Halloween, Groberg style

For my mother, it was no coincidence that the words sugar and sin started with the same letter. Carob was more commonplace in our cupboard than chocolate. I was a teenager before I realized they were not the same thing. Everything was made from scratch, picked from our garden, or ground with our wheat grinder. We made our own yogurt from cultures grown on light boxes. Alfalfa sprouts grew underneath our sink. We purchased preservative-free peanut butter in gallon sizes. When we needed a new jug, we had to expend significant elbow grease to reunite the oil and the mushy nuts before it was cloaked in spreadability. Cold cereal only existed in the form of oatmeal that was ready to eat before I was. Vitamin C pills were as close to treats as we ever came.

So, when Halloween dared to come around, my mom had to get creative. While thoughts of candy bars and lollipops danced in our eyes, she was busy figuring out a way to thwart the sugar that would infallibly fall into our digestive tracts through school parties and the t-words. Trick or Treating. She came up with a meal stuffed with an assortment of the most disgusting vegetables, as if filling us up with vitamins and goodness would make us recoil at the sight of a Snickers bar.

She called it “Dinner in a Pumpkin”. The very phrase still gives my stomach nightmares. It was a goulash of meat and peppers and other spices cooked inside a real, down-to-earth, squashy pumpkin. We would scoop out the seeds, (to be roasted and eaten later, instead of our candy). She would slice up the fleshy pulp and inject all the ingredients. Then, our oven would host the unwelcome gourd for an hour or so while everyone but me dressed up in costumes and giddiness.

Every year I begged for an alternate meal. I offered to eat an entire plate of just green beans, or three corn on the cobs, or five bananas. I begged and begged. I hated pumpkin. I hated all stringy, pulpy squash. But, the rule of no substitutions applied on this night as it did on every other night of the year. There would be no mercy, no advocate would come to my aid. I had to eat the pumpkin or stay home from the one night where adults who normally intimidated and scared me gave me candy.

So, I would always eat it, trying my best not to chew. I would take the smallest of bites, and chase them down with water, choking and gagging my way through my alloted portion. When my plate passed inspection, off I would trudge to the nearest bathroom, each step echoing my displeasure with ‘dinner’.

The bathroom’s wallpaper was beige with pictures of planes, trains, cars, and boats. It spoke of happier times and carefree hobbies. It shuddered when Halloween came around. It knew why I was there. I would pull my hair back into a ponytail, kneel down and lift up the porcelain lid to evacuate the contents of my dinner and sometimes my lunch.

Stomach freshly scoured of any traces of vitamins and nutrients, I donned the hand-me-down costume earmarked for me and joined my siblings for our adventures in begging. We couldn’t go trick-or treating ad hoc. We were to go up and down our little street, and maybe, just maybe, hit a few houses on the side. But, any candy we got was like manna from heaven. For about an hour, we were the official owners of contraband. When discretion was our friend, some of the candy never quite made it into our bags.

Upon our return, we were allowed to select a few pieces. I would both savor and devour those favored items. Then, we dutifully turned the rest of our candy over to senior patrol. After that, I’m not sure were it went. Perhaps some of it was doled out periodically over the next few weeks. I’m more inclined to think my parents ate it surreptitiously. I think some of the less popular pieces made it all the way to our Christmas stockings.

As a mother of three perfect-for-trick-or-treating aged children, I am now faced with the dilemma. What do I feed them on All Hallows Eve? Dinner-in-a Pumpkin? Never. In fact, I’ve been tempted to tear ‘Dinner-in-a-Pumpkin’’s page from our family cookbook and offer it up in some fiery ritual. But, it would probably catch my hair on fire in some final act of vengeance. So, I reflect on my many trips to the wallpapered room of doom and always end up making macaroni and cheese -- their favorite. Better to stuff them with food they will actually eat, right? Then, when their little feet have had all they can of our vast neighborhood, home we go. They get to choose a few pieces to eat right then. The rest? Well, I’ve graduated now. I’m senior patrol. Surreptitious is my middle name.

P.S. While my childhood mind felt tortured by the lack of sugar, my mother obviously knew best. She has never spent a day of her life overweight. And, even though she had 11 children, and is now well into her 70s, she still doesn’t have any grey hair. Maybe there is something magical to Carob after all.

Lagoon (part 1 of 4)

The Centennial Screamer. Just swishing those words through my lips sent alternating ripples of bravery and shivers down my spine. The Centennial Screamer. It was the newest attraction at our local amusement park, Lagoon: mecca for all children in the greater Salt Lake Valley. And today, today I was going to conquer it. Of course, I still had to convert my little sister to the gospel of The Centennial Screamer. But, I had a plan.

Lagoon was a once-a-year-at-most prize and I was going wrap my arms around it and soak it in like a bee collecting pollen. The sun was shining, accompanied by a slight breeze, making it the perfect background for a day spent outside. My mother dropped us off at the entrance gate loaded with sack lunches and enthusiasm. Before she left, she gave us enough money for admission fees plus one entire dollar for each of us to spend at our leisure. At our leisure! She probably said something like, “Save some in case of an emergency.” But, I stopped listening once the coin was in my palm.

