorus
But…the cat came back, the very next day
Oh, the cat came back
you know they thought he was a goner but
The cat came back
He just couldn’t stay away…
no, no, no, oh-oh-oh-oh, no, no, no, no…

The old man next door said he’d shoot the cat on sight
He loaded up his gun with nails and dyn-O-mite
He waited and he waited for the cat to come around
Ninety-nine pieces of the man was all the found

Chorus

The H-Bomb dropped just the other day
Somebody was trying to blow the cat away
China went, Russia went, and finally the good old USA
Everything was dee-molished…

Chorus

When we got to Marie’s church, her brother Mark rode over on his bike and picked up our duffel bags. (Thanks, Mark!) Then Dad picked me up at their house.

I keep thinking about last night’s Unit Prayer at camp. Krispie talked about a lot of things, but the thing I remember best is a story she read. It’s like a journal of a baby before it is born. You should have heard that story when Krispie read it. It really changed me.

The Missing Confession

Earlier this week, my friends at The Living Room aired a show called, “Confessions of Motherhood.” I was absent for this recording--and felt somewhat relieved I didn’t have to share my most embarrassing moment or deepest flaw on internet radio. I was perfectly happy to be traveling and painting instead.

Then a beloved friend texted me the following: “I’m listening to the most recent TLR podcast, and I am noticing that you didn’t confess anything. I haven’t finished it yet. But now I’m thinking that maybe you really are a perfect mother because I can’t think of anything you should confess either.”

Hahahaha!

Please allow me to put any such delusions to rest once and for all.

Here’s my official confession (although I’m somewhat horrified to put this in writing):

A couple of months ago I hosted my book group at our house. We read a wonderful YA novel, Signed, Skye Harper by Carol Lynch Williams and—miracle of miracles—the author was joining us in person! We could hardly believe our good fortune.

I spent a good chunk of the day cleaning the house, preparing raw food (one of our members has cancer and is on a special diet), and getting ready for the event.

Our family breeds Shelties (shetland sheepdogs) and the last puppy had just been sold, so there was some extra cleaning and mopping to do, as I put away the puppy crate, washed mountains of extra towels, and turned the laundry room back into a place where we actually wash and iron our clothes. 

When it came down to the final vacuum, I did every inch of the main floor—even the stairs and behind the couch—but when I suddenly glanced at the clock, time was running short. I looked at the dining room and thought, no one has eaten in here this week, and quickly ran the vacuum alongside—but not under—the big harvest table, then rewound the cord and put the vacuum away.


Guests arrived, people admired the display of food and the lovely antique dishes (my grandmother’s) we used for the occasion. The author was seated at the head of the dining room table, and was regaling us with stories of not cleaning her house, joking about how the neighbor kids thought they might catch a disease. I could hardly relate—I’d been cleaning for what seemed like the entire day.

Then about midway through the evening one young mother put her toddler down on the floor. He was exploring, crawling under the dining room table, then stopped, and sat still with some sort of treasure in his hand. His mother cooed, “Oh, what did you find?” just as he was about to put it in his mouth.

To my complete mortification, in his chubby little fist was a piece of puppy poo.
That’s right. The one spot I left unchecked and unvacuumed was the spot where, unbeknownst to me, the little puppy we sold that morning had chosen to relieve himself.

I slid back my chair, made a mad dash for the kitchen for tissue and towels, and apologized over and over again to this sweet mom.

But the damage was done. I doubt she’ll ever even set foot in my house again. At least not with her baby in tow. For all I know the entire book group has already made a secret pact to exclude me from future gatherings.

My friend who was texting me about being perfect doesn’t know this story...until now. Still listening to the podcast, she texted, “Ah. just heard that you weren’t there. I still think you’re perfect.”

So, CB—this one’s for you.
—Oh, and you’re welcome.

To underscore the fact that I don't judge you for any little imperfections at your house, check out this post. And in the comments, please share some of your most embarrassing moments so I don’t feel quite so terrible about myself.   :)

Twelve Gifts: Music and Metaphor

From What Think Ye of Christmas

Last weekend my bonus mom gave us four tickets to the Messiah Sing-In. It’s been a long time since we’ve been to one. But in this post I alluded to why this is such a favorite and long-standing tradition for our family.

