SIN

Recently a friend told me she was sinning. She was texting with me while she sat in church. I told her that this word "sin" has a different meaning for everyone.

The technical definition of sin is:

1. transgression of divine law: the sin of Adam.
2. any act regarded as such a transgression, esp. a willful or deliberate violation of some religious or moral principle.
3. any reprehensible or regrettable action, behavior, lapse, etc.; great fault or offense: It's a sin to waste time.

I think we can all agree on some of the more aggregious sins, murder, fraud, rape, etc. But as far as "texting during church" goes, I think that is a personal call. Which made me wonder, what is my personal definition of sin?

To me, sin is something that upsets the peace in my heart. It can be an unkind word to someone who does not "deserve" it. It can be a random thought that has no place in my mind, and can only cause harm to someone else, or even myself. It can also be as simple as grabbing an extra bag of ice at the Wal-mart. To one person it may be breaking a traffic law, whereas to someone else, what are traffic laws?

Although, something that makes me feel bad isn't necessarily a sin. It may be a mistake, or a failure in judgment. The sin comes in how I take care of it. Do I apologize, do I justify? Do I make a wrong a right? Or do I shrug and move on. But is it really a "SIN?"

I think this term sin, is to place unnecessary gravity on some minimal mistakes. I would also contend that it's the easy way for a religious group to control their masses. Get them to do their bidding, if you will. I mean, who can argue for sin? "Please, Pope, let me cheat on my exam?" Not going to happen. Therefore it's a harness on the "righteous", a guilt trip to "guide" the masses.

Does God really care that she's texting me during church? Probably not. Although that could be a possible explanation as to why the world is in the shitter right now. Hypothesis: God is more worried about the incidence of texting during formal church functions, than the status of the current economic crisis. Hmmm....I'll have to run some tests, make some graphs and bar charts and "get back atcha."

So, my advice. Life your life in a manner that you're proud of, and more importantly, in a manner that makes your grandma proud. Fix your wrongs, own up to your mistakes. Take responsibility. Take time to evaluate your life and the way you're choosing to live it. Don't judge others. We're all trying our best. Be true to yourself, and the rest should fall into place.

So. I guess I'll get your text Sunday? If I don't text you back, it's because I'm in church.

We Voted. Did you?

What an amazing year we've had. The presidential election has sparked more interest than I can ever remember. Perhaps it's because I'm a political science major and I'm just hearing about it more. But from what I can tell, it's been a bigger issue with more people than years previously.

This was the fourth presidential election I have voted in, the second as a mother. I am a registered Republican, although those of you who know me insist that I'm a closet democrat. I will not go so far as to agree, but I will say I'm closer to the fence than the majority of my republican counterparts.

My journey to the polling station began a few months ago, mostly once McCain was already going to be the Republican nomination. McCain was really not a news-worthy event at this point in time. I was a little disappointed that Romney didn't make the cut, but most of the focus was Hillary or Obama. I was really rooting for Hillary to win, for a couple reasons. First of all, she has TONS of experience, I mean, anybody who has been married knows she jointly ran this country. If not almost completely ran this country. Another reason I wanted her to win was because she was a woman. I'm not going to lie here. I can relate more to a woman than to a man, regardless of race. So, I was hoping she'd win. She didn't. But what a fight.

Once the spotlight came off the democratic nominee war, then it was time to really take notice. Being a true Republican, it was going to take some solid persuasion from the Democratic party to entice me to cross the aisle. Joe Biden was picked as VP. Eh. Whatever. Not good enough. Number of houses McCain owned....still, eh. Not good enough. Sara Palin was picked as Republican VP. Yay! A woman! A fellow mother! Someone I can relate to! Yes! My vote is as good as cast.

Then she opened her mouth.

At first, I thought, "Okay, not stellar, but please, she has long days of night. Can you blame her? It takes a minute for someone to really rally. Her acceptance speech wasn't bad. It was pretty motivating....let's just wait and see how her interview goes." Then she was shielded from the press. Why? Well, I have two words for you. Katie Couric.

Why the campaign thought it was a good idea to release this hockey mom to a real pitbull (maybe they thought her lipstick could save her?), is beyond me. Her initial interview was SHOCKINGLY ridiculous. She misspoke, time and time again. She was uninformed, and it seemed that she just kept regurgitating the practiced lines she was fed by her monkey trainer. I was highly disappointed. But blissfully ignorant that MAYBE it would go unnoticed by the press. Oh wait, I mean, the "liberal, elite media." Oh how very, very wrong I was.

The interesting thing about Saturday Night Live, which I would point out, hasn't been THAT funny since the mid-eighties, is that they really, really know how to take the main issues and bring them to light. Such as that Palin gets more adorable when backed into a corner, and instead of fighting her way out with a good argument and statistics, she just tries to charm her way. Or point out that she has no clue what she's talking about. Or that she's using ridiculous arguments (such as her state's proximity to Russia) to make claims that she's full of experience. Instead of just admitting her experience is less than ideal, but that she's a quick learner, the McCain-Palin presidency has many advisers who are very well versed in areas where she is not, and that she will quickly be able to adapt to her post.

