Accelerated Character Building

Today’s post is entirely serious with no humor whatsoever. None…at all…

I shall post about adversity, being grateful in all circumstances, and in the great joy that comes through experiences that build character…building…building…

Last week dishwasher gave up the ghost. Its heart – the pump – stopped pumping and it groaned and gasped and finally died. I am so grateful for the opportunity to again wash dishes by hand. I grew up hand washing dishes, I had no dishwasher until I had three little kids, and recently spent 18 months in my sister’s basement washing dishes so this will be …like …a …stroll …down …memory …lane. Happy…happy…

The fact that the dishwasher is only a freakin’ three years old is totally beside the point.

Slight grrrr.

Three days ago the air conditioner went out. The fan still works, but it blows no cool air, which sucks (in the %& way, not the actual “intake of breath” way).

You notice that I DID NOT SWEAR. Blog swearing involves FOUR little whatsits from the top row of the keyboard and I only wrote two, so think of a word like “crud” or “blast” or “shoot” (or for you of ancient years, “egad” or “zounds”). *

With no air conditioner I am SO GRATEFUL AND HAPPY for the opportunity to have my own personal sauna in my house. I don’t even need to go to the gym to work up a sweat. 94^ (why don’t keyboards have a degree symbol key – the $% stupids) is a nice, exciting temperature!!! I CAN TOTALLY LIVE WITH THIS AND IT WILL BE A FUN AND GROWING EXPERIENCE. Joy! Joy!

Bigger GRRRRRR.

And finally, giving all homage to Mr. Murphy and his law, my garage door opener broke yesterday. Yup – that door ain’t going nowhere unless I move it myself. My personal motto:
HOORAY - THE PLAN IS WORKING
comes to mind. I AM SO GRATEFUL MY GARAGE DOOR IS BROKEN…BECAUSE…BECAUSE…the inside of my garage is so cute? Nope, doesn’t work. How about…a garage door at half mast adds interest to the house? Don’t like that either. I know – now I can get more exercise by jumping out of the car to open and close it? We will go with it. I AM SOOOOOO HAPPY!

MAJOR GRRRRRRR !!!!!

*This reminds me of a story I heard about a Fast & Testimony meeting (for those of you not familiar with this – it’s a monthly Mormon church meeting where members of the congregation can come to the podium and share their spiritual experiences and feelings). A youngster told how he was so glad his family no longer used the “S” and “F” words in their home. The second he finished, the Bishop jumped up, in front of the people waiting their turn, and said he needed to clarify what his son had just said. In their home, the “S” word is “Shutup” and the “F” word is “Fart”.

That Tricky, Tricky TRAX

My 15-year old makes big noises that she is all grown up and Mature (with a capital M). She keeps track of how many people think she is 17, tries on cocktail dresses, wants me to go before the governor to allow her to get a driver’s license before she is 16 and thinks I have no idea what it is like to be 27 in a 15-year old body. Life is sooooo unfair.

One thing she has been begging for is the chance to prove her great Maturity by taking TRAX downtown all by herself. She had a girlfriend who moved to the Gateway and was sure it would be no big deal to ride TRAX. “No Tasha, you can’t take TRAX by yourself and go downtown.” When I was immovable on that point she started begging to take TRAX to the U so she could visit a friend (of the 17 year old boy variety) all alone, at night. I mean, if she couldn’t go in the day to visit a girlfriend, surely I would let her royal Matureness go visit a boy at night….right? Wrong!

Last week my big kids decided to take the grandbabies to the zoo. I drove T & T (Tasha and Thomas) to the zoo to join the fam (I had appointments and couldn’t stay) with the understanding that they would come home with their big sister. But everyone decided to go to my son’s house for dinner and T & T had had enough nieces and nephews for one day. “Here is Tasha’s big chance”, I thought. “They can come home on TRAX”. So Steph drove them to the station with explicit directions, cash in their pockets, and smiles on their faces.