The first time I went to the Sing-in was on a date (see, I told you it was a long time ago). I had broken my front tooth the day before (long story) and since it was Thanksgiving weekend, I could not see the dentist until the following Monday. I looked like a walking jack-o-lantern, which would have been great if it were Halloween, but a little scary for the Christmas season. I painfully tried to carry on a scintillating conversation with my date while covering my mouth (and my shame). This was completely ineffective. And it was impossible to keep my mouth closed at an event where you sing for two straight hours. This ranks at the very top of the list of my most embarrassing dates of all time.

However, it was a great story to tell the kids on the way to the venue, miming the silliness of singing in public while attempting to cover my front teeth with my upper lip, looking like I had any number of physical and mental impairments. 

It was all silliness aside once we arrived at the venue, which was flooded with serious musicians, faithfully carrying their personal scores. We made a mad dash to the sales table in the lobby to purchase two ourselves. We made it to our seats with just a few minutes to spare. The orchestra warmed up, the soloists arrived onstage in their tuxes and glittery gowns, the conductor took his bows, and the music started. 

We followed along carefully in the score, paying rapt attention so we wouldn’t miss any of our entrances for the chorus. We not only read but heard the whole scriptural story of the Messiah sung to some of the most beautiful, elevating music of all time. Scriptural passages from Isaiah and Malachi, starting with the prophecy and birth: 

Comfort Ye my people,  

And the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, 

But who may abide the day of His coming? 

Behold a Virgin Shall Conceive, 

For behold, darkness shall cover the earth, 

The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light, 

For unto us a child is born. 

Glory to God in the Highest, 

Rejoice greatly,

He shall feed his flock like a shepherd,

His yoke is easy.

The next section is about the atonement, crucifixion and resurrection.

I soon realized that because I was singing along, a participant, I was much more involved in the story; I was living it:

Behold the Lamb of God

He was despised and rejected of men

Surely he has borne our grief and carried our sorrows

And with his stripes we are healed

All we, like sheep, have gone astray

By the time we got to the magnificent Hallelujah chorus, I was so moved I could barely sing at all, for the lump in my throat and the tears streaming down my face. There is something so powerful about adding your own voice to a chorus of thousands, all united in singing gloriously unbridled praises to God. 

The final section, the promise of eternal life, begins with I know that my Redeemer liveth. As the soprano’s voice rang out it was reaffirmed to me that I, too, know that my Redeemer lives. I love and adore Him. It was a joy to sing the final choruses: 

Thanks be to God

Worthy is the Lamb

Amen

The music is supremely difficult. It is complex and moves rapidly, sometimes so fast you can barely keep up. Everyone makes mistakes. Even the amazing tenor from the Mormon Tabernacle Choir sitting next to Jeff. But there was something so redemptive about singing in a chorus of thousands, some more gifted than others, all doing our best, listening to each other, attempting to be unified...and the mistakes are swept away. They literally disappear and are swallowed up in the chorus. 

The whole experience is a metaphor for grace: Life is hard. It is complicated and often feels like a runaway train. Everybody makes mistakes. Even the very best of us. But Christ in his infinite mercy places us in the company of other good-but-flawed people who are also doing their best. When we listen to each other, and focus on Him, the result is not only unifying, it is miraculous. We become one and we become His, and our mistakes are washed away. 

What a powerful way to usher in the season and spirit of Christmas—three generations of us, all sitting together and singing our hearts out about the mission and birth of the Messiah, and witnessing His grace in the very doing of it!

When Ugly Isn't

A few years ago I met with a new client named Brian who was in charge of a large retirement home. After our meeting he took me on a tour of the facility. As we waited for the elevator, an adorable little old lady approached us.

"Hello, Mrs. MacFarland," Brian greeted her. She returned his greeting with genuine sparkle.

As we stepped into the elevator together, I smiled, extended my hand and introduced myself. She looked up at me and said, "Well, you're awfully pretty. Really. Very beautiful." Caught a little off guard, I thanked her awkwardly, unable to get over the way she made such a fuss over my looks.

We walked a little further through the facility, then Brian casually commented, "You know that lady in the elevator?" I nodded. "She's legally blind." (ba-doom-ba!)

I laughed about that one all the way home. Perhaps it was my inner beauty she saw? But the irony wasn’t lost on me either. In fact, it stung a little. Because for most of my life I’ve been carrying around a pretty heavy ugly complex. I inherited this complex from my mother, who was strikingly beautiful, but also felt she got the short end of the stick when it came to looks.

BUT.

In the last six months, two things have made a difference for me. Not changed the way I look. But changed the way I feel about how I look.

First, this book.