Instead, she chose to whine, complaining about the "gotcha media." Which in turn, just turned said media into a feeding frenzy. Hey, when someone admits that you "got 'em" it's like a challenge to get 'em again.

So, at some point, I changed my mind. I hate to say that I didn't vote McCain because of Palin, but there was absolutely no way I could physically vote Sara Palin into a "72 year old" heartbeat away from the presidency. I could EASILY think of three people I would feel more comfortable with to represent our country should the need arise. Larry, Mo and Curly. Honestly, though, if the female vote was what we were going for here, why not Anna Cabral, the Treasurer of the United States? A woman, and ALSO a Hispanic. Or any woman staffer in D.C. who has been on the hill for more than 20 years? If you want congressional experience, any number of these women would be your girl.

So, election morning (I DO NOT vote early. I think things can change over night, plus it takes some of the excitement out of it), we got up early. Our home was charged with excitement. We loaded up in the car, and headed to our precinct. My boys came with. I feel like this is a teaching opportunity that is worth exploiting. I'm raising my boys to love their country, and one thing that sets our country apart is our right to speak out and vote. We got to the precinct, got our ballot card, and we all trooped to the machine. Miles got to touch the box for Obama, Zeke for Matheson, and it just went from there. They were super excited and super engaged. When we were done, we all got our "I voted" stickers, and went out for pancakes. The boys were a minute late for school, but I would argue that they learned more in that short morning, as Ben and I explained the electoral college, and why we need to vote, than they did the whole day, nay, week at school. I know this is a morning they will always remember.

I didn't get to be with my boys when McCain conceded the race to Obama. The boys told me they jumped up and down, hugging and kissing. Which for two boys who spend more time slugging each other than showing affection, that's a pretty big deal. I would say the lesson was learned. The point hit home.

Voting is a privilege many, many good men died to give me. I will forever be grateful. At times I may not feel like my voice counts. But the men who have come before me's voices do matter, and really, mine does too.

Does yours?

Fishing is for Girls

I don't know how it happened. But I have officially become the girlfriend of a fisherman.

What does this entail, you may ask? I, myself, am still learning the ropes. However, I can tell you that I may be experiencing some important life lessons. Operative word here is "may."

The first lesson I learned is patience. Fishing is not an immediate payoff. There's all this stuff you have to do in order to even get your line in the water. For instance, you have to drive to the lake. You have to launch the boat. Park the trailer. Find somewhere to pee because all the restrooms are closed for the season, apparently. Learn how to drive the boat, in a manner that is pleasing to the master fisherman. Bait your line, and get it in the water. Only to hope that you'll actually hook something, other than algae.

Multi-tasking is another necessary skill. I had to drive the boat, hold a line, drink my beer, and take photographs ALL AT THE SAME TIME. Now tell me that isn't difficult. Unfortunately the better you are at one of these skills, such as drinking beers, the worse you get at the remaining necessary tasks. Just in case you were wondering.

Quite possibly though the most difficult of all was the need to hold my tongue. Not just when being instructed on what to do, but also to keep any and all unnecessary conversation to myself. It is the natural instinct in me as a girl to want to chat away. I mean, I have the man that I love all to myself out in the middle of nowhere with no distractions. Of course, I'm going to want to pick his brain and talk about everything and anything that comes to mind. I quickly discovered that part of the allure of fishing is the waiting, and the peace and quiet. Not to mention it takes him a lot of skill to fly fish and "milk the cow" or "strip the line" or whatever it was he was doing. So distracting him is not the best idea.

Finally, I had to learn to be humble, and NOT rub in his face that I caught way more fish than he did. Keep in mind, however, that his way of fishing and my way of fishing are not even on the same tangent. His takes actual skill. Mine just takes reeling in the line when the fish bites. So, while doing a fish dance in a tin boat in the middle of a choppy lake may be appealing, it's way better to just laugh, smile and get a kiss.

At the end of the day, however, I felt so....fulfilled. I caught lots of fish, and while I was disappointed I had to throw them back, it was so much fun catching them. I was pleased that Ben would want to take ME to the lake, not his buddies, and spend a day together, while he shared with me one of the things he is passionate about. Although, obviously it's win-win for him because he doesn't have to take turns driving the boat so I can milk the cow. He can fish all day, while taking advantage of time with me. But, in summary, I'm happy to be the girl of a fisherman. I imagine that in time, I'll catch the bug, and look forward to these trips even more. I'm honored that I'm invited.

Just invent a pole that holds my beer and my camera while simultaneously driving the trolling motor. Then I'd really be a happy girl.

I've Been Censored

Just sayin. I had a great new blog, for all you followers, and the blog Nazi came and made me take it off.

Have a nice day.

Pants

Do you have a nickname?

I do. I have several. Some are given by the people who love me, some are given by the people who hate me. Of course, there are other nicknames as well, that are just used as a distinguishing marker. I am Manda, Ma, "Coors girl", Sissy, Maynard...I'm pretty sure the list goes on and on. I'm sure there are several that I'm actually glad I don't know.