The ride takes about 50 to 60 minutes, so I duly showed up at the last station on the line to pick them up. But - - - no kids. ½ hour later - - - still no kids. Another ½ hour….. At this point I called UDOT to see if there was a problem with the line or if two children, one who was exceptionally Mature, had been found, wounded and bleeding. Nothing. Another 15 minutes. It has now been 2 hours and 15 minutes since they got on the train. No kids. I wasn’t particularly worried, or angry, just frustrated, hot, bored, peeved that I had missed an appointment and I had to go to the bathroom really, really badly.

A phone call…finally. It's a hysterical Tasha. “I lost Thomas, I lost Thomas. I got off the train, he was right behind me, but the doors closed and he’s gone.” Great! So now I have histrionics (of the Mature kind), a missing child and Tasha doesn’t even know which way the train with said missing child was going. “Where are you?”, I asked. “2nd East and 4th South!” Yes, 'tis true. 2 hours and 15 minutes on TRAX and she has come 8 blocks. Awesome!!!

Tasha, the seriously Mature, had been on 4 different trains. “People kept telling us the wrong train to get on. Even the conductor told us the wrong train! It said ‘Sandy’ but was going the opposite direction.”

“Tasha, which way is south?”

"What does that have to do with anything?"

So I called my son, who lives 2 minutes from the zoo to try and locate the lone 12 year old, and I headed downtown to get the Mature one. Thomas had enough presence of mind to pull his shirt over his head and start to cry. This spurred a saintly lady to ask what the problem was and explain how he should get off at the next stop and head back in the correct direction. He did and when he hopped off the train a crying Tasha grabbed him and the two stood on the platform hugging like long lost lovers.

By the time Jevan arrived, they were together again and I picked them up shortly afterwards. It was surprising that I arrived in one piece because belly laughter is not conducive to freeway driving. Tasha opened the car door to climb in, gathering the tatters of her Maturity around her, and said, “Don’t say a word”. I didn’t, but couldn’t stop laughing for 20 minutes. Since then she hasn’t asked once about getting her license early. Aren’t life lessons grand?

12-Year Olds ... Augh!

I have now discovered why 12 year old boys are not called as missionaries…well, some of the reasons. I’m sure the whole, can’t drive, live independently or converse coherently beyond Lord of the Rings and legos may have a bit to do with it as well. But this is what I, of my very own experience, know. They can’t pack worth beans.

‘Tis true. I had two nephews come stay for 4 days while their folks were out of town. They were dropped off with brimming backpacks. One would think they were good to go. At 13 and 10 they should be responsible, right? Wrong!

The backpacks were filled with their priorities – video games, water pistols, they did manage swimming suits, laser swords, flashlights, guns (of the fake variety) etc. And to their credit, they had brought their toothbrushes…but changes of underwear?, clean shirts?, shorts?, PJ’s. Nope – there just wasn’t room!

Last week I took Mr. T and Bug to Yellowstone. My dear friends, the Folletts’, got us up to Rigby and from there it is just a hop skip and jump to the land of spurting glop and gaping tourists. I gave Mr. T a detailed list of everything he would need to pack. “Thomas, are you packing? Really, are you packing? What do you still need? Can I help? Would you like me to go over your duffle bag?” And, of course, the reply was, “MOTHER…I am twelve years old, for cryin’ out loud. I….CAN….PACK!!!”

And so it was that we arrived for a five day Idaho trip with…no toothbruth (I didn’t find out until the third day – major gross), no underwear, only the pair of shorts he was wearing and no PJ’s. The heavy duffle bag? Filled with Garfield cartoon books and a diagram book of an 1800’s Man of War boat. AUGH!!!

And so, in great wisdom, church leaders wait for a few years before the boys are asked to leave hearth and home (and mommies) to spend two years packing and moving around. But I would be willing to wager than even at 19, a few of them forget their toothbrushes.

Bucket Lists and Dead Bodies

I keep hearing about people and their BUCKET LIST. Isn’t that whole concept a bit on the morbid side – I mean, listing things you want to do before you die! It’s great to have goals and dreams…but who, except my friend Dixie, is actually going to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro when they are in their fifties? So Dixie totally rocks, but the rest of us need to scale back our bucket lists.