Precious Bane, written in 1924 and somehow overlooked as a classic (but clutched tenaciously by those who value great literature, including C. S. Lewis) has some of the most beautiful, poetic passages you can ever hope to read. Set in Shropshire, England in the 1800s, it’s a fairy tale of operatic proportions. There is love and hate, lust and innocence, birth and death, fire and flood. The heroine was born with a cleft palate (hare lip) for which she’s despised and accused of witchcraft. Yet she never gives up hope of being loved and cherished. While her brother allows his obsession with riches to poison and destroy him, Prudence rises to a shining level of wisdom and grace. Ultimately, one wonderful man sees beyond her physical flaw to her radiant inner beauty, and it becomes a love story that is powerful and unsurpassed. How I was engulfed in the pages of this marvelous book, where a woman is loved for what she truly is on the inside, rather than for how the rest of the world sees her! This is the kind of love story I’ve always believed in: True beauty rewarded with truest love.

Next, this talk, by a modern prophet.

When Thomas Monson rose to speak to a large group of women from our church, a palpable hush fell over the crowd. Toward the end he told the story of Mary Bartels, an innkeeper of sorts, who rented a room to a shriveled, misshapen old man whom many had turned away. Over the years she came to know and befriend this man, and discovered he had a generous and humble heart and a beautiful soul. Besides the symbolism of the innkeeper, this is the part that undid me:

After the man passed away, Mary was visiting with a friend who had a greenhouse. As she looked at her friend’s flowers, she noticed a beautiful golden chrysanthemum but was puzzled that it was growing in a dented, old, rusty bucket. Her friend explained, “I ran short of pots, and knowing how beautiful this one would be, I thought it wouldn’t mind starting in this old pail. It’s just for a little while, until I can put it out in the garden.”

Mary smiled as she imagined just such a scene in heaven. “Here’s an especially beautiful one,” God might have said when He came to the soul of the little old man. “He won’t mind starting in this small, misshapen body.” But that was long ago, and in God’s garden how tall this lovely soul must stand!

This reached me on such a deep level it unleashed cathartic sobs. I felt a power and a soothing in his words, as if God Himself had spoken them directly to some deep hiding place in my heart. And some healing happened. I left that grand, sweeping room feeling almost beautiful.

After all that, I'm sure you can imagine how fondly I'm looking forward to hearing him speak again this weekend. Tune in if you get a chance. You’ll never know what all those inspired words could do for you if you don't stop to hear them.

________________

And now, we have a winner to announce: Random.org chose LisAway -- who also won a book in my December giveaway -- to win the signed copy of Miss Delacourt Has Her Day by Heidi Ashworth. Lisa, the book gods must hold you in high favour! Next, the set of "Miss Delacourt's Roses" notecards goes to Patty Ann. Hopefully one of my wonderful readers also won the original painting over at Heidi's blog. But if not, don't despair. I have more notecards and giclee prints available through my website. And I'm always just an email away.

Beyond Baby Tenderlove

One Christmas my younger sister and I both begged and pleaded for the only toy on the market we wanted that year: Baby Tenderlove. Somehow the name alone evoked every maternal sentiment in our chubby little preschool bodies and we longed to snuggle that sweet babydoll more than anything else we could think of. We were thrilled on Christmas morning when we each opened our very own Baby Tenderlove, ready to rock, feed and put to sleep!

I did not feel that way again until I was pregnant with my first. As the months of expectancy went by, I found myself longing once again for Baby Tenderlove--not the plastic doll, of course, but my own fleshy baby that I could dote on and love the way I did when I was four or five. Dreams of quiet snuggling, humming and rocking to sleep, and deep tranquil tenderness were in the forefront of my consciousness.

The baby came and suddenly I woke up. I got many serene moments with Baby Tenderlove. But I also got Baby CriesAllNight. Baby HurtsToNurse. Baby MakesAMess. Baby SlipperyWhenWet. Baby ProjectileVomit. Baby ExplodingDiaper. If I were writing a marketing campaign for a newborn for new mothers, it might go something like: “Eight toys in one...some of them frightening and dangerous.” I would also add “providing even the wildest thrillseeker with a heart-pounding emotional rollercoaster.”

And it gets better. Because Baby Tenderlove also grows up. It morphs into such creatures as Toddler DestrucoUnit and Kid NeverEverMind...and even TeenTransformer/AngryMonster and TeenageMutantNinjaHormones.