“I’ll pick you up right here at 8:00 tonight.” And then, she was gone. Gone! I turned around to face the enormous entrance gates and smiled. The world behind the metal bars was mine to consume. I was thirteen and primed for the task. There was four of us; my older brother Tom, me, my 11-year old sister Viki, and my 9-year old sister Emily. Immediately, we divided up to attack the park. Tom went with Viki and I had Emily. We set up a meeting place for a few hours from then and ran as fast as we could to wait in the nearest line.

Emily would have been easy enough to convince to go on The Centennial Screamer with me, but I couldn’t fool the height charts posted periodically throughout the park. She wasn’t tall enough. So, ‘The Ride’ would have to wait until I was with Viki, harder to convince, but several inches taller. Time launched by and soon we were meeting up and trading siblings. I didn’t waste anytime approaching my first order of business: The Centennial Screamer.

“No way I’m gonna ride that one!” Viki said.

I expected as much. She hated these rides. She got sick easily, and no one willingly repeats that exposure. So, I had to convince her to convince herself. I had to make her believe she would not get sick. If I was overly confident, my conviction might bleed onto her. If she just got into line, more than half the battle would be won. We’d be committed. But, I had to completely manipulate her without her being aware of it, and she was no idiot.

“You can do it! It’s not really that scary. Besides, you’re almost twelve years old.” The difference between eleven and twelve was so much more than a single digit. Twelve meant responsibility and dependability. Now, I needed to stay quiet and let my infallible logic sink it. Would she take the bait?

“I really don’t want to, though.” She almost sighed, as if preparing for resignation. Wow! This was going better than I thought. She had catapulted from ‘No way’ to ‘I really don’t want to’. Just a few well-placed shoulder taps, words, and smiles and we’d be wasting the near future waiting in a long line.

“Of course it seems scary, but look how many people are in line! And, you know how fast these rides are. It will be over before you know it. You’ll probably wish it was longer.” I playfully hit her arm and stifled a laugh to make sure she knew I meant no foul.

“But I might get sick. I..”

“Hey!” I interrupted before we went too far down that literally slippery slope, “You won’t get sick. It’s all in your head. Just tell yourself you won’t get sick and you won’t be sick. I promise.” My logic was impressing even me! Mind over matter. Simple as that.

“Can’t we just go on another ride instead?” Viki asked, with both hope and defeat in her eyes.

She paused on the word instead. It was her tell. She’d been had. I’d won. But, just to play it safe, I pulled out my trump.

“Look, if we get all the way up to the front and you are still scared, we don’t have to actually go on the ride.” Before I had even finished, we were moving toward the target. We both knew we’d go on this ride before the hour was out. There was no way we were going to spend time in a line without payoff. And the condition I slipped in? She had to admit she was too scared. It was never going to happen. I smiled inwardly at my sales skills.

The line was longer than the Oregon Trail. Everyone wanted to test their bravery on this ride. ‘You will Scream’ the tag line promised. And scream they did. And scream and scream and scream. Group by daring group, the passengers got into carts which would spin and spin, then, usurping the magic that only exists in metal form at amusement parks, the entire contraption would slowly rise up on its side and spin not only horizontally, but vertically as well.

As we got closer to the no-backing-out-now point, even I started to panic. There was a lot of screaming going on. But, no amount of money in the known world would have convinced me to walk away from what lay ahead. Okay, I’m sure anything over about twenty dollars could have lured me away, but no one was offering, so I was staying put. But, Viki was getting more and more scared. I could see it in the whites of her knuckles and how sub-consciously one hand would hold her stomach, as if trying to send it calming signals. One thing always worked well in situations like this one. A wonderfully useful friend called Distraction.

“Let’s try and guess which cart number is going to be ours!” My voice was falsely enthusiastic. “Winner gets to choose the next ride.”

It worked. Before we’d had time to change our guesses more than three times each, it was our turn at destiny. Neither of us guessed our cart number correctly, so ride dictatorship was still up for grabs. Number 16 was our home for the imminent future. We secured both the bars and our seat belts. It should have been a sign of potential disaster that there were two methods of protection. I had time to flash Viki one last smile and slough off some sincere words of encouragement before we started to spin.

We hadn’t been spinning more than two or three times, however, before my concern for the state of Viki’s stomach was thrown from my mind with overwhelming concern for the state of my own. It was well-past too late to do anything about it now. It’s all in my head. I tried my ‘mind over matter’ logic out. Yeah, right. This ill feeling is definitely NOT coming from my head. More like my stomach, esophagus, no wait, back down to my stomach, ooh! up it goes, this is never going to end. If I actually scream, more than a scared voice might just come out.

But, as all amusement park rides do, this one ended in just over a minute. As we started to normalize, I turned to Viki with a smile etched on my face from sheer necessity. If I got that sick, then how was she handling it?

Apparently, she wasn’t.

A Single Word

After a particularly difficult day in the mission field, all I wanted to do was withdraw, retreat. It wasn’t just the lack of progressing investigators, I was struggling with my companion. And, even though the language was coming along, the intense fire and desire to shout the gospel from the rooftops I had when I first came to the field was cooling, requiring constant effort to stoke the dying coals. I had a year left on my mission, and I didn’t know if I was going to make it through that week.

I dropped my backpack, heavy with pamphlets, books, and defeat, just inside the front door. I didn’t say anything to my companion. The slightest wrong tone could lead to another argument. In my state of mind, I could not trust my tone. I kept my coat on, the chill of a foggy February day still present in our little apartment. I burrowed out of my oversized boots and wriggled up on my little bed. I lay there, hugging my knees, wanting to give up, at least until sleep could offer safe cover.