Do not confuse terms of endearment with nicknames. Everyone has been a babe, baby, sweetheart, puddin' pie, or muffin. Not to mention, we constantly recycle these terms, as we change partners (and by this I mean date someone new....not get a new bridge partner.) I would also like to take this opportunity to remind you that if someone thinks an appropriate love name is "turd" as in "you're my favorite turd" as in "I wouldn't s*@t ya, you're my favorite turd," don't walk, RUN away. Can you imagine sitting at a $1000 per plate fundraising dinner, and having your mate call you "turd?" Yeah. That's nice.

If you are close to me, you probably have earned a nickname. That's right. EARNED. I bestow nicknames with honor. Even if it's really not that....flattering. However, mostly they are inside jokes, that over time have become the norm. Some of my favorites include "Pants," "my Mumford," "Wog," "Mosh," "Banana," and "Jerry." Sometimes I make them up personally, sometimes I adopt the ones you already have. It's my perrogative.

Othertimes, your nickname is used mostly behind your back, and it is used as a descriptor. For instance "Mike the attorney," "Marcus the Sequel," "Lender Mike," "Long-hair Chad," "Troy the Douche, "Aaron Man Muff," "THE," and "Papa Mike." The list goes on and on. You may notice that most of these are men. That's because I'm a girl, and boys come and go. However, I know boys do it too...I just had a conversation about "Helicopter" this morning. It's just easier that way.

So, am I callous when I call you "Boring Ben" behind your back? Of course not. Boring may have a negative connotation to most, but really I respect your lack of excitement and constancy in keeping your life on track. It just helps in conversation with mutual friends, because your name is so common. I still love you, though. That's why you're my friend.

So, wear your nickname with pride. However, if someone calls you "monkey," know the difference. This is a term of endearment (Dwight calls Angela that in The Office, for example). If someone refers to you as "Mr. Bogus," wear your title with honor. You've earned a place in her heart.

Getting Back to Nature

I can honestly say this last week has been one of the hardest weeks in my life. Okay, maybe a slight exaggeration, but not much. It was midterms in school, I had a deal I had to finish up so it could close, and another listing we got an offer on, but with a lease attached. So quite honestly, between school, work, kids, and a trash eating dog….I was completely up to the eyeballs in stress. I think the whole week I slept a combined total of eight hours.

So, when my friend Nick suggested that we go stay in his parents’ cabin in Wyoming, it sounded so inviting. We knew there was a storm blowing in this weekend, but thought if we got ahead of it and made it to the cabin by Friday night, we would not have to brave the untended Wyoming roads.

Friday was spent trying to finish homework, while prepping food for the weekend. It was a little time consuming, and more stress, but I just knew that in the end I would be happy with the time spent ahead so my work at the cabin would be greatly reduced. I was further stressed Friday because I had to break a dinner and drinks date with one of my favorite people in the whole word, and was feeling rather guilty and selfish over that whole ordeal.

But anyway, Friday night finally came, and we pulled out around 8:00 p.m. I still had homework to do, studying the poll numbers before and after each presidential debate, and trying to decide if the debates actually affected the candidate’s poll numbers. (My conclusion, of course, is that the numbers did change after each debate, although I’m hesitant to say it’s BECAUSE of the debate. I’m more tempted to say it has to do with SNL, Katie Couric, and an incredibly unpolished, inexperienced, trained monkey…and keep in mind that I am a Republican). So all the way up to Wyoming I had to work on the laptop, while everybody else in the Suburban got to drink cocktails. But finally we pulled into Evanston and it was time to get a drinkin’.

The first night at the cabin, we all just drank a little, but couldn’t really see the view. But Saturday morning, when I crawled out of bed, went into the main chamber of the cabin and looked out the window at the gorgeous view, I was instantly at peace with the world. It’s fall here and the Quakies are a brilliant yellow right now. There is a pond immediately behind the cabin. Plus of course, an abundance of pine or fur, or whatever kind of coniferous trees they were. It’s absolutely breathtaking.

After a couple games of cribbage, and a game of “dradle, dradle, ladle”, we got busy napping/watching movies/relaxing. Which was really nice, but it had started snowing, and I just felt a need to get outside. So mid afternoon, I put on my sexy long johns, snow pants, and Nick and I headed out. First stop was to a family that lives on the other side of the highway from the cabin.

When we first walked up to the house (pretty sure it’s a doublewide with a foundation, but not sure…), a young kid came out of this ginormous garage. Which, in true Wyoming style was bigger than the house. So we went into the garage and visited with Scott and his brother who were working on fixing stuff. After drinking a beer out there, we went into the house to see the new baby, and to meet the rest of the family. Well, I was meeting them. Obviously Nick already knew them.

Upon entering the house, cigarette smoke assaulted my nose. So, my first thought, of course, was I couldn’t believe they had a new baby in that environment. But, that’s the snob/mom in me. The house is kinda dark, and there is a lot of clutter in the kitchen, the kitchen table is piled high with mail and bills. There’s a boy on the couch, who didn’t look to be more than fourteen, but who, I found out a bit later, is stoned. I actually forgot he was there. I don’t think he moved a muscle the whole entire time we were there. The baby was adorable, of course. I resisted the urge to ask if I could hold her, because she’s only five days old and I would never have let some stranger coming in from the woods hold one of my babies. Although, in hindsight, I don’t think it would have been that big of a deal.