I’m not the only one who was disillusioned in this scenario. I’m sure Baby Tenderlove expected to be born to Mama Tenderlove. Yes, I expected to BE Mama Tenderlove. (I also thought I’d be a cross between Mary Poppins and Maria von Trapp and Olivia Walton.) Instead, sometimes I was Wicked Stepmother (push buttons to hear her wretched voice!) and Distracted-Working-Mother (bang head on counter to get her attention).

But then there’s a whole other toybox called Serendipity...sweet, unexpected surprises. For example, I was not prepared for the wonderfulness that is Baby HeavenScent. Ah, what would I give to bury my nose in the neck of a newborn! Also, I was completely caught off guard, over and over again, by Baby MagicLaugh. There aren’t sufficient words to describe the joy of a baby’s belly laugh.

And now, when I look at our son graduating from high school, tall, confident and handsome, knocking not just addiction, but also the academic world with his astronomic GPA; our daughter in the throes of her freshman year, forming new friendships, wrangling signs of first romance, and wantonly signing up for various sports teams, unafraid to make a fool of herself; and our youngest running off the field, all sweat and smiles, rinsing off his dishes without being asked, sitting close enough to touch when we read together at night; when I step back and look past the messy details there is one salient emotion that is always strongest when everything settles: It’s overwhelming. It’s transcendent and sublime. But it’s best described as tender love.

In-N-Out Healthcare Reform

I had the powerfully annoying and mind-dulling experience of dealing with three separate government institutions over the past couple of weeks (feel free to send sympathy cards): The Driver License division of the DMV, the County Court system (umm, yes, because I had the extraordinary good luck of getting pulled over ON MY WAY to the DMV to get my license renewed!), and the U.S. Postal Service (The word Service being a euphemism for massive inconvenience.) —Mind you, I’m not talking about the post office window at our little grocery, where friendly faces know us by name and skillfully take our packages. I’m talking about the big, scary government headquarters where you have to go to deal with bigger issues (Like how the mailman refuses to deliver any mail on your street because the neighbor's dog was out. Or how I went in to pick up a package of prescription meds, but they had already sent it back to the pharmacy...on the same day I tried to pick it up.) THAT post office.

In dealing with all three departments I encountered a similar experience: Big, depressing, dusty, gray buildings. Unnecessarily long and plodding lines, understaffed counters manned by incompetent people with sour dispositions (except for one pleasant man at the post office--at the end of the other line) and endless forms to be filled out. Each entity seemed to have a secret agenda to impede progress at all costs. Each was its own brand of purgatory.

Despite my somewhat liberal leanings, I couldn’t help but ask myself what healthcare might literally be like if the government were allowed to run it. And the thought horrified me...

Big, depressing, dusty, gray buildings. Long, slow-moving lines to see overbooked primary care physicians. Not enough medical personnel employed in order to meet the needs of all the people in line. Grumpy nurses, cantankerous doctors, control-freak secretaries, all performing their tasks perfunctorily while carefully watching the clock. an obsession with Policy. And of course endless forms, endless paperwork, endless red tape, resulting in surgeries and other necessary-but-costly treatments being endlessly stalled. (If they're lucky we'll die first, in order to cut costs!)

Fortunately, I also went to In-N-Out Burger. Twice. In as many weeks. And it was the complete opposite experience: Bright, clean, well-lit and well-designed spaces. Short, fast-moving lines. Plenty of cheerful, helpful, efficient people who are well-trained and eager to serve. Everything sparkling clean, well organized. An emphasis on Quality. Not a single form to fill out, and they take your order information in record time. The whole place fairly beams with freshness, vitality, and progress-in-the-making. The palm trees in their branding even smack of paradise.

So? It’s obvious. I hereby make a move (and a plea to President Obama) to put In-N-Out Burgers in charge of healthcare reform.

Double-double, anyone?

It's My Favorite Holiday.

No, not Halloween. That was yesterday. Besides, free candy isn't nearly as awesome as free sleep. No, I've been looking forward to this day for a full six months. And like all major holidays, the celebration actually begins the night before, on My-Favorite-Holiday Eve, when we perform a cherished ritual each year: Setting back the clocks.

Can you think of anything more magical and worthy of celebration than a 25th hour in an overcrowded 24-hour day? Or reversing the role of aging, by actually turning back time? I live for this day!

Today in particular there is much to be celebrating:

1. My Favorite Holiday — one free hour to do whatever we please...sleep, party, create — this is every woman's dream.

2. Speaking of favorites, I have answered Luisa's tag and listed my own favorites here: To The Fifth Power. (Interestingly, Luisa tagged me for my first meme in addition to this one. I think I'll call them Meme One and Meme Two.)