As I longed for rest, I started listing all of the things that were going wrong. Like kindling, my faults caught fire and spread quickly to every aspect of my life. I was a complete failure. I was self-righteous, judgmental and a hypocrite. The road before me was too steep and unknown. I would fail. I started mumbling to myself over and over, “I can’t do it. I can’t do it. I can’t do it.”

And then, a single word pressed upon my mind so quietly, I knew it came from the Holy Ghost. “Alone.”

Stubbornly, I silently shouted to my knees, “I CAN’T do it!”

Again, I heard the forceful nudging of a single word. “Alone.”

“I can’t do it,” I said, again, but with an edge of curiosity. Why was the Spirit telling me that word over and over?

“Alone. Alone. Alone.”

And then, an understanding sigh, as I put the two phrases together and understood.

“I can’t do it alone.”

There are rare moments in life when learning takes place in an unearthly way. Where a principle taught is of such an eternal nature that it can only come directly from the Spirit. Such was this moment. I felt at once both the desire to jolt up out of my bed alive with new insight and the need to lay still, letting eternal knowledge etch its way into my spiritual DNA. The hot tears of frustration that were building up fell freely now, but they were tears of understanding, outlined in hope.

What a difference a single word can make! “I can’t do it” was the fruit of despair and discouragement, failure and forfeit. As I spoke those words, I was giving in to depression and defeat. However, “I can’t do it alone” represented humility and teachableness. “I can’t do it alone” implied that I could do it with help; that a solution was very possible. And it filled me with a desire to try.

I thought again of my current situation and realized not only that I couldn’t make it better alone, but also that I shouldn’t even try to do it alone. I needed the constant help of the Spirit. I needed the strength of my companion. I needed the power of prayer, always. I was completely dependent on others for any success. And, they were dependent on me. The Lord needed me to be His mouthpiece there. And I needed His help to want to be just that. I could not overcome my bitter feelings towards my companion without the help of the Spirit. But, with the help of the Spirit, that was entirely possible and achievable. The lessons and implications from that single word kept pouring in, and my soul opened up to receive them.

The very next morning, before the sun had even made an appearance, I apologized to my companion and, with a prayer in my heart, planted seeds of forgiveness. To this day, we are still close friends. And, not only did I make it through that week, I went on to enjoy my mission more than I ever thought possible.

Since that foggy February day so long ago, I have relied on the lessons learned dozens of times. Depending on the situation, I have cherry-picked the application of the difference that single word made. It has come as an impression to involve my husband in a particular decision. It has prompted me to teach my children household chores, knowing I do not have the time or energy to do it all alone. It has gently reminded me ‘they are called counselors for a reason’. And, more times than I remember, it has caused me to fall to my knees for a third or fourth prayer for help with a specific trial.

We were never meant to be alone in this life. We came as a part of family, immediately outnumbered by those watching out for us. Two parents for one child. We have siblings, friends, parents, and teachers. We are given the gift of the Holy Ghost as a constant companion as long as we are worthy. We have the light of Christ in us from birth to help direct our decisions. We have scriptures to teach us everything we ever needed to know. We have modern-day prophets to guide us with their advantageous viewpoints and insight. And, always, always, we have prayer and the atonement. Two reasons we are never, ever, truly alone. And, with those powerful tools, we can do anything that is right, anything.

A single word. Just five short letters. And, a lonely word at that. Yet, when coupled with the eternal knowledge of the Spirit, that single word has made worlds of difference.

100th post: A Beautiful Day

(My beautiful daughter, Eden)

In honor of my 100th post, I thought I’d just share a few things (no, not 100) that make an ordinary day a beautiful day for me:

