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!