3. The beginning of NaNoWriMo. (National Novel Writing Month.) Yes, I've decided to do it for real this year. (Although I must add that I value sanity over word count, and will not hold myself to the whole 50,000 if my life starts falling apart at the seams!) I'm joining blog favorites Brillig, DeNae , LT Elliot (no relation to TS?) and Melanie J...and writing a book called The Bridge Club Chronicles: A snarky account of the misadventures of four creative teenagers who choose to rebel against society in ways that are both harmless and hilarious. Please cheer me on. (And forgive me if I become a blog slacker in the meantime.)

What are your doing with YOUR free hour?

Much Ado About Nothing?

George Carlin once had a hilarious comedy routine preying on our paranoia. Somewhere he had read that only female mosquitoes bite. But the females don't buzz. Only the non-biting males buzz. So he talked about the ridiculousness of us, lying in bed, riddled with anxiety because we hear a mosquito buzzing around the room. "Relax", he said, "it won't bite!" And then the awesome kicker: "BUT—" he quipped,"If you hear NOTHING...."

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Hold that thought.

Nearly 18 years ago my mother died of cancer. When she was just a year older than I am, she had found a lump and went in for a mammogram. The doctor told her it was nothing. She relaxed and went home. Two years later she went back, stating simply that the lump was getting bigger. This time? It was Stage 4 cancer — a malignant tumor, metastasized throughout the lymphatic system. She died four years later, after a very hard fight.

Hold that thought, too, if you can manage two at once....

So, a month or so ago I very vaguely referred to an abnormal mammogram in this post. They found, essentially, nothing. Mailed me a letter confirming there is no evidence of cancer. But because of my history, they sent me for a follow-up ultrasound. Again, nothing. They called and said I should come back in six months for a follow-up. But I think my mother's story scared them. Because the next day they called back and said they were scheduling me with a surgeon. (A WHAT?) "Just for a second opinion," they said. "It's probably nothing."

So today I spent nearly three hours in a surgeon's office (a whopping ninety minutes of those in the WAITING ROOM—which must be a metaphor because sometimes it seems like my whole LIFE is a waiting room!) only to be told that the reports and the exam conclude there is (you guessed it) nothing. But because my mother's nothing turned out to be a very big something, this time they're recommending an MRI. Oh my goodness, I wonder, Where will it stop? In my case, we have to panic when we hear nothing. Because when we're afraid of NOTHING, suddenly EVERYTHING is suspect.

Next week I go in for the MRI. Hopefully they will find whatever it is. Because there appears to be no end to the amount of nothing that can be found, and no end to the lengths they are willing to go in order to find it!

Friday Fragments: Car, Taxi and Trailer

1. The Car.
Our son, Mr. Cool, clearly has designer genes. Check out this car he created for the Pinewood Derby last night. He sketched out the plans for it himself...and my amazing husband helped him figure out how to make it work. And work it did...He not only took Best Of Show for the awesome design, but it also placed third in the race. The best part of all? Was the sheer, radiant joy in his expression as we left last night. I would not be surprised to see this kid pursue a career in some design field.... architecture, automotive, sculpture?

To quote Dieter Uchtdorf, "The desire to create is one of the deepest yearnings of the human soul. Creation brings deep satisfaction and fulfillment. We develop ourselves and others when we take unorganized matter into our hands and mold it into something of beauty....Creating and being compassionate are two objectives that contribute to our Heavenly Father’s perfect happiness." I saw this little guy demonstrating both last night: The joy in his own creation, and genuine compassion for his little buddies who lost the race. He worked so hard to build all of them up and make them feel good about THEIR creations. The result was a boy brimming over with genuine happiness. And it was contagious.

2. The Taxi
I truly wish I had photos to upload for this one. The Princess was given a ticket for the midnight premiere of High School Musical 3? 4? I can't keep track of which version they're up to now. But she and a friend dressed up in these hilarious red and white teeny-bopper outfits and went to the big opening. Then, lucky me, a little after 2 a.m. I got to venture out into the night (sorry, folks, I don't consider that morning!) and pick them up. I slept in my sweats and then pried myself off the mattress, tippy-toed out of the house, and picked up two giggly thirteen-year-old girls to shuttle them home. The girls said the movie was so dumb it was hilarious. ( Sounds about right. Maybe they've got a career as movie critics?) And as much as I might hate to admit it, I kind of dug the whole adventure. (But not quite as much as I dug taking them toilet-papering last weekend!) Cue evil laugh.