• Escaping into a good book
• Hearing the pitter-patter of tiny feet running to use my bathroom (since it is so much cooler to use Mom and Dad’s bathroom)
• Filling my ‘extra milk’ up with a second helping of my favorite cereal
• Having all the appropriate ingredients to make my kids’ lunches
• Having my children remind me to say family prayers
• Watching my children race each other down the street to school
• Hoping no one else is watching me watch my kids race each other down the street to school (I’m still in my PJs...)
• Catching my latest favorite song on the radio
• Getting a spot next to a friendly face at gym class
• Actually making it to gym class
• Making a smoothie with one part protein, four parts fruit, and using two small hands so eager to help
• Sharing that smoothie with the girl those small hands belong to
• Getting good e-mail (not junk, bills, political agendas)
• Getting good voice mail (not junk, bills, political agendas)
• Getting good mail (not junk, bills, political agendas)
• Taking too long of a shower
• Wearing (again) that pair of shorts that is so comfortable, you constantly thank your lucky stars you bought them all those months (okay, years) ago
• Catching up with friends (old, new, borrowed, blue)
• Emptying a clean, slightly warm load of laundry, and inhaling the clean smell for a few seconds
• Letting that clean, no-longer warm, load of laundry sit there for days and fishing out of it until it’s empty
• Pretending not to be watching ‘Phineas and Ferb’ while I’m supposed to be cleaning the kitchen
• Opening the garage door in anticipation of the return of the kids from school
• Hearing the door crash open, a backpack slam against the floor, and the sound of my boy running to the bathroom as fast as he can (apparently school bathrooms aren’t cool either)
• Asking that son where his sister is
• Having him tell me she is talking with friends, again
• Being incredibly grateful for such a friendly, social daughter
• Being incredibly grateful for a son who is completely content to not be as social as his sister
• Eating after-school snacks
• Not feeling too-guilty that I ate more of the snacks than my kids did
• Helping kids with homework
• Being incredibly grateful that I can still figure out their homework enough to help them
• Hearing my son play his piano pieces as fast as he can, and then faster
• Pretending not to watch iCarly while I’m supposed to be getting dinner ready
• Having an answer to the worst question in the world, “What’s for dinner?”
• Watching my picky-eater of a son finish his dinner, despite his earlier complaining
• Realizing I’ve become my mother when I tell him about all the starving children in the world
• Having a husband who has a job, even though it means he has to work late, again
• Having a husband who knows how to work, even though it means he has to work late, again
• Having kids who don’t complain about reading scriptures together
• Hearing what my son will pray about in our family prayers (that he won’t sprain his ankle, that the Wii remote will work right, that Mom will buy some of his favorite food at the store next time)
• Sending my kids running upstairs to see who can get their teeth brushed and in their pajamas first
• Realizing that brushing your teeth probably shouldn’t be a timed activity
• Being in my pajamas by 8:00 p.m.
• Turning on my DVR
• Welcoming home a work-weary husband
• Settling on a sugar-free popsicle instead of a bowl of ice cream (curse you diabetes)
• Enjoying that sugar-free popsicle, because at least I have a sugar-free popsicle
• Wondering where I’ll find my youngest daughter sleeping when I go to kiss her goodnight (she has fallen asleep in a myriad of random locations (hallway, under sister’s bed, brother’s closet, the couch in our bedroom)
• Wondering if she’ll still have her pajamas on (she gets bored with clothes)
• Kissing each of my sleeping children on the forehead
• Escaping into a good book

Here's to hoping you have a Beautiful Day

Bandwagons

I submitted this essay to a few online sites, and was rejected from them all. One of them said "It sounds too much like a blog", so with that in mind.... I decided to post it on my blog. Enjoy!

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The lights finally dim. For a split second there is silence. And then, the screaming begins. I can’t help myself. A shriek erupts from my throat, framed by a grin I dusted off to use. The teenager inside has come out to play.

I will deal with the dichotomy later. For the next few hours, I am no longer a stay-at-home mother of three, burdened with a mortgage, meal time, and mold growing in our pool. I have my black t-shirt on, the one I wear only once a year. I have declared my intentions. I have leapt on the Twilight bandwagon, Team Edward all the way.

Remember the roller coaster? At long last I am at the front of the line. I climb down into the seat and fasten the bar too tightly. After the usual “Keep your hands inside the cart at all times” warning, I lurch forward. Inch by inch it crawls up and up. The anticipation builds. I try to prepare my stomach for what is coming. The cart is slowing down now, as it nears the precipice. Any second now, I’ll be moving too fast to enjoy it. Remember that feeling?

I try to quell my shrieking, and keep my hands inside my cart. I’m 36 for crying out loud. I take a brief second to recognize that, and choose to scream anyway. Reality doesn’t matter in this moment.

For, in this moment I’m here to see the next of the Twilight movies. Some close friends have rented out an entire theater and hundreds of us moms and teenagers go nice and early, as if the better the seat we have, the more devoted to the cause we are. One of my friends has taxing trivia about the saga and we try to answer for prizes. I eat it up. I jump up and down, going through the trivia line multiple times, acting less than half my age. But, I love it. Every part of it. I’m not there for the movie. The movie is the rest of the roller coaster, that fast 45 seconds that races by too quickly. I’m there for that initial climb: that anticipation.

I’ve counted down the days to this event. As I shove peanut butter sandwiches and juice boxes into lunch bags, I walk past my calendar and think, “Four more days!” Then, I make sure my kids are dressed appropriately and send them on their way. Living life in the present and looking forward to something are not mutually exclusive feelings.

I went to the midnight release of Harry Potter #7 at our local book store. What a fun bandwagon through Diagon Alley that was. I participated in all the games, applauded those dressed up in extravagant costumes, hung out with friends and soaked in the experience for all it had to offer. After it was over, I simply slept in the next morning. Not a steep price to pay for a truly unique experience. Sure, I had to do the dishes that next day, and mop the floor, and didn’t even get a chance to read the book for several more days, however, for those few hours, I was in another reality. I was carefree, in the best sense of the word.

There are so many bandwagons out there, vying for my frivolous attention. No one has the time or energy necessary to jump on them all, but I have learned to choose a silly few, grab hold, and live out loud. These superficial rides that just go around in circles can make life so much fun. To those who condescendingly label these adventures shallow and immature, I have one word:

And?

Life is serious all on its own. There is nothing silly about getting that phone call from a college roommate saying she has breast cancer. There is nothing frivolous about helping family members deal with job loss, divorce, or problems with children. Life will provide the drama, the tears, and ample opportunities to be mature and sensible.

I could wait until the hype is over; until the books are out in paperback and the movies are on DVD. But that is like skipping from Thanksgiving to December 25th. I still get Christmas, but I miss the best part!

So, I’ll continue to jump onto a bandwagon. Or two. Or three. I can keep my hands inside the cart and my scream inside my throat. Or, I can dust off that grin, take a deep breath, and Just. Let. Go.