Here is a more realistic bucket list for what I would like to do before I die.

1. Read all the Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings and Chronicles of Narnia…again.
2. Go to Costco and spend less than $100.
3. Get all the kids raised and permanently out of the house.
4. Retain the ol’ marbles to the bitter end.
5. Spend the night in Panguitch (just because that has to be the coolest name of a town, ever).
6. Avoid Depends at all costs.
7. Live long enough to see my kids all happily wed.
8. Keep my eyesight.
9. Finally master my favorite Chopin etude.
10. After the cat dies, buy a front room couch that I actually like.

Yup, not too glamorous. But my bucket list is doable, except maybe the Costco part. And I have kids who could successfully argue that my marbles are already a bit depleted, but whatever.

Now if I wanted to spice the list up a bit I would add:



11. Try the chili rellenos in every Mexican restaurant along the Wasatch front just to find out whose are best.

12. Find a dead body.


I just about got the chance to fulfill #12 last Friday night. Now you have to know that I live in family-oriented-safe-central. People wave, even if they don’t know you, everyone is out walking on miles of trails, kids ride scooters and run around until way after dark and a suspicious vehicle would be sighted within seconds by 25 people.

So imagine my distress when I was walking, all by myself, along a trail and heard a bunch of guys beating the ‘you know what’ out of some poor fellow. I didn’t have my cell phone to call 911 but it was intense and awful to hear the poor guy getting killed. I wasn’t about to start screaming bloody murder and run right into the fray so I dropped to my hands and knees and began crawling around the corner, in the weeds mind you, so I could identify the thugs. But no one was there. I could still hear them and they even turned on a boom box with intense music (to cover the sound?). And then I carefully lifted my head out of the grasses and saw…an outdoor movie screen with about 200 people sitting on blankets, enjoying FlyBoys.

Yup, I just about ran, screaming for the nearest phone to call 911 --- for a movie. Thorns, thistles, dirt and assorted bugs clung to my pants and hands, but I stood and casually sauntered past the group as if I always crawled up the hill. Exercise is tough, after all.

So I have a new item for my bucket list.

13. Avoid dying of embarrassment. Pick a better way to go.

Aging - Not So Gracefully!

After I die I am going to sit down and have a long talk with God if, of course, we’re on friendly terms. Hard to have a discussion with someone who is saying, “YOU’RE SO BUSTED”. So if it’s all good I will ask Him just what’s up with the whole woman thing. I mean, is 40 years of being in the childbearing mode really necessary?

These are the categories which I think should exempt one from having womb in the inn on a monthly basis, if you get my drift.

1. Being 9. Seriously, one of my girls was 9. Excuse me!!!
2. For that matter, being 10, or 11, or even 15 or 16. When a girl is 17 it might be OK, just to get the ol’ motor running. But the motor shouldn’t be fully functional until at least 18.
3. For the first year after you have had a baby. And that should include the mothers who do not nurse. Or maybe two years...
4. Any time you are single. And no, this isn’t religiously based, just plain old common sense that says that it is waaaay easier to tag team when you have small people of very little brain running or crawling around.
5. As far as that goes, how about turning it off anytime you don’t want to get prego? Yeah, I like that. Although about 2/3’s of us and our offspring wouldn’t be here.
6. After age 40.
7. And after 50 --- good grief --- enough already!

What is up with 60 year old ladies turning it back on to get pregnant – on purpose? What are they thinking?

I have a good rule of thumb for when you should not longer be a procreator.

If you try to nurse and can’t focus on your babies face because your eyes are gone, you’re too old.

I truly had to have someone hold my poor Mr. T a few feet away so I could see what he looked like. “Back up there, more…more, ah, look at that. He is cute! OK, we’ll keep him.” Poor baby. He grew up at arms length just so I could make sure his nose was not boogery. Any closer and he looked like the blob and I could have just as easily wiped his ear as his nose. (OK, that was an exaggeration because I could tell where his face was located, just not what was on the face that wasn’t supposed to be.)