There is so much I want to say about this visit, but I think I will just bullet point a couple of highlights:
-The matriarch of the family has to go to court for throwing a rock at somebody who was lost and drove up on their property.
-There was a bumper sticker on the fridge that said “Uncle Sam wants YOU to speak English” or something like that.
-Pantyhose work almost as well as long johns and don’t bunch.
-The baby’s name was something like Sylvania, Salvannah, some sort of hybrid hick name.
-One can immediately bond with someone over alcohol. Once the “timber witch” aka, the “twitch witch” realized that I like to drink Captain Morgan’s Spiced rum, I was her BEST friend.
-They freeze their bread.
But the main point I want to make here, is that these people live the simplest of lives. The Timber Witch spends all her time at home, from what I can gather anyway, hates the snow (may I point out here, she lives in the Uintah mountains….) doesn’t like cities, and this family seems to be one of the closest families I’ve met in a long time. I actually really, really enjoyed my visit.

After some time there, Nick and I walked back to our cabin, “trick or treated” for two beers, which didn’t work because Michelle and Thom were busy lounging on the couches, and then we walked down a trail down into the woods.

It was lightly snowing, and a few inches that had gathered on the ground. We spent about an hour walking around in the quiet solace of nature, talking, laughing, taking pictures, and enjoying the silence. Easily one of my favorite parts of the weekend. When you are out in nature, just looking at the way the light hits the trees, the clouds part over the mountains, the delicate way the snow frosts the pine cones, it is really hard to not be grateful for life. To simply stroll along, not in a hurry, nowhere to go, no one more important that needs to be talked to. I think it is just such a natural response for us humans to want to be out in the wilderness like that. It’s where we need to go to get our heads on straight again. To ponder what’s really important in our lives, and what is superfluous.

The rest of the day was spent visiting, hottubbing in the snow (I make a GREAT poolboy….well, maybe not, but I do like a big pole…), and drinking, of course. Lots of laughter, pretty good food (although keep in mind, I’m a little critical….I hate being responsible for making sure everyone else eats well…) and an early bedtime, after a very heated game of Nertz.

All in all a great weekend. None of us wanted to leave. Sometimes I think that I would want to live like that year round. But I don’t think I’m wired that way. I think I would go crazy being home EVERY day, dealing only with the same handful of people, and doing the same thing over and over. But maybe I’m missing out on the easiest way to be happy. It’s conceivable.

I’m just grateful that once in a while I have the opportunity to go back to nature. It is my goal and responsibility to pass that on to my children. It’s our duty to make sure that in the name of capitalism and exploitation we don’t ruin or ignore the symbiotic relationship that we have with this beautiful world.

Oh, and by the way. Before travelling to Wyoming, make sure you figure out if you are a “colt” or a “filly”. It might save you the embarrassment of walking into the wrong restroom. Just FYI. Take my word on that.

Why can't I clean out my closet?!?!?

You know, I'm sitting on my bed, looking dismally at my closet to see what I should pack to wear tomorrow. My closet is filled with enough clothing to clothe a small African village, or a housekeeping staff of a dozen illegals, whichever comes first. Yet, it is seemingly impossible to find something to wear.

Why is this? It's conceivable that part of the reason is because Carrie has forbidden me to wear my muu muus. Which were the substitution for the sweats Marcie forbade me from wearing. Not that this is the only thing my closet is made up of. It maybe comprises 4.68% (with a margin of error of 2%). So, what's the problem?

There are two problems. One is less problamatic than the other. It can be explained with one or two simple questions: What if I get invited to an 80's party at the westerner? What if I need to attend a charity event with a Mexican Hat Dance theme? Obviously, the more crap you have in your closet, the more likely it is you can throw something together (although, the last couple years, my closet is so unmanageable it's less time consuming to just go buy something...)

The other, and more serious, issue is that I'm a post-30 year old woman. The last four years has seen a weight gain of plus or minus ten pounds. Now, for guys, this is no big deal. For us women, ten pounds is HUGE in the way our clothing fits. My closet has a range of sizes from size 2 to size 10. Of course, all the cute clothes are size 4-6, which at this stage of my ass' maturity into adulthood, are long in the past. But I REFUSE to spend money on clothes that actually fit. I mean, why would I waste my money on clothing that I'll only wear for a minute? Obviously give me a few weeks at the gym and I'll be right back into those cute clothes.

I've been waiting for those few weeks at the gym now to make a difference for a year and a half. Clearly something is broken at my gym.

In the meantime, I spend every day trying the same jeans I tried on yesterday, just in case during the night I was visited by a flesh eating disease that trimmed five inches off my hips, and then those jeans need to be refolded and put away. It's very time consuming. Now I understand why mature women wear skirts. With elastic waists.

I can't wait until I can wear polyester pants suits. OMG, was that my outloud voice?!?!? Has it really come to that? Sigh.

Why I can like college football without really liking college football.

So, my Utes won. Again. Undefeated this season. Exhilerating, right?

For the first time in my fan career, I'm actually following the rankings. Gasp, you say, how can I call myself a true fan?

This business of attending football games began as a student over thirteen years ago. I would go to the games because my friends would, and within a quarter or two, the excitement and energy that comes from live sports would overcome my being, and I'd cheer til I was hoarse, and cry when we lost. Well, not literally, but would become disheartened, and it would be a very long, quiet ride home.