3. The Trailer
Now here is my gift to you. This could seriously make your whole Friday, and maybe even your whole weekend. (And from a bunch of the blogs I've read lately, we all need a good laugh!) My husband and his team of creative wizards just finished this hilarious (fictitious) movie trailer that will look very familiar and is wholly invented. But somehow rings true. So true. Enjoy!
Here's the link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JO_Oir72EDs&fmt=18
Feel free to forward this one far and wide...it's fair game...and I'm sure they'd love all the YouTube hits they can get!

Happy Friday!

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Friday Fragments is the brainchild of Mrs. 4444 @ Half Past Kissin' Time. Click here to see the other fragments.

Friday Fragments: Whose Kids ARE These Anyway?

Our 9-year-old and two of his buddies mowed a guy’s lawn in the neighborhood and he stiffed them! You know, it’s one thing to take advantage of another adult, but to rip off three earnest, hard-working, (somewhat mercenary) little kids is criminal! So tonight we saw the guy pulling into his driveway and J5 confronted him...and was able to collect payment for himself and his two friends. Then on the way home he tells me, “Good thing he finally paid up. I was ready to take the weedwhacker and carve “You Suck” into his front lawn.” (We had a little chat about what might be a more appropriate response...after I stopped laughing.) :)

Our 13-year old daughter asked this brilliant question awhile ago:
What’s Mick Jagger’s first name? (Mick)
Well then what’s his last name? (Jagger)
Come on, really, what’s his whole name? (laughing, Mick. Jagger.)
No, really...
(We finally figured out that she thought his name was “McJagger”...like McDonalds, or Macgyver, or...um, McStones?) Hahaha. (Her 17-year-old brother WILL NOT let her live this one down!)

Two nights ago I made the rounds to kiss everyone good night, and I walked in on the princess...in a black swimsuit and aviator sunglasses, pinning her hair up. “AHAHAHAH!” I burst into laughter. Her response: “Don’t blog about this, Mom.” Last night, I made my rounds again, and stopped in to kiss her good night, and she was standing in front of the mirror in full hippie regalia: A fluorescent paisley polyester one-piece pantsuit with huge bellbottoms, and a headband. “HAHAHAHAHAAH! *snort* HAHAHAHAHAAHAH!” I laughed all the way upstairs and coerced my hubby to go look in on her too. I’m dying over this new nightly dress-up ritual. It's like playing "mystery date" and seeing a new creature in odd get-up every time you open the door! She comes upstairs. “Mom, don’t blog about this. PLEASE? You better not be blogging about this!” (Who, me?) Haha! She knows me too well...*

I’m folding clothes in the laundry room and our 9-year-old walks in. “Mom?” he asks. I nod, not pausing to look up from the laundry. “What are the birds and the bees?” (Suddenly he has my rapt attention.) “Well, it’s about S-E-X. Actually, not so much about that. More about reproduction. How they make babies.” “Oh, does our family have talks about the birds and the bees?” “Yes, we do.” “What age do we have the birds and the bees talk in our family?” “We don’t have a set age, honey. It depends on the child, and when they’re ready. Why?” “Oh, because Colby’s family does it at age 10, and Isaac’s family does it after you turn 8.” “Hmmm...Do you think you’re ready for a talk like that?” “Me? Sick! No way! I was just wondering if we do those. I don’t want to hear about any of that stuff right now!” And he took off. I sighed. And grinned.


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*Of course I got her permission before posting this!
Friday Fragments is the brainchild of Mrs4444 over at Half Past Kissin' Time.

Cavorting as a Caped Crusader

This is a quick and silly follow-up to an earlier post, about the desperate measures we resort to when the chips are down. In our last episode, Wonder Woman had just discovered she could wield magic markers with incredible ease, skillfully covering her overgrown roots between salon visits, and making horrible carpet stains disappear with a flick of the wrist. But while the carpet remains presentable, after one shampooing the roots return, so at last she visits her faithful ally, Letitia the Hairdresser.

I finally got in to have my hair colored. This time by a certified professional, who does not use “permanent” markers. Hooray! But Letitia was running late. She always runs late. As do I. (A reputation I try desperately to live down.) No love lost. Except that this time she was running really, really late...and I happened to have my nine-year-old son along. (Because school's out, and, um, it seemed like a good idea at the time.) We waited nearly an hour while she finished up the woman ahead of us. (Still cool — gave us a chance to break for lunch.)