Halloween

Several months ago I joined a writing group. It has been a wonderful experience so far. I've decided to start sharing some of my stories on my blog. I've even submitted a piece for publications. But, I'm not planning on it being accepted. They get 1200 submissions a week and only choose 5. However, I have a goal to get 100 rejection letters over the course of my writing career, so better start somewhere. Hopefully I'll get some acceptances along the way as well. Here is a short story about Halloween in our home growing up in a family of 11. Enjoy!

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For my mother, it was no coincidence that the words sugar and sin started with the same letter. Carob was more commonplace in our cupboard than chocolate. I was a teenager before I realized they were not the same thing. Everything was made from scratch, picked from our garden, or ground with our wheat grinder. We made our own yogurt from cultures grown on light boxes. We grew alfalfa sprouts underneath our sink. We purchased preservative-free peanut butter in gallon sizes. When we needed a new jug, we had to expend significant elbow grease to reunite the oil and the mushy nuts before it was cloaked in spreadability. Cold cereal only existed in the form of oatmeal that was ready to eat before I was. Vitamin C pills were as close to treats as we ever came.

So, when Halloween dared to come around, my mom had to get creative. While thoughts of candy bars and lollipops danced in our eyes, she was busy figuring out a way to thwart the sugar that would infallibly fall into our digestive tracts through school parties and the t-words. Trick or Treating. She came up with a meal stuffed with an assortment of the most disgusting vegetables, as if filling us up with vitamins and goodness would make us recoil at the sight of a Snickers bar.

She called it “Dinner in a Pumpkin”. The very phrase still gives my stomach nightmares. It was a goulash of meat and peppers and other spices cooked inside a real, down-to-earth, squashy pumpkin. We would scoop out the seeds, (to be roasted and eaten later, instead of our candy). She would slice up the fleshy pulp and inject all the ingredients. Then, our oven would host the unwelcome gourd for an hour or so while everyone but me dressed up in costumes and giddiness.

Every year I begged for an alternate meal. I offered to eat an entire plate of just green beans, or three corn on the cobs, or five bananas. I begged and begged. I hated pumpkin. I hated all stringy, pulpy squash. But, the rule of no substitutions applied on this night as it did on every other night of the year. There would be no mercy, no advocate would come to my aid. I had to eat the pumpkin or stay home from the one night where adults who normally intimidated and scared me gave me candy.

So, I would always eat it, trying my best not to chew. I would take the smallest of bites, and chase them down with water, choking and gagging my way through my alloted portion. When my plate passed inspection, off I would trudge to the nearest bathroom, each step echoing my displeasure with ‘dinner’.

The bathroom’s wallpaper was beige with pictures of planes, trains, cars, and boats. It spoke of happier times and carefree hobbies. It shuddered when Halloween came around. It knew why I was there. I would pull my hair back into a ponytail, kneel down and lift up the porcelain lid to evacuate the contents of my dinner and sometimes my lunch.

Stomach freshly scoured of any traces of vitamins and nutrients, I donned the hand-me-down costume earmarked for me and joined my siblings for our adventures in begging.

We couldn’t go trick-or treating ad hoc. We were to go up and down our little street, and maybe, just maybe, hit a few houses on the side. But, any candy we got was like manna from heaven. For about an hour, we were the official owners of contraband. When discretion was our friend, some of the candy never quite made it into our bags.

Upon our return, we were allowed to select a few pieces. I would both savor and devour those favored items. Then, we dutifully turned the rest of our candy over to senior patrol. After that, I’m not sure were it went. Perhaps some of it was doled out periodically over the next few weeks. I’m more inclined to think my parents ate it surreptitiously. I think some of the less popular pieces made it all the way to our Christmas stockings.

As a mother of three perfect-for-trick-or-treating aged children, I am now faced with the dilemma. What do I feed them on All Hallows Eve? Dinner-in-a Pumpkin? Never. In fact, I’ve been tempted to tear ‘Dinner-in-a-Pumpkin’’s page from our family cookbook and offer it up in some fiery ritual. But, it would probably catch my hair on fire in some final act of vengeance. So, I reflect on my many trips to the wallpapered room of doom and always end up making macaroni and cheese -- their favorite. Better to stuff them with food they will actually eat, right? Then, when their little feet have had all they can of our vast neighborhood, home we go. They get to choose a few pieces to eat right then. The rest? Well, I’ve graduated now. I’m senior patrol. Surreptitious is my middle name.

P.S. While my childhood mind felt tortured by the lack of sugar, my mother obviously knew best. She has never spent a day of her life overweight. And, even though she had 11 children, and is now well into her 70s, she still doesn’t have any grey hair. Maybe there is something magical to Carob after all.

Where are you?

In college, I was in a band. We were a one-hit wonder (as in I WONDER why no one has ever heard of us). Our band name was called “Or Something”. The thought behind it was that we could say “Have you heard of the band or something?” and really confuse people. (It seemed like a good idea at the time).

Well, having given up all hope of VHI or MTV (or even BYUtv) ever knocking at my door wanting to do the ‘behind the music’ story of our one hit, I decided to plague you, my blog audience, with the saga.

This might be a long post, but hopefully entertaining enough to make it worth your while.