Then I had many many years of motherhood, oh, and Mormonhood, and I forgot about these games. The closest thing I had to live sporting events was the "Beez" (baseball....minor league....) or the "Buzz" or whatever the hell they were called, and the Grizzlies (which is hockey). Don't get me wrong, I LOVE hockey, but for some reason my heart just isn't the same as when I go support my Utes.

Several years ago, at least four or five, I began to go to the games again. I bought a group of four season tickets. The next season I bought a block of eight. I was there when Alex Smith led our Utes in an undefeated season (sometime have me tell you about chasing him down in San Francisco and getting him to sign his rookie jersey. He was in a car, I was on foot...), and I was also there the following year when we had to swallow defeat after defeat. I have been there in sun, I have been there when it's snowing so hard you have two inches gathered in your lap that melts on your snow pants and chills you literally to the bone.

Why do I do it? Why do I care?

I really don't know the answer to this. Perhaps it's believing in something other than myself. It's probably the feeling one gets in being in a group of thousands of people that (at least on the surface) are just like you. They're dressed like you, they cheer when you do, they gasp in unison.

Game day has become a religious holiday in our home. Whether home or away, we dress in red (I even have game day flip flops or sneakers, depending on the weather), and we always make sure to watch the game. When they are home, I pack up the "spirit bag" or "spirits bag" depending on if I smuggle....and it becomes an eight hour production. What with tailgating and such.

And I love every minute of it.

So don't judge me when I can't quote statistics, roster names, play by play recaps. To me it's not about the actual sport, it's about the community. Bolstered by the sport, for sure. And our love for these kids that are doing their best to represent their fans.

I'm proud to call myself one. I'll continue to be a Ute. Come rain, shine, drought, prohibition, snow, and BYU. Bring it.

Things about the "mom" in me.

I’ve discovered that I have some personality traits that are not intrinsic to my nature. I find this odd when I am sitting in class doing a little personal reflection (obviously NOT paying attention. It’s Saturday morning. Come on, now). Anyway, a couple quirks and things I do….

I eat my lunch in my car and watch the children at school on the playground. And when I say “children”, I mean my kids, and the neighborhood kids. Just want to see how my children are interacting, and if they have friends. And if they are wearing coats. Etc.

I have chickens.
I kiss other people’s kids. Well, the kids of my friends. I braid their hair. I buy them stuff.
I wipe butts. Pick noses, clean out ears.

I grocery shop. I freak out if we’re out of milk. I buy fruit snacks.
I do laundry every day.
I have a band (wii rockband, obviously) called momma’s minis.
I buy censored music, never the explicit.
I pee with the door open, cuz if I don’t someone is bound to come knocking.
I have anywhere from six to twelve children running around my house on school short days.
I camp. With four kids and two dogs.
I wear a helmet.
I’m in college. Still.
I have memberships to the Zoo, the museum of Natural History, the Planetarium, Thanksgiving

Point.

I google things about spiders, rodents, chickens, lizards….

I have lots of excess body fat. And wide hips.

I make themed birthday parties.
I cry.

I sometimes wake up with two kids, two dogs and two cats in my bed, and I can't move.

I’m not saying these are bad things. Just interesting, how much I have changed in the past ten years. I bet you can’t wait to have kids of your own….

It's 10:18.

I'm currently sitting in the Union Building at school, and while I really should be studying, there is just something in me that won't allow it. Many of you know I'm not exactly what you'd call a "morning person". So concentrating in the morning is not something I'm good at. Actually, I'm pretty sure my brain doesn't awaken until 10:18. But 10:32 if there is no coffee.

There is this concept that you can train yourself to become a morning person. I get this lecture almost daily from one of my friends. Theoretically, one should be able to retrain one's clock and adjust. I'm pretty sure I'm not buying what she's selling. The basis of her argument includes making sure I'm in bed by ten o'clock every evening. She concedes that I'll lay in bed awake for TWO HOURS, but that I'll feel refreshed when I awaken at 4:30 in the morning. Okay, first of all, WHO ever feels REFRESHED in the middle of the night (which the middle of the night includes any hour between 2:00 a.m. to 7:00 a.m. in my world). It's inconceivable. Secondly, if you are lying in bed AWAKE for two HOURS, isn't there really a better use of your time here?

I contend that you are either a morning person or a night owl. It's really not something you pick. Yes, you can force a night owl to get up in the morning, but the real question here is when are you most productive? When does it come more naturally for your brain to really function?

I have two children. Two boys. They are polar opposites. Zeke is my early bird. His clock functions best between 7:00 a.m.-8:00 p.m. When I put him to bed, his eyes literally roll to the back of his head and he is asleep within minutes. Doing his homework in the evening is a real chore, because his brain starts to shut down in preparation for sleep starting around 7:00 p.m.

Miles, on the otherhand, is definitely my night owl. Ever since he was a baby. He always gets a second wind starting around 7:30, and is definitely his funniest, his most inquisitive, and detail oriented at this time. I put him to bed at 8:30, and he's the one that is up and down, up and down. He absolutely can NOT fall asleep. I've been trying to train him HIS WHOLE LIFE to go down easily. He cannot.