Now, I’m sure this has nothing to do with my patience level, but once she got started, it seemed to be taking FOR.EV.ER. (I even fell asleep under the hair dryer while it was processing.) Suddenly, as I began to awaken to reality, I noticed the time. 3:15. (We'd been there since 12:15.) And Mr. Cool had to be home at 3:30 for a tennis tournament. (Remember that reputation for running late?)

Never you fear -- Supermom to the Rescue! I checked with Letitia, then raced out the door with MY BLACK PLASTIC CAPE haphazardly flapping behind me, and wet, slimy hair-color goo tucked under a CLEAR PLASTIC SHOWER CAP. I also donned my sunglasses -- can't go dashing about town like a salon-bound superhero without a MASK! (As if that's really going to disguise my secret identity....)

So I'm dashing across town in my clever disguise, and I find myself suddenly paying rapt attention to silly things like stop signs and speed limits, with visions of being pulled over and sent directly to the state mental hospital! I pray I don't see anyone I know, and find myself increasingly grateful for semi-tinted windows in my mom-mobile. As I continue to fly across town disguised as Wonder-(what’s-wrong-with-this)-Woman, another nightmare crosses my mind...What if we got in an accident, and instead of taking me to the emergency room they check me straight into the psychiatric ward?! MUST utilize defensive driving skills like never before! *cue maniacal laugh*

It reminds me of my favorite Batman episode, where Batman and Robin are traipsing through the public library in full Bat regalia, and Batman says, “Walk slowly Robin, so as not to be conspicuous.” HELLO! Yeah, well, “Drive slowly, Salon-Cape Woman, so as not to be conspicuous....” Holy warped logic, Batman!

Somehow Wonder Woman and her incredible driving skills kept all the villains and criminals and gawking onlookers at bay. Nothing disastrous happened, and she got Mr. Cool safely to the tennis courts on the dot of 3:30, without compromising her secret identity. (Read: not running into a single person I knew or even recognized, thank heaven!)

Then I raced back to the salon, and ran inside, hair squishing, cape flapping. One whoosh in the sink and flick of the dryer, and presto-change-o! I was back to me (only with better-looking hair). It was an exciting flight as a superhero, but I think I'll stick to my secret identity as a mom and continue saving the world one carpool at a time — minus the cute cape.

Welcome, Scribbit Readers....

Someone Has Taught You Incorrect Principles

Last night at dinner our 16-year-old son informed us that he got in trouble for jumping on the couch in the library. I had horrific visions of this nearly-6-ft.-tall son jumping up and down the way toddlers jump on the bed. It turns out all he did was sort of make a backward leap and land on the couch. Not charm school etiquette by any means, but not as disastrous as I initially imagined either. The school librarian chose to chastise him anyway.

"What are you doing, jumping on the couch? That is totally unacceptable.
Who taught you to behave like that?"

"My parents," he answered, without skipping a beat. She was not amused.

"Well I don't like the way you're treating our furniture, whether or not you're allowed to do that at home. I'm going to call your parents right now."

And Josh's witty reply (again, without missing a beat): "Oh, their trailer doesn't have service."

Home, sweet hook-up. :)

Celestial Room with A View

Okay, I have a sudsy one for you:

About a year after I broke up with Jack, (who it turns out was using me as his friend, confidante, and love interest during the week while making out with some other vixen on the weekends -- a whole nother soap opera story) his eccentric aunt called and wanted to line me up with someone. Weird, but I was open to it. The guy was from New York, which sounded exciting enough. Turns out he was the caretaker of someone else’s fabulous estate. So I went out with this guy when he was in town one weekend, and he was perfectly good-looking with impeccable manners and treated me great -- spoiled me, in fact. Sounds wonderful, I know. So where’s the soap, you ask?

Well, he was also WAY older than I was. I don’t know how much for sure, but I was 23 or so and I think he must have been at least 30. Probably well on his way to 40. Besides the fact that this guy literally lived in a fantasy world, his age and his inexplicable into-me-ness scared me. Besides, he was a teensy-weensy bit straight-laced and, dare I say, boring? :) We’re totally talking Cecil, from A Room With A View. Well, thankfully he was on his way back to New York so Lucy Honeychurch here really didn’t have to worry about a thing. Or did I?