Go back with me to the late winter of 1997. Gwen Stefani was known as the lead singer of “No Doubt”, the White House was full of scandal thanks to Monika Lewinsky, and another school year was coming to a close in the Rocky Mountains of Utah.

For me, it wasn’t just any school year; it was my senior year of college. Most of my roommates and friends were engaged. Love was in the air (it hits earlier than spring in Provo). But, somehow, I had missed the boat completely. Not only was I not engaged, I wasn’t even dating anyone. And, I was about to graduate from BYU – SINGLE!

I was returning with several friends from a road trip to Idaho (to attend a friend’s wedding, of course) when I penned the song. In fact, the original name of it was called “Idaho Road Trip”. But, it wasn’t that catchy of a title, and since it had NOTHING to do with rest of the lyrics, I later changed it to “Where are You?” Here it is. While you're listening, keep reading.




Here are the lyrics in full, (along with my asides and insights in parentheses and italics). (Think of it like watching a DVD with the director’s commentary ON). Since it is basically about dating at BYU, there are several inside jokes that only those that attended BYU would understand, so I have explained them.

When I was only 17 (I really was 17 when I started college)
And barely 5 foot 2, (I’m 5’6”)
I knew I’d meet the man of my dreams
In the Land of BYU. (It truly is its own anomaly of a city)

However…

You weren’t in my Y-group, (During Freshman orientation, all freshies are divided up into Y-groups that you do all your bonding activities and classes with)
Or in ward boundary lines.
I took a social dance class, (The ultimate ‘dating’ class (beginning ballroom) – I refused to ever take this class on moral grounds)
But still I could not find

You so I

Changed my major to El Ed, (Elementary Education – the major that let the boys know you just wanted to get married and raise kids – no offense my El Ed friends – you’re the ones laughing now – I have no idea what I’m doing with my kids!)
So I’d be a good wife.
And with the hopes of getting wed,
I studied in the Clyde (The Clyde building was mainly for engineering students, which were mainly men… its all about ratios of men/women at BYU)

Building…

CHORUS:
Where? Where are You?
Did you not make it into BYU? (Even back then, it was hard to get into BYU, so maybe my man was going to UVSC instead?)
Why? Why am I
All alone, and ready to cry? (just for rhyming purposes – I’m not much of a crier)
I thought that we’d
Fall in love,
And be married.
Now, where are you?
I hope I didn’t miss my cue.

So three years of this game I played, (Freshman, Sophomore, Junior year)
Then I was called to serve. (True)
So to my friends and family bade
Farewell and got the nerve

To ask my

Mom if I should look for you
While serving in the field.
A good Zone leader who’d be true (Zone leaders are elders who’ve been given extra responsibility in the field)
To whom I could be sealed. (I had a strictly professional relationship w/ the elders in my mission)

So in the

MTC I tried to find
My true love everywhere.
But sadly I was reassigned
To serve on Temple Square! (In case you didn’t know, Temple Square is the only mission made up entirely of sister missionaries)

Oh dear me!

CHORUS

So now I’ve come for one last chance
Back here in Zoobieland. (A nickname for BYU)
I’ll look for you at every dance, (They had dances every weekend)
So you can hold my hand. (Interdigitation – this was like first or second base at BYU)

But then you’d

Say, like other guys I meet
I’m nice and everything.
But if my spirit is so sweet, (The ultimate ‘rejection’ – “you have a sweet spirit”)
Why don’t I have a ring? (an engagement ring – the ultimate prize for a girl at BYU)

And now I

Graduate this afternoon,
And you are all I lack.
And if I don’t meet you real soon,
I WANT MY MONEY BACK! (tuition money – why else attend BYU? Joking)

So tell me..

Chorus

Well now I’m almost thirty-two
Just got my master’s degree.
But I just can’t leave BYU
So I’ll get my PhD. (I actually did go back to BYU and got my master's degree, but by then I'd met Dave. We got married during my first year of MBA school. Good thing, because I never wanted to write a dissertation!)

Okay, so there it is! I manipulated one of our FHE brothers who worked at the BYU recording studios to smuggle us in after hours and we recorded it. I then got the demo and we mass produced it on cassete single (by mass produce I mean we got the minimum quantity, 100). We actually played at a few BYUSA functions around campus. We even sold 6 tapes to the BYU bookstore! (Later, I saw 5 of them on the clearance table). I think I sold most of the tapes to my dad. Ahh! What a supporter! We even opened up for Peter Breinholt at the Senior Party for all graduating seniors, but alas, our mikes didn't work and so no one could hear the amazing song that would have been a one-hit wonder.

But, now you have. Consider yourselves one of the few, the proud.

Jennie vs. the woodpecker

Ah, the holidays -- the candy I 'take' from my kids' Halloween stash, the smell of pumpkin pie baking in the oven, the lights all aglow at nights, and the annoying rapping of the neighborhood woodpecker.

We have this woodpecker that has chosen our house as its place of preferred pecking for the last three winters. It is SO annoying. That doesn't even begin to adequately describe it. Imagine someone knocking at your door - loudly, consistently, with a repeating pattern about every 10 seconds. Now, transfer that noise to right outside your chimney on the eaves of your house, and the sound reverberates throughout the house.

I've looked up on the Internet how to rid oneself of such a pest, and I have to find a 2 story-ladder and climb up and hang mylar baloons or something reflective. And then... maybe... it will work. No guarantees. So, until I get said mylar balloons and a ladder and someone willing to climb up to our roof, I have to resort to other methods.