Another observation I've had in is appetite. Zeke wakes up in the morning ravenous. He absolutely needs fuel immediately. But his last meal is typically no later than 5:30 or 6:00 in the evening. Miles does not eat breakfast. It's impossible to make him. He will, however, eat a second dinner around 8:00 or gets out of bed at 9:00 p.m. to eat again. It's just an indicator in when their bodies are at their most productive, therefore when they need more fuel.

My dad is asleep every night by 9:00 p.m. Whether he's in bed or not. But getting him to sleep past 4:00 a.m. is impossible. My mother has not been able to adjust to this schedule. She still putters around (and hops on the treadmill) until at least 11:30 p.m., and will sleep-in whenever possible. After decades of marriage, neither has been able to adjust to each other's schedule. They just are not biologically wired to do so.

So. When I stay up late, and I'm a bitch in the morning, cut me some slack. I try to change, but nature beats nurture in this scenario. Some animals are nocturnal. I don't think Pavlov could train them any other way. It's the way we're made.

And there is nothing wrong with that.

This "concept" of "political correctness"

I was in class today, and my instructor made a comment that he was a bad driver. Well, duh. Not a news flash…he’s Chinese. The class giggled, some more than others…and I immediately texted a few peeps, cuz it was so funny.

Why is it funny? Do you really need to ask? Asian drivers have a reputation for being horrible on the road. Come on, big boy, don’t pretend like you haven’t heard that before. Asians also have a tendency to take a lot of pictures, eat rice, gamble, and have small…..hands.

Don't get all offended, now. I'm Asian. Or haven't you noticed? We are taught not to see color, so even if I'm not colored, you may not comment on it. I think I am Asian, therefore I am. If you've ever watched me gamble or eat a bowl of rice, you will not argue my point. I'm a ninja. So because I am Asian, I am allowed to poke fun at my own race. But don't you try it. If you do, you are racist.

I do, however, have some bigot bones in my body. I'm stupidist, adultererist, and liarist. I definitely hold some strong opinions about these types of people. But they are not protected classes. Therefore society holds that I can make fun of them to my heart's content.

There are seven types of protected classes. They are race, religion, sex, disabled, familial origin, color, national origin. So if you were to call me a caucasian, christian, female, mentally incapacitated, single mom of two, white, and Irish, you are discriminating. I can be mortally offended. Just fillin ya in.

But why would I? Why would I care. Those are ALL descriptive adjectives of me and my personality. They perfectly describe me. What's wrong with that? If you’ve ever listened to children’s conversations with one another, they innocently use descriptive words that at some point in our lives become taboo. Like “fat” or “brown” or "with a limp". When did it become rude to use such descriptive terms? Once the kids say something like that, they know exactly who they are talking about.

Another example. If you were to ask me about my neighbors, this is what you'd get. Mr. Wilson, the Persians, the Mormons, the Old Biddy, and the gin-soaked Brits. I'm willing to bet you have a pretty decent mental image of exactly what's living here. Am I saying it with malice? It may sound that way to you because society has ingrained it in your head that I'm hating. But I'm not. I love all my neighbors. I'm just giving you an easier description. I could say, "an older gentleman who spends his day in his garden in a sunhat and yells at the kids," for example, or "a white haired man who hails from England that has a tendency to prefer gin and tonic." But really is this necessary? Do I have to carefully pick my words anytime I'm using descriptors?

Society says yes.

As a white, I've been on the other side of discrimination. I went to high school at a school that was 92% minority. How did I know the exact percentage? Because I was one of the 8%. I was very aware that I was "different". I was definitely subjected to racism. It was my lily white girl knees that gave me away. The funny thing is, I am not a racist. I come from a mixed family (see photo above). But I caught holy hell because I WAS WHITE. It was not okay for me to point out someone else's ethnicity, but it sure was okay to get made fun of (and occasionally the snot kicked out of) because I'm not protected. I'm one of the majority. Explain that one.

Other non-protected classes, besides the whites, include the trailer trashed, the nascars, the lawyers, the Polish (somehow they seem to not be protected. Don't blame me, blame the man), the inbreds and the illegals. They seem to take the ribbing in stride. Well, or they take out their shotgun. But either way, you can make fun of their stereotypes all you want. Just from a safe distance.

This begs the question of why can't we point out to someone their ethnicity? Is it a secret? Does my dealer in Vegas NOT know she's Asian? Should I not make a reference to her culture so she doesn't catch on? These are my questions.

So what is the rule. Is it okay to call someone stupid, or ugly, or hairy because that is more subjective?

But this isn't just about making fun. This is pointing out that WE HAVE DIFFERENCES. So. What.

But on the flip side, oftentimes one uses our protected class to our advantage. Such as a friend I have (let's call him "my dad") who got a Master's at Harvard without ever getting a bachelor's, thanks to affirmative action. Or, we want to get treated like equals, but will use it as an excuse to explain away personality traits and/or indiscretions. For instance, HYPOTHETICALLY one might say "I'm a drunk because I'm Irish." or "I got a ticket for a California roller at a stop sign because the cop doesn't like women." When really the first question out of said driver's mouth MAY have been "don't you have anything better to do with your day, officer?" But we use recognizable social bigotry to explain away our own indescretions.