So I have issues (no pun intended, I’m sure) with the whole M thing and I am looking forward, not in the immediate future, to a nice little chat with the man in charge – period!

LOOK - It's a BUG!

I have a 15 year old daughter named Bug. No, no…I didn’t give her the lovely name of Bug at birth. She chose that moniker all on her own, last year, when she started at a new school. On all her registration forms, with teachers, even the principal, she asked to be called Bug even though, now this is the ironic part, she screams for about 11 minutes without taking a breath if she ever sees one. This screaming, however, does not include time spent looking at herself in the mirror, unless she has just been out with friends and discovers broccoli in the teeth.

Do you know how disconcerting it is to have an adult presence call up and ask for ‘Bug’ when you have given your child a perfectly normal and polite name? I wonder what she will do when it is time to change her name back. I mean…she can’t be Bug forever, can she? Can you imagine working in corporate America with ‘Bug’ on your Vice-Presidential nameplate? I thought not.

Names are funny. Some are just more suited for adults and some for kids. Naming your child Mansford Dillingsworth Smith will work well when he is a banking mogul, but lacks panache on the playground. On the other end of the spectrum, Bunny, Missy or Buffy may be adorable for a little moppet, but they don’t work so well for a R.S. or PTA President.

Perhaps the best thing is to let kids grow into their names. Maybe I should have started out by naming my daughter Larva and then, Bug would actually be the adult adaptation. Larva … um … it has a nice ring to it. But for now, at least Bug doesn’t have a rabbit…get it? Bug’s bunny!

Not East Canyon

So right now I’m on vacation with all my family. Except that I’m not. I had to come home with Mr. T, my 12 year old, who is sick with pig-chimney ah..ah..I mean swine flu. ‘Tis true. The other 14 members of the fam are at “Not East Canyon” (which I shall explain in a minute), eating, laughing, playing, eating, being regaled by the shrieks (mostly of laughter) of 6 smalls in an enclosed place, eating, and we can’t forget the swimming, except they are not swimming because it feels like early April outside!

I’m feeling very sorry for myself as I nurse my own sore throat and cough along with Mr. T. who is currently sitting in the living room with an ice bag on his sorry little head. This is certainly a vacation to write home about…ah…write at home about?

So why is it called “Not East Canyon”? My folks got time shares at the real true East Canyon about 25 years ago. It is a nice resort about 40 min. east of Salt Lake, complete with swimming pools, tennis courts, mini-golf area, lake, and now – it even has its own resident Nazi. For 20 years we spent roughly 10 days a year enjoying ourselves immensely but then Carole The Manager ate something that didn’t agree with her and she has been off her cookies ever since. She went from a benign presence to an evil dictator and has made our most recent visits - - colorful?

On our last trip, one of her minions pounded on our door and YELLED, colorfully, for about 10 minutes because said Mr. T. had filled the garbage too full. Then the guy kicked the fam out of the hot tub 15 minutes before it was to shut down because, “The &%*# clock is set wrong”. When I complained at having my kids sworn at and a clock that runs slow, Herr Carole said, “That’s just the way it is”. The tennis courts are locked at all times, “So unauthorized people don’t play” but then they lost the keys. “No kids on scooters, No playing in the lodge, No walking on the lawns, No laughter" (OK, I exaggerate, but only slightly). And then she had the unmitigated gall to ask, in apparent surprised innocence, “Can you believe some people want to get rid of me?” YES I CAN!!

So my kids, because the Nazi doesn’t look like she’s going anywhere, bought their own time shares elsewhere. It doesn’t really matter where - its just “Not East Canyon” and there we all are, having great fun, except for those of us who aren’t.

Finally - It's DONE!!!

I have an announcement. Drum roll please. At loooooong last, my Feeding a Family ebook is done and ready SAVE HUNDREDS OFF YOUR GROCERY BILL to go. (Do you hear the loud yelling and shouts of exultation? If you do, the noises are all coming from me!)