A couple of days later he called me from New York. It was flattering, but we didn’t really have anything to talk about. A day or so later he sent a dozen red roses. The next day he called me again. And on it went...lots of long-distance calls with not much to chat about. The roses were barely wilting and along came more gifts. And the next thing I know he’s made airline reservations for another trip out to visit.

“I guarantee you he’s coming out here with a ring”, says my ever-wise mother.

Holy cow! I started praying he’d find someone else. Literally.

I was involved in another long-distance romance at the same time. I was being written to, phone called, and successfully wooed by this other (younger, funnier) guy, named Jeff, from the opposite coast (California, to be exact). And Jeff, with whom I was rapidly falling head-over-heels, was planning to be in town the same weekend as Barry. I had visions of one of those crazy Ginger Grant / Eva Grubb “Gilligan’s Island” episodes where I’d be frantically scurrying back and forth carrying on with two guys at the exact same time and trying to keep them on opposite sides of the island. But then it occurred to me that I could schedule things in advance and avoid all that awkwardness. So I booked most of the weekend with Jeff and saved a Tuesday night for Barry. (Not proud of this...but better not to lead him on, right?)

So Barry gets into town and calls to find out when I’m available, and I tell him Friday and Saturday are completely booked, and I had a deadline for work on Monday, but I’d love to see him on Tuesday. Well the weekend came and went and I had the time of my life with Jeff. Then Tuesday rolled around...and no Barry. He stood me up! I totally did not get it. My heart was not remotely broken, I just didn’t understand how this guy could be so obviously smitten...calling me non-stop and sending me flowers and trinkets and long wordy letters...and then just disappear.

But it all came to light a few weeks later when I got a letter in the mail from Barry. He explained (in his perfect longhand) that he figured if he flew all the way out to see me and I couldn’t make any time for him until Tuesday there was something wrong. (duh) So Tuesday morning he went to the temple, and there waiting in the celestial room after the session was the girl of his dreams. They met and talked -- and then he asked her to marry him right then and there! He even slipped a ring on her finger. A ring that likely was intended for me.

Man! That was a close one! But what can I say -- My prayers were answered. And so were his. (And 20 years later, I continue to be head-over-heels in love with Jeff.) :)

Happiness: The Ultimate Crime

True story:

My dad was on the faculty at the local University, and we lived less than 3 miles away, which during spring and fall made for a lovely walk. I found this great shortcut that was like a hidden secret right in the middle of the city -- there was a little hiking trail running alongside a stream, complete with grasses and wildflowers. There were even a couple of wooden bridges. It made you feel like you were someplace very removed.

I must have had a great day at school, feeling all excited about some new ideas as I walked along. Just being on that trail was a real lift. The trail let out into the parking lot of a church on Sunnyside Avenue, and just as I stepped out onto the street, this cop car flashes its lights and pulls me over! Calls out to me to stop. I’m thinking, “There’s no way I’m speeding on FOOT. Maybe I was jaywalking. Or worse -- maybe somebody owns that property with the little trail. Crap! He must have seen me coming off that trail and he’s going to ticket me for trespassing.” Hesitantly, I approach the patrol car and brace myself for a citation. Slowly he rolls down his window and motions to me to come closer. Then, completely out of the blue he asks, “Why are you so happy?” [Happy? I just got pulled over for being too happy?!]

I was too floored to give an intelligent response, so I just shrugged and said, “I’m always happy!” and then he drove off. I’ve thought a lot about that experience since, and wished I’d taken the opportunity -- or would be given another -- to really explain the depth and source of my happiness.

I had a similar experience at lunch with my friend Miss A a few years ago. We’d been talking and laughing uproariously for an hour straight, and suddenly this lady who was dining alone across the aisle from us leans over and says, “Excuse me, ladies,” interrupting us mid-sentence. We were sure she was going to Shhhhh us for disturbing her meal with our lively banter, and looked over apprehensively, bracing ourselves for a scolding. But instead, she said how refreshing it was to see and hear two such happy, positive people when all her friends do nothing but complain. She went on and on about how she wanted to be around us, and wanted to know what made us so happy. (We didn't have the heart to tell her that a dear friend had just passed away, and we were joyfully reminiscing about old times.) Caught off guard once again, we gave her an answer, but it was pretty superficial. What I would have given for one of those pass-along cards right then! I prayed for her for weeks afterward, this nameless woman in search of my brand of happiness.

So...What makes you happy? What REALLY makes you happy?
Do happy people really stand out that noticeably from the crowd?
What would you have told my friend the police officer? Or the lonely luncher?
How happy are you right now?

Discuss--