I am Asian when I gamble. I'm German when I drive. I'm Irish when I drink. I'm Italian when I have sex, I'm Catholic when I sin. I'm deaf when I sing, and I'm Mormon when I justify. And that's just the way Jesus made me.

So I say forget societal viewpoints. Until we can completely remove the negative connotations associated with certain stereotypes (which, may I add here, there are REASONS groups have been stereotyped. Noone just up and one day decided to say that Asians can't drive...) and just embrace who we are, people are going to have unnecessary reactions to not being "politically correct". The only way to accomplish this notion is to use stereotypes in daily communication so as to reduce the "shock factor." Since I have decided to make this my personal mission, I hereby decree that I will be completely socially unacceptable and will make fun of anybody I feel like in any degree. By doing so, I'm being the opposite of racist. I'm being accepting. I'm showing that these differences don't mean anything. I really don't beleive they are differences at all. We all share these traits to a degree. Duh. Eventually people will learn that they shouldn't be so sensitive, and just laugh and tease back. Hopefully then this notion of "political correctness" will be burned at the stake.

I urge you to do the same.

Therapy at the Airport

Okay. I believe that keeping everything in is harmful to the soul. But I'm WAY too cheap for therapy. Granted, I'm a talker as it is...most of my friends can attest to that. But believe it or not, I do keep some things mostly to myself.

I'm a supporter of going to a therapist. Problem is, I don't want to be analyzed. I don't want your opinion, necessarily, that's what my girls and my witch are for. What I just need to do sometimes is flush all the toxic waste out of my soul and start with a clean slate.

Some of you go to church for this. Or confession. Or your bishop. If you are comfortable with this, then props to you. I, on the otherhand, do not feel like this is an option for me. These people KNOW me, for heaven's sake. I don't need them sniffing through my dirty laundry. I guess I could tell God directly, but again, let's be honest. He's kinda a judger. Plus, he already knows anyway, no need to rehash it with him.

My solution? I unload my secrets in the airport. Yes. The airport. I sit at the bar while waiting for my flight and tell the person next to me things I need to get off my chest. I unload everything that nags at my being, every stupid mistake or misjudgment I've had to a TOTAL STRANGER.

Why does this work? This person doesn't know me from Adam. She doesn't know my friends. She can't go tell someone else that knows me what I've just told her. Who cares what she thinks about me as a person. I'm not looking for a friendship. I don't need affirmation. I just need a human ear.

Interestingly enough, I've actually had some pretty amazing advice from said stranger. If you think about it, it's someone who lives in a completely different environment, was raised with completely different values, and looks at life differently than I or my friends do. Of course, sometimes I've had some pretty stupid advice (which I obviously discount and just smile knowingly). But regardless, it's nice to hear what someone else has to say.

The best part? When my flight is called, I stand up. Say goodbye. And WALK AWAY. Typically with a smile on my lips and a mending on my soul.

The trusty-dusty cameraphone

I got an email today from one of my girls, and it had random cameraphone images on it. This prompted me to download from my phone the images I had. OMG, memories. I will add them with some explanations.



My daughter at the beach. Apparently it's hard to text with boys in the sun.



When the tap is empty (in this case I had cleared the bar of all their Fat Tire), a sumo gets it up the ass.



How about we do this year's final number to....the "pechanga"?



wow.



OMG. This is what happens when little boys fight in the park and Carol is around. She didn't even know him!



Bad picture. But have you EVER seen an elevator so cavernous?!?!



Midget in the grocery store carrying a bag of dog food that was as big as him.



Stevie Wonder at the Maggie's.



Yes. That's a PIANO built into the wall. I could find no access to tune it.



My brother's hairy back mole.



My son at the ortho.



The bear lake beast. Anna said I had to put this one up.



Photographic evidence that my son was disobeying mother's orders and NOT wearing his coat. And no, I'm not a pedophile. I'm just a mother trying to prove a point by taking pictures from her car outside the school playground.



le f**k sin? Why would you f*&* sin? I embrace it! I love it!




Hot girl at a USANA concert standing on her chair.



Twins.



Superman!



Old man with a glow necklace in the car behind us.




Yep. That's right. Four aces with a deuce kicker. That one brings tears to my eyes!



Miles at a soccer game. He's bored.



Michael Jackson? Is that you? I didn't know there was enough plastic surgery in the world for TWO of them.



My brother came home. He thought he was hot. And yes, his tank is lime green netting.



My youngest's first roller coaster ride.



Chickens chasing tail.



Pussy on the bar. Only in SF.



Moose on a rampage.



And this was after they backed up a little. Yes, the railroad crossing arm is in fact ON the car.



I would have called it a honey pot.



My girls.



The groom was so proud he had the date of his wedding shaved into his head.



And here's the bride. Yes. They are AT THE BAR. ON THEIR WEDDING NIGHT. Can you say "class"? Yeah, I choked on it too.



The "joserbeast". I thought it was because the biker's name was Joe? Who knows, but it's mouth was painted red.



This random girl peeing standing up off Dead Horse Point. She should be arrested.