I talked to my HOME COOKING neighbor, Jared, who is the resident guru of internet marketing. He said that the best way to get the word out is to begin to move up in the search engines (definition – undecipherable technical magic). He COOK FROM SCRATCH said I can best do this by including key phrases in the body of my blogs that catch the attention of said engines. If I have enough of these phrases, people will SAVE TIME IN THE KITCHEN begin to be directed to my site and I will gradually move up in the magical rating system.

I am so excited. I only have 32,000,000 spaces to travel and I will be right at the top of FOODS KIDS LOVE the heap. Yeah me! So I have been trying my hardest to come up with phrases that will fit the bill and get them inserted QUICK AND EASY MEALS surreptitiously into my blog. If I am anything, it is subtle.

I have discovered that I really want to do things FEED YOUR FAMILY ON $50 A WEEK that benefit people, not just in a day-to-day way, but really, truly, help them to increase their long term happiness COMFORT FOODS and success. For 25 years I sold Brite Music, which is the best little kid music on the planet, and this feels like the same kind of mission to me. Money is secondary, although I would really, EAT HEALTHY really, like to keep my house. But the primary motivation is to help families, and I think this book can do that.

So help me spread the word, and COOKING CHEAP soon, I will move up to 31,999,999th on the list and from there it's just a hop and a skip to the top. You can see the opus
by going to: feedingafamily.com

Snark vs. Restraint

So today I want to discuss the delicate and necessary balance between SNARKINESS and RESTRAINT. I have almost got it down, not quite all the way, but I’m trying...seriously. Unfortunately, I was cursed with a sense of humor that, for some people, crosses the line into…well…let’s just say it may sort of push the envelope. I have most definite moral lines and don’t believe in laughing at people, unless they totally deserve it. Some subjects I just won’t touch because they are NOT laughable, but where idiosyncrasies or, as I call them, idiot-syncrasies, relationships, money and stuff come in – it’s all fair game. And when people are hysterical, what can you do?

Take Sundays for instance. Sometimes the teachers or speakers are just so funny that (now here is where the RESTRAINT comes into play) all I can do is put my head down and laugh silently to myself and hope the people behind me don’t think the shoulder shaking is because I am choking on a cheerio. Like the time that a very sincere man was talking about the grand experience of attending a church service in downtown London that was filled with African Americans. Really? In London? Were they on a tour? Or the fellow who quoted Saw-crates in Sac. meeting. I was about 13 when that occurred, and I still remember it. Apparently my SNARKINESS developed early. And yes, these things truly happened!

Or when the lady, through her tears, sobbed that, “When you feel a burning in your bosom, you just have to bare it”. She probably meant, “bear it”, but how would one know, what with the shoulder thing and being completely unable to look up. Now this is great – two weeks ago a sister was teaching a lesson, quoting a prophet mind you, who said, “you will be thrust down to hell”. But with her sanctimonious (SNARK here) air she edited the prophet quote and supplied the class with the G rated version and read, “thrust us down to heck”. Wow…that certainly puts a new light on the scriptures. I suppose if we said the real words we would risk eternal darn-ation!

Certain people increase the SNARKINESS factor so I need to sit far away from them if I want to maintain any sort of reverence. My daughters come instantly to mind. Sorry girls, you must have inherited the SNARK gene. If you can work on the RESTRAINT part you will probably survive.

As long as someone doesn’t attempt the Heimlich maneuver on you in the middle of church.

Ample Support for my Melons

Random thing showed up on my door step last night in a cute little sack with tissue paper (definition – “what we use when we are too lazy to look for tape which has now become so commonplace that many of us no longer buy tape”). I figured it was a late anniversary trinket as I just celebrated the 14th anniversary of my 39th birthday. But Noooo. ‘Twas a nursing bra. The note read, “To Diane, For your melons! (or your squash, if you prefer).” Let me explain.

A few months ago my neighbor, Shelby, who has green hands, seriously, the plants rustle and whisper when she walks down the sidewalk, “Look, it’s Shelby, wave…wave…”. Anyhow, she gave a series of little R.S. breakouts all about plants. Can you believe someone can actually make dirt interesting? As she was talking about pollinating cucumbers by hand with a Q-tip, I very innocently asked if the cucumbers enjoyed it. I mean, shouldn’t they? Being the oldest in the group (definition – totally beyond anything sexual – no matter how young the oldest is), they were a bit shocked.