My method of choice is Dave's airsoft gun. Pretty much every day -- several times a day -- you will find me stealthily cocking the gun and tip-toeing outside, around our palm tree, ducking behind the pillars, aiming, and firing with all my might at this tiny, LOUD, bird. I have yet to actually do any damage to the thing. But, it is not for lack of trying. Once I actually got a feather or two, but it is pretty fast and flies away, only to return an hour or so later and the whole charade starts anew.

I know I sound sadistic and mean -- I mean this is a bird we are talking about -- but spend two days with it and I guarantee you'd be on my side. So, imagine how I feel about the thing after 3 years. It is seasonal (comes in late October and leaves by the end of March). So far, the score is Woodpecker: 347, Jennie: 1/2 (I'm counting the hit with the feathers). But I will win. I will.

Ash

In honor of our next President, I thought I'd share a funny story with you. This is NOT a racist story, by ANY means. I promise.

So, in high school, Dave played football. He played in Texas and Virginia. Most of his teammates were black (or is it African American?). At any rate, in the locker room these guys would always be asking him for lotion to take care of their 'ash'. Ash, if you don't know, is what happens to black skin when it gets really dry -- it turns scaly and white and looks like 'ash'. So, the conversations would be something like this, "Yo, Blaser, pass me some lotion -- I got ash!" or "Shoo, brother, you got lotion? I's got ash". Dave: "Why would I have lotion?" ...

Okay, fast forward about 7-8 years, Dave and I are married, living in Provo. I'm expecting Eden, so by this time I'd heard his football stories more than once. At the time, I was getting my MBA at BYU. I worked part-time in the admissions office. One of my co-workers and colleagues, Sean, was black. We were good friends, but he also knew how "utah" and "white" I was.

So, I had left the office to run an errand, and he had some other students in there and was trying to explain what ash was, and that NO ONE in Utah had ever heard of it. Just then he saw me walking back down the hall and told his friends, "Okay, here comes Jennie. I'll prove my point. No one is more Utah or white than Jennie. Let's see if she's heard of ash". In I walk and he says, "Jennie, do you know what ash is?" Immediately I remember Dave's stories and my reply is likety-split, in my best southern accent:

"Shoo, brother! Pass me some lotion. I got ASH!"

Sean literally fell off his chair laughing. The other guys there were also laughing so hard they started crying! Pretty funny. So there, now you know what ash is!

Splash n Dash or Drown n Die

So, the Saturday after the Exodus (mind you, we were EXHAUSTED from the Exodus), we were roped into doing a biathlon/swim and run. Dave did it with me this time! Yeah! He should be writing this blog, since this is really his story.

Our race was a 1/2 mile swim, again in Tempe Town Lake, and then a 4K run. My friend Janae Samuelson did it -- she swam for BYU and is an excellent runner. Our friend Aaron Barrett also did it. Now, Dave and Aaron have never really swam long distances -- ever. They just thought they'd start out their swimming careers by swimming 1/2 mile in a big lake during a race. We all donned our bright orange swim caps and got in. Janae was off and we didn't see her again until she was almost done with the run portion. I struggled, as always during the swim, thinking I was one of the last ones out. When I was putting on my shoes, I noticed, with a bit of worry, that both Aaron's and Dave's shoes were still in our transition area.

According to Dave, this is what happened. He swam about 20 yards, realized he was going to drown and die, so he swam over to the edge of the lake and sat on the concrete siding. He looked up about 20 feet to see Aaron doing the same thing. People on the side were shouting all sorts of comments about how he needed to swim. He ignored them all and just got back in and tried to breast stroke or back stroke the rest of the way. Every so often, both he and Aaron had to rest on the side. For most of the race, the ASU kayak was following Dave. He was on his back, taking his sweet time getting through the water, and asked, "Am I last? Is that why you are following me?" They looked around and simply nodded. At the last turn, Dave made a push for it and passed Aaron and a 78 year old Grandma.

Aaron, who is a runner, passed Dave and a few others on the run. Dave stuck with it, and never let the grandma pass him. He finished the race second to last! Afterwards, both Aaron and Dave were in awe of those of us who had done the triathlon. They have new-found respect for swimming. I am SO happy that we did this race. It was a fun memory -- and to hear Dave tell the story, with hand motions, and facial expressions is just priceless!

The First Kiss

The other day, Dave and I realized that it has been 10 years (this week sometime) since our first kiss. So, I thought I'd share our first kiss story -- because it is a classic!

So, Dave and I were set up on a blind date by our mutual friend Brian. (Brian worked for me, Brian was Dave's roommate). We had a jovial time that first night. Dave called me the next day to say what a good time he'd had. Over the next 2 months we dated sporadically. At this time, my parents were living in Hong Kong and I only saw them every 6 months at General Conference. I was 24, a returned missionary, a graduate of BYU, and SINGLE. If I didn't show up with a boy every 6 months to conference, I would get 'a talk' about making more of an effort, etc. So, I invited Dave. He was a great sport (even though his roommate had accidentally shaved off his hair the day before).