This is a picture of me. I took it for my friend Anna. To show her what I looked like in class the day after I had to go pick her drunk ass up in Sandy at one in the morning. And then take her back to her car at seven in the morning.





Kula wants to bag a cock.



Hello. He was flirtin' with Lixie.



Butt Bling.



My dog thinks she's human. She uses a booster seat cuz she's under five.



My daughter riding a pretend horse. That's also my older sister next to her. Ride 'em cowgirls. HA!


That's all for now. I think that's plenty.

The Recap

One of the best parts about hanging out with friends is the next day. Particularly if you were drinking and have fuzzy (if not black) spots in your memory. I am going to share with you a few words or phrases that you really will not understand, unless you were there. Even if you were there you may not get the reference. This will serve as the journal log for the 2008 back to school barbecue.

-jager pump

-mustaches and tattoos

-hosed tramps

-random new neighbors

-marshmallows

-bandaid brigade

-live barbecue chicken

-the bedroom break-in

-fireworks

-the melted utensil peepshow

-hiding handbags

-post-coital blank stare

-the token asian

-consuela!

-faking

-hooha on parade

-smoke bombing cars

-cabbage

-written instructions for mike

-christmas jammies

-forehead tapping

-"you promised to take me to work and you promised not to hate me"...."i hate you"

I think that's probably about it. Feel free to comment if you think of something else.

Nothing is more healing than hanging out with the girls.

My brother once wisely told me two things. One, girls wear makeup and perfume because they’re ugly and they stink. Two, this was his response when I told him maybe I should be done dating boys and start dating girls, “why the hell would you do that? Girls are crazy!”

I would never ever argue that girls aren’t crazy. I’ve long contended that all girls are crazy, it’s just to what extent do they allow you to see it. Or in laymen’s terms, how well they hide it. I’ve been privy, if not the strategist, to some pretty crazy covert operations. But, I do not want to incriminate myself at this time. Once I’m properly hitched, I’ll let all my skeletons out of the closet. Like I said, it’s how much of my craziness will I give away? Ha!

The best part about finding yourself in the midst of a gaggle of girls is that you can let your hair down, and know that you are in the company of like-minded souls. You can laugh at nothing. You can laugh until you pee your pants. You can laugh until you find yourself crying. Conversely, you can cry with no shame. You can mourn and lament stupid, inconsequential trials or people. And you know that your girlies may not be able to solve your problems, but they most certainly will distract you from your pain. Love you with no shame. And no matter what, they will have something rude to say about your enemy.

I love my girls. Sometimes we get so boy crazy, we forget to look back to what’s really important. But at the end of this lifetime, women outlive the men, so who’s going to be there to collect cats with you? Who’s going to be there when you pee your pants at Nordstrom in the shoe department and laugh with you until she pees herself too? Who’s going to sit up all afternoon at the slots with you in your jazzy chairs?

Your girls. That’s who.

Why I like to dance with old men.

My girlfriends like to make fun. What they don’t understand is that time’s awastin’ and it won’t be long before all the dancing men are dead and gone. Well, obviously with the exception of the gays. And I suppose the Latins as well. It will be a sad day.

There was a time, (I will clarify RIGHT NOW this section is my romantic view of the world as it used to be. There is NO basis of actual fact, this is merely my assumption based on my own current experiences). Anyway, there was a time where men knew how to lead a woman on the dance floor and actually DANCE with her. He would ask a woman to dance, and he would take the lead and guide her through steps, twirls, dips. The girl would need to be able to read his cues, the nuances of the hand positioning, the gentle taps on the shoulder or side, and in this manner the two would connect. As opposed to grinding up against each other in a form of “dance” I call foreplay. Not that I don’t mind dancing this way once in awhile. Okay, let’s be honest. I actually enjoy it at times. But have you ever watched the faces of a man and woman who are actually dancing?

I doubt that you have. We all get annoyed at the bar when some older couple goes out on the tiny floor and monopolizes all the space. They have no regard for the people around them. It is typically our opinion that they are rude and have no right. Frankly, we are rude for wanting to deny them this opportunity to actually enjoy each other and the music. So what if we can’t jump up and down, or make sure all the boys are watching while we girls grind up against each other. This couple doesn’t have much time left! His hips are going to go out. Or his knees. Or the arthritis in his shoulder will make leading impossible. I say, LET THEM DANCE.

For just one moment, think about the skill this requires of him. The time he has spent learning how to lead the woman. Making sure he catches her when she stumbles a little (that would be me, btw), or that he communicates to her what’s next. He has to THINK. It’s his gift to her to let her just enjoy the music and the closeness and roll with the rhythm.

As a society we are letting this ritual get away from us. Oh, sure, we have the groom learn ahead of the wedding one dance so he doesn’t make an ass out of himself, but that’s about the extent of it. The women are forgetting how to listen to the man (okay this applies in a very broad spectrum) and what it’s like to enjoy being lead.

So. I dance with old men. I stand at the edge of the dance floor and watch the frustration on his face as he takes one girl after another onto the floor that cannot read his lead. Then I ask HIM to dance. I receive the gift of his generation, and treasure those three minutes with a total stranger. Where he talks to me without words. AND I LISTEN.