A few minutes later we were discussing different ways to trellis vines. Did you know that even watermelon can be trellised and grow up? But the catch is, you need to support the fruit. Again, very innocently, I suggested using old nursing bras. Not only are they the right shape and size, but they would beautify the neighborhood and you can check on the growth of the fruit with a convenient little peek-a-boo window. What could be more perfect? Aren’t we told to re-use and recycle AND grow a garden?

But since my snack bar closed down many years ago, I am plumb out of nursing bras, so a kind and anonymous soul decided to share. I think I shall use it. And if my garden grows according to plan, you shall see my cup overfloweth.

What is Chouse?

Family parties are a kick in the pants. I’m the oldest of nine kids and seven of them live within 10 min. from my mom. I’m the semi-black sheep living a full 20 min. away and Brady, the full-black sheep, is all the way in Ca. Anyway, now that three of us are grandmas the family groweth. My mother’s quiver is quivering.

When you put all those people together, with roughly half of them under the age of 8, half who are ‘tween and teenage boys and another half who talk too much and are highly opinionated (I was never good at math), it makes for LOUD. And they eat a lot too.

Future in-laws wander in a daze, being introduced to miscellaneous people and they gamely try to make the connections. “This is Allie. She is Emily’s two-year old, and you remember that Emily is married to Jevan who is Auntie Di’s second oldest? Oh, you haven’t met Auntie Di yet?” That kind of stuff. Who can remember that? I am so sorry Christine for the chaos. (She is marrying my nephew in a month.)

Speaking of chaos – the following is a totally true story – my friend Mary was in a Sunday School class in her young adult ward and the teacher was giving a lesson of how to avoid chaos, except that she pronounced is as ‘chouse’. She informed the class that she had never heard of chouse, but she looked it up and it is something we definitely all want to avoid. And so the lesson went, with no one wanting to spill the beans.

Our family has now adopted the unique pronunciation and we delight in chouse. But it has to be the chouse that occurs when people pick up and comfort the crying baby next to them, regardless of who it belongs to, and the chouse of dishing up food twice, the first time being for a small, and the chouse of listening to and attempting to contribute to three conversations at once. Chouse is when 55 people all come indoors because it is raining, except for said ‘tweens who will make their appearance only after they are thoroughly drenched, and then they have to stand on towels. Chouse is trying to give everyone in the room a kiss or a hug goodbye, giving up and finally pronouncing loudly, “I’m off, love you all” but then it takes ten minutes to leave because three people have to move their cars.

Chouse is family and I love it.

Oh Deer, What is that Smell?

Wyoming is an old Indian term that means, “Place you go through to get somewhere else”. Seriously, my experience with Wyoming is lots of wind, sagebrush, blowing snow, more wind, and brown nothingness as far as the eye can see. I have spoken to people who say that hidden pockets, far from Interstate 80, actually contain elements of green and a certain rugged beauty but I haven’t seen it. And I have driven through Wy. often.

I live in Utah – Indian definition, “Place people go through to get to slot machines”, which has bunches of green, due, in large part, to industrious forefathers (in Utah shouldn’t it be fourmothers?) who irrigated and made the place bloom “as a rose”. I used to live in one of the thorns, but that is another story.

My daughter, affectionately known as Noodle, went to Western Wy. Community College in Rock Springs (saw lots of rocks, not so many springs) because they have a killer Musical Theatre Department. (Did you notice that I put the e at the end of theater which is how you spell it when you want to be all that.) Attempting to get a Musical Theater degree means that you go to school for two years and are in lots of plays and pretty much don’t take, or pass, any others classes because you are having such fun staying up until 2:00 a.m. rehearsing, so at the end of your two years you are no further ahead in school than when you started, but boy did you have fun, and now what do you want to be when you grow up?