Anyway, back to the first kiss. By the end of the semester (end of April), Dave and I had gone out regularly. His mom was out from Florida visiting Dave's grandma, who had cancer. Dave wanted me to come out and meet his mom. I remember thinking that things were getting too serious if he wanted me to meet his mom. (Remember, I took him to meet my family to avoid another 6 months of sighs from my family). I had decided that Dave and I didn't really have a future. I enjoyed his company, but if I was meeting his family, I needed to let Dave know that I just didn't feel there was much of a future. Also, Dave was leaving the next day to go home to Florida for 10 days and I didn't want to lead him on -- but to break things off before he left.

So, the whole drive home (from Orem to Provo), I went through in my mind what I was going to say -- how I was going to let him know my feelings, etc. He pulled up in the 1991 Honda Accord (now Courtney Despain's car) in front of the scenic dumpster in the parking lot of my apartment building. I got up the nerve and said, "Dave, I have really enjoyed spending time with you these past months. I like you as a friend, but I really can't guarantee that those feelings will ever change into something more. You are welcome to take your chances, but I just wanted to let you know how I felt."

The next thing I know, Dave is kissing me. WHAT? Okay, now for Dave's thought process: of my speech, the only part he heard was "take your chances", so he decided to do just that.

Utterly confused and a little dazed (it's not like I have kissed a lot of people in my life), I got out of the car and tried to replay my words to see how they could have led to that reaction. Dave got out and we started the long hike up the three flights of stairs. Luckily, my roommate came out to let me know my Dad was on the phone from Hong Kong and I need to go talk to him. Dave gave me a quick hug and said he'd call me from Florida.

Over the next 10 days I laughed about the whole thing with my roommates and mission friends. No one could believe that he had done that! And, although my roommates absolutely LOVED Dave and praised his every quality, I had decided that I need to be much more clear with him and end things when he returned.

When he got back, he asked me over for a BBQ with his roommates. Me being the not-so-sensitive person that I was then, I took my roommate along with me so he wouldn't try and kiss me again! After the BBQ, he walked us home. At our house, I wanted to explain my feelings again, so he came in and we sat down on the couch. My mission scrapbook was sitting there and we started looking at it. He sat there for over an hour actually interested in my mission and all the stories that accompanied the pictures. Then, I told him in NO UNCERTAIN TERMS what I was trying to say that night in front of the dumpster. He apologized for misunderstanding. As he was leaving, I gave him a hug, and before I could pull away, there he was kissing me again!

This time, however, I thought, 'What the heck!" and kissed him back. The rest -- as they say -- is history!

P.s. His roommates hold him up high in their books because a girl told him she just wanted to be friends (the line of death), he returned it with a kiss 'so incredible' that I ended up marrying him! :)

P.P.S. I'm so happy I am married to him. He is perfect for me in every way.

Cc2ALL ASAP

Okay, so this happened a few days ago, but since I just started my blog, I can't really create back entries.

Eden and Josh were out playing in our back yard. I called them in for dinner, and about 3-4 minutes later, Eden was washing her hands and started screaming hysterically about her tongue. She comes running out of the bathroom saying her tongue is stinging. Not 2 seconds later, Josh starts the hysterical screaming saying his tongue is stinging as well. At first I thought it was sympathy pains, and then one look at his face and I realized he was in lots of pain as well. I asked them if they had eaten anything. We all quickly ran outside as they showed me this 'plant' they had decided to touch to their mouths. (Why??? I didn't have time for the why's at this point).

I had also spent that morning spraying weedkiller to get ready for our annual Easter Egg hunt in our back yard. So, with the kids screaming that it was getting worse and worse, moving to their cheeks, lips, etc, I grabbed the empty jug of weedkiller and the plant that had what best looked like two plump orange raisins on it and called poison control. I explained in detail the plant, and she had no idea what it could be. We went through the ingredients of the weedkiller and determined that most likely the poison from that was nullified because I had sprayed it 6 hours earlier. She said to have them drink lots of water, flush their faces with cold water and call if their symptoms worsened. She'd call back in a hour to check on us.

So, Josh was in the bathroom drinking and splashing water all over his face and Eden was at the kitchen sink -- where I had removed the faucet hose and was spraying her face down constantly. Both kids were still screaming at the top of their lungs saying it was getting worse. Teya was screaming because I was completely ignoring her. The kids begged me to call Dave.

Dave was at the library studying for a test for work (some sort of Construction Codes), and had said if I absolutely needed him to text him. So, I pull out my cell phone in a panic and try to learn how to text -- at this of all times! I had never texted before! So, I tried and tried and tried to get a plain old "C", but it didn't work, thus the title of this blog -- Cc2ALL ASAP was what I finally got out. Sure enough, he understood it, called, and came home immediately. The kids were still all screaming at this time, I'm checking to make sure they can still swallow, that there are no blisters, etc.

I showed Dave the 'plant' and he fingers it a bit, gets out a knife and a cutting board and cuts one of the 'plump orange raisins' open. Turns out it was a wild chili pepper known as a chiltepin!!! Apparently in certain remote areas of Arizona, one of the hottest varieties of peppers grows in a miniature and wild variety. This particular variety is known for his incredible spiciness -- and ancient lore said that they are used to fight off evil or to punish children who cussed.

Somehow a random twig of this plant that we'd never seen before got into our backyard, the kids found it and decided to rub them by their mouths. (Like I said, WHY????). So, at least once we figured this out, we laughed, gave them bread and milk, and they were fine by dinnertime. But if your kids are ever speaking out of line ... just send them over here --- we have the perfect treatment!!!