But having her in said plays meant that I, being a dutiful mother, made the long and boooorrrriiiinnnngggg drive to Rock Springs on a regular basis. Did I mention that there is a lot of wind? Anyhow, I took my sister Kissy and three or four of our younger issue (the technical term my children use for themselves) and made the interminable drive to be highly entertained due to many late night rehearsals and missed math classes. And then, at about 11:00 p.m. we started for home.

If you live in the west you know that the very long and lonely highways suggest 75 mph. But when you can drive for 20 minutes and not see another soul, the 75 sort of morphs into something a little more reasonable, given the circumstances, so I had morphed close to 90 when we rounded a long slow curve and saw…..a deer carcass. Not just any carcass, but a bloated, ready to explode carcass. Note to the uninformed – road kill, if it has an intact inside, fills with gasses and swells until – you get the picture. Anyway, it was right at that point when we came upon it.

When you are driving fast, even a little swerve can flip a car, and I needed a big swerve to miss the darling, and so I yelled, feeling not a little like Bill Paxton in Twister, “We’re going through!” Seriously – some people think of their family when they are going to die – I think of movie quotes. Anyhow, I ran right over the thing. Sickening bump, splatter to both sides and I saw the head and assorted torso pieces slide off to the left. At the same time Kissy yelled, “There goes a leg”. I think we left the other legs in the road for the next unsuspecting motorist.

All the kids awoke and began screaming as I brought the car to a gradual stop and got out to assess the damage. I got right back in. Kissy said, “What’s that smell?” and the kids began to gag. I didn’t care if my engine was hanging by a rubber hose or the muffler dragged along behind us, we had to escape the hell smell that was now permeating the car. Running over a skunk is gross, been there, done that, but skunks are small and stay mostly and politely on the tires. I, however, had been exploded on by a rotting deer bomb. I couldn’t drive fast enough to escape it.

We made it home, dropped off the sis and left the car OUT of the garage. The next day, while holding my nose, I surveyed the damage. The car was covered, doors, windows, trunk, in deer hair and flesh (yucky word – should be banned). 3 undercarriage washes at Super Sonic rid it of a lot of the ooziness, but the deer had flung pieces of itself into my engine cavity and my mechanic said it would just have to rot away over the course of the next year. Are you serious? He was. All winter, whenever I turned on the engine, more than the car would heat up and rolling down the windows did NOT help. Summer was the worst. I parked far away from people, walked lots more than usual and endured to the end. I had just got rid of the smell when the entire electrical system went caput. The mechanic said, “it look like you ran over something”. No duh!

The Beginning

First blog post. I'm a bit nervous because I'm not sure what the right way is to begin a blog. Is there a right way? I suppose a little bio/blurb is a good way to start. I am a single, middle aged, overweight, Mormon mama/grandma who is a closet James Bond fan, loves telling really, really bad puns (ask my kids...no...don't), does NY times crosswords in pen, and designs slightly non-politically correct greeting cards that I think are hysterical.

I have six great kids, several more that I count as my own, three kids-in-law and six adorable grandbabies. I won't tell you that they are the cutest because I hate those bumper stickers that proclaim, "My grandkids are cuter than yours", although you will be forced to realize the truth as I post pictures in the future.

For the moment I live in an amazing area called Daybreak in So. Jordan, Utah. It is reminiscent of the tree-lined, walkable, friendly urban areas in San Francisco, New York, and other large metropolitan areas. I love it. I say, for the moment, because I lost my job in Sept. of last year and am hanging on to my home and sanity by my fingernails. But I am an optimist and I have great faith that God is aware of me and mine and will provide.

I LOVE spring days. I just finished putting in my garden (see - that is the optimist in me) and all the little plants are loaded with the potential of a bountiful fall harvest. Carrots and beets are coming up, most of my raspberries and blackberries made it through the winter, although I'm still hoping the last two plants sprount little leaves soon. Peas are popping up and all is good.

Random observation: It has been said that archeologists can't figure out what cement was used to build the roads in So. America that are thousands of years old and still intact. I think they should do some testing and see if it is hardened cream of